The Zeta Grey War: The Event

by D F Capps

  “Negative, Sergeant.”

  Peters closed his eyes and breathed out quickly. “Then we have enemy combatants entering the bunker wearing our uniforms and color patch. The bunker is compromised. Go to level delta defense, I repeat, level delta defense!” He turned to the agents in the room and shouted, “Go to the elevator and shoot everything that moves—now!”

  Peters sprinted to the safe room as the agents ran to the elevator.

  Chapter 33

  The jarring sound of the alarm shook Stevens. He looked at Gerard.

  It’s expected, Gerard answered. Stay calm and let the mercenaries do their job.

  Stevens gritted his teeth and nodded.

  As the elevator opened with the last group of mercenaries, gunfire rocked the hallway, answered by automatic weapons fire. The mercenaries launched grenades down the hall as they pressed forward, shooting as they moved.

  Gerