Zeke and I both had our old standbys, M4 carbines. These were standard issue for the US military, and were descended from the M-16 family that was first widely used in Vietnam. Mine fit my hand like it was made for me. Old friends. The serpent stuck his nose out of his hole for the first time in a while, flicked his tongue out. But I had a surprise for the old snake, and anyone else who got in my way. I had a workaround for my conscience’s killing problem. Maybe.
I had my aid bag in my ruck, along with extra ammo and all the usual stuff any grunt carried – tape, zip cuffs, parachute cord, protein and granola bars, water, the list went on and on. Never knew what you might need. I also had my trusty XD on the thigh rig and my XD compact was in a holster on my left inner ankle. My right calf was taken up with a wicked-sharp KA-BAR combat knife that had gone with Gramps to Iwo Jima and back.
Waiting was difficult. Most of us dozed, with the thoroughly ingrained ability of every combat trooper to sleep anywhere, any time. But even the longest wait ends.
Coming up on 0300 hours we made our last commo check with Vinny and each other on the small tactical radios buckled high on our chests. Each of us had an earpiece in his shooting ear and a slim mike extending from it, snugged on the same-side cheek. The earpieces not only connected to our tactical radios but contained high-tech noise suppression circuitry that kept us from being deafened by our own weapons. A tiny counterpart was in each man’s opposite ear, so we could hear as well or better than normal, while still having sonic protection from the violence we were about to cause.
We motored slowly and quietly up to Watts Island, approaching from the north, out of sight of the buildings. I lowered the anchor when Skull told me to, then watched as he filled a six-man rubber boat from a compressed air tank. We loaded from the dive deck off the back. Once we were in, we paddled the short distance to the rocky shore.
We startled some sleeping seabirds on landing. I saw a Great Blue heron fly off, skimming up the shoreline like a living hang-glider. Other than that, we got in nice and easy. We carried the boat into the scrubby treeline, then locked and loaded weapons.
Despite the many missions under my belt, my heart still thudded in my chest. It had been several years since I had been on a real, deliberate combat operation, not counting the bizarre actions that started this whole thing off. I wasn’t afraid for myself; something in me was still sick at the thought of having to kill someone.
I’d never been this way before, and I was starting to wonder about it. The XH had improved me a lot; it had stilled the serpent and healed my body, but it had also made me different in some way. I had been trying to ignore it, to wish it away, but it was really making itself felt right now. I was starting to worry I couldn’t do the job. Only my choice of ammo was letting me function right now.
I tried to imagine myself treating combat trauma, visualizing the blood, the pressure bandages, the IVs, the pain and the screaming. Nothing. But visualize shooting someone, and suddenly I felt sick. It was not too bad if I thought about shooting an arm or a leg. I tried recalling my execution of Jenkins and I was overcome with a wave of nausea and sickness. I pushed it out of my mind as we moved through the low dense woods. I couldn’t indulge in thought experiments right now, or I would screw something up. At least I knew I could treat combat injury trauma.
We came to the edge of the open space right where we expected, outside the northeast corner of the small complex. We were looking at the corner where the small northern building and the big central building almost touched. This was our ORP, our objective rally point. The helipad was to our right, next to the back of the big building. We could see the white Jeep through the gap between the buildings. Our angle blocked our view of the southernmost small building.
Zeke made a hand signal and Spooky moved off to our left, vanishing into the woods. A few minutes later I saw him crouching by one of the windows at the back of the small building. I had been looking but I had not even seen him cross the open space from the trees to the building.
“Damn, he’s good,” I breathed.
A derisive snort from Skull was the only answer.
There was a three to five knot breeze, by the wind sock swinging at the helipad on its short wooden pole. We watched the black shape against the white building move along it, looking in the windows. It slid around the corner a moment later, and we waited some more.
While we waited, Skull prepped two quick sniper positions there at the ORP, primary and alternate. He scooped out two hollows in the earth, pushing the dirt in front of him to make tiny berms. He unrolled a mat into one of the hollows, his primary position, then pulled a stretchy camouflage see-through mesh tube over his head and face. He placed the bipod of the HK behind the berm, flipped up the night scope cover, then became still. He was now pretty well hidden from the front.
We heard a faint click, then Spooky’s voice. “North small building clear. Quarters, kitchen, office, rec room. I leave east door unsecured, advise occupy. Proceeding to south small building.”
“Acknowledged.” Zeke led us fifty yards eastward, staying inside the treeline. Then we hustled across the open space, shielded from sight by the empty small building. As we crossed the space we could hear the low grumble of a generator, well-muffled, and a whining hiss that was less identifiable.
We slipped around the corner of the building to enter the door Spooky had left unlocked. Inside, we found everything as he had said – two bedrooms with two single beds each, a shared latrine and shower, a kitchen, a recreation room with a pool table, and a small windowless office with a low-end desktop computer, a printer-fax combo, and not much else. We did a quick search, finding nothing of significance. The fridge held enough fresh food to indicate that they brought groceries at least weekly.
Zeke unlocked the door at the other end of the building, which if opened would face a door in the north end of the large building across an angled gap. He put an eye to the crack in the blinds of the door window, watching for anything amiss.
I took the other side of the door and did the same, with Larry watching our backs.
About that time we heard Spooky report, “South building all clear. Quarters and kitchen, rest of building is storage of many things. Rally at north door of large building ETA one minute.”
Zeke replied, “Roger, we are inside north small building at south door, standing by.”
A moment later we saw Spooky slip around the big building’s nearest corner and ghost up to the door in the near end. He did something at the lock and then gently turned the handle. It looked like he had got it open. He reached into a cargo pocket and got out some kind of telescoping rod, like an old-fashioned radio aerial. He extended it. It had a little box on one end with a faint yellow LED, which he ran around the edge of the whole door frame. The light stayed yellow. I think it was some kind of alarm detector. He collapsed it back to pen-size and slid it back into his pocket. Then very, very slowly he eased the door off its jamb the tiniest of bits, not even a crack. He stayed that way for a full minute before letting it go gently back. He then pushed his NVGs off his eyes up onto the top of his head, lay prone on the ground, to open the door enough to press a naked eye to the crack at the very bottom corner.
I observed, fascinated. I wasn’t a snoop and poop guy, so watching a real pro at work was interesting.
“Hallway whole length of building. Low light,” he reported. “Eight doors, some with windows and lights inside. No activity. Negative air pressure confirmed.” He must be able to feel the air rushing into the crack in the door, as the air system kept the pressure inside slightly lower than outside. This would ensure any stray organisms floating in the air were unlikely to make it outside, except through the filtration system. In fact, that was probably the strange hissing we had heard crossing the field. It was kind of the opposite of NBC overpressure systems, which were usually meant to keep bad things out.
Zeke responded, “All right, we go in. Larry, hold the door, me and DJ go first and start search and cl
ear. Spooky, go around and watch the far door from the outside. Unlock it and be ready to come in. Skull, you got clear lines?”
“Ay-firmative,” Alan answered under his breath.
“Larry, you hold the door from the inside, watch our backs and keep the line of retreat open. Remember everyone; the civilians are non-hostile unless proven otherwise. Don’t get twitchy.” Zeke pulled the end of a sheaf of zip cuffs out of his cargo pocket, easy to grab. He then took off his gloves. So did I. We were trained to shoot with gloves on, but anything delicate, such as threading a zip cuff or sticking in an IV, required tactile feedback.
“Spooky in position.”
“Skull in position.”
“Vinny in position,” came a faint sardonic voice.
I strangled a laugh. I’d hate to be him, just listening back at the motel, but someone had to do it. I took a deep breath, and I tried to reassure myself, my twitchy conscience, I wasn’t out for blood. A part of me felt like a pansy for worrying about such things; a part of me was proud.
“Execute.” Zeke pushed the door smoothly open, and Larry crossed the thirty feet or so to the unlocked door where Spooky had been so recently. We followed right behind, and he opened the door quickly, drawing it out of our way so all we had to do was go straight in.
We entered in two-man tactical stack. That meant Zeke was in front, me slightly crouched right behind him with my left upper arm firmly pressed into his back, so he knew where I was. I held my M4 to the right and down, covering the right side. My eyes swept the hallway automatically, center-up-right-down and back to center in a fraction of a second, the barrel of my weapon following in a tight circle. Zeke did the same on his left, and I heard the click of the door behind us as Larry closed and locked it from the inside, then took a knee.
We needed to get out of the hallway as fast as possible, to let Larry dominate it with his street-sweeper, and to give him a covered position. We took the first door on the left as planned.
I stayed stacked behind Zeke as he reached out with his left hand to try the door. It opened into a tiny closet with cleaning supplies. I turned and waved Larry forward. This would be his best position, allowing a right-handed shooter like him to keep good cover and still lash the hallway with heavy fire.
The plan was to stay to the left side of the hallway. We might find doors between rooms, and we wanted to avoid causing confusion if Larry had to start firing. Crossing and recrossing the hallway unnecessarily to opposite doors was bad technique. So we moved along the left side of the hallway to the next door on the left, passing a solid steel door on the right. Larry would have to cover that.
Zeke tried the handle. It was locked. We could call Spooky in to try to pick the lock, or we could break in.
Sticking to the plan, Zeke decided to break in as quietly as possible. The building was filled with the low rumble of the generator and the rushing sound of the air system, so there was a good chance we could get away with it.
Zeke pulled a crowbar out of the small of his back, where he had had it taped. He fit it between the door handle and the jamb, leaning his weight on it slowly until it popped with a muffled clang. He immediately shoved the door open and swept the left side of the room.
I followed him in and swept the right. Each of us moved to our sides, out of the death funnel of the doorway.
A dark figure on the lower bunk of two rolled heavily out, tangled in blankets. “Wha-“ I heard before Zeke stepped forward and gave him a left-handed whack on the head with the crowbar. The man dropped to the thin-carpeted floor like a sack of potatoes.
The room was lit only by the dimness of the corridor and the green numbers of a clock-radio on a night table. It read 3:17. Perfect.
I poked the upper bunk with the barrel of my weapon, finding nothing and no one there but bedding.
Zeke whipped out zip cuffs and hog-tied the fallen man, then taped his mouth shut. He popped a pillowcase over the man’s head then taped that loosely around his neck.
I checked his pulse. Good and strong. Zeke knew his club work.
“One hostile neutralized,” Zeke reported over the net. “Still quiet.”
I hoped that was true, and I hoped it stayed that way. I rolled the man under the bunk bed, out of the way. If he was smart, he would stay there until it was all over.
There was a door with a mirror on it in the wall to the right. Logically that would be a bathroom or closet. Zeke reported quietly, “Interior door. Opening.” It was a closet, with some security uniforms and civvies in it. The wall at the back seemed solid, made of the same thin industrial steel construction as the rest of the building. Too bad. If it had been drywall we might have tried to breach it through to the next room.
“Emerging left,” Zeke called, and we moved back into the corridor. It was going to get harder fast, because the next door on the right had a big square window in the top half, with wire mesh inside, the kind designed to let people look into the room before entering. Or vice versa. But this window was dark, and I hoped that meant unoccupied. The next one up on the right was lit.
Our door to the left was not going to be as simple as the last one. There was an external deadbolt fitted, like an afterthought. Maybe it was meant to keep something in, not out. We retreated back to the room we were in before, and spoke in low tones.
“That must be Elise’s cell,” I offered.
“Maybe. What if it’s a berserk gorilla with the XH in it they are keeping for experimentation?”
“Ugh,” I said. “Yeah, point taken. We can’t be sure. All we know is it’s built to keep something in, not out.”
“Jury-rigged for that, anyway. So we clear the rest of the building and tackle that door last, with more information.” Zeke’s tone brooked no argument.
I nodded in agreement.
Zeke called softly, “Zeke to Larry. We’re changing to the right side of the corridor. Emerging left.”
We moved out into the corridor and Larry moved behind us up to the open door of the bunkroom. We went back to the windowless door on the right side of the corridor. It turned out to be a half-full storeroom with lab supplies and machinery in it, unlocked. We came back out.
Zeke and I edged up the right side and he looked in the dark window for a long moment. He shook his head, unable to see anything. He reached over to test the door handle. It turned. He pressed it gently inward, and it opened a tiny bit. He nodded, then gave me a three count with his fingers; one-two-three and in we went.
Murphy always wins, they say. Nothing ever goes smooth. All hell seemed to break loose inside that room. Screeching sounds, zoo sounds, howls and a clattering of metal together. Something soft and smelly spattered on the wall next to me, and it was only lack of targets in the dark that kept me from firing.
I flipped on the light.
Monkeys. Apes, animal figures in cages stacked along the far wall, and a never-ending racket.
“We’re blown,” Zeke spoke into his mike. “Execute Bravo.” That was plan B. Always good to have one of those, because Plan A never survived contact with the enemy, or even with Murphy.
Zeke led the way back into the corridor, fast. We hugged the right wall to the lighted-window door and he dove across the doorway to the other side, low, below line of sight. From there he reached up to the door handle, gave us a quick three-count and went in low from that side, flowing around to the left.
I went in right and higher, trusting to my helmet, vest and XH. I was the biggest target, and an alert enemy would have had ten seconds to prepare.
Elise was standing inside, her mouth agape, getting ready to yell. I held up my left index finger to my lips in an emphatic gesture for silence. I closed with her quickly, crossing the big laboratory in two seconds, still holding the finger to my lips.
She backed up in alarm, but not fast enough, and I let my M4 fall to my side on its retractable sling to free up my hands, making the “shush” sign the whole time. Funny how most people obey emphatic, familiar signals.
I gently tackled her in a modified martial arts move I dredged out of my subconscious, which ended up with us both on the ground out of sight behind a big heavy lab bench. I covered her mouth with my hand and said into her ear, “Stay down, don’t interfere. This is a rescue.”
She nodded, her eyes wide. Big blue eyes, a splash of freckles across her nose, straight brown hair, and a delicate scent that made my mouth dry up like a lovestruck teenager. I started to get dizzy.
Oh God please no. Not now. I had the weirdest feeling, like I had known her all my life and she had known me too, déjà vu times two. With an effort of will I pushed her and the feelings away and went back to the job. As I was turning back toward the door, gunfire exploded in the corridor.
I saw Larry, framed in the doorway, open up with his AA-12. Shots roared out as he walked the gun from floor to ceiling, shooting at something down the corridor to the right. The recoil kept the barrel climbing up, up and then all the way over with his hand spasm-locked on the trigger.
Time seemed to slow down with my adrenaline surge, and I saw pieces of Larry’s armor blowing off in chunks as he got slammed by return fire. It was something big and heavy and deadly, because I saw his back plate lifted off his body and flap like a sail as something went all the way through him from the front.
My whole being launched forward like a Border Collie bolting for a frisbee, every reason for my existence condensed into one pure moment, driving for the goal. That Others May Live thundered in my head as I sprinted for the doorway.
Larry’s automatic shotgun stopped firing and fell out of his hands, and then he was on his knees, going down slow and heavy.
Before he hit the floor I threw my body into the kill zone, between him and the shooter. I wrapped my hands behind his neck, grabbing the carrying handle of his armor between his shoulder blades. I felt a hot tearing burn in my thigh and then in my side below my ribs as bullets ripped through me. One round hit the SAPI plate in the center of my back and punched like a fist into my spine, but the armor held. At least they weren’t hitting Larry. I ignored everything but the job.
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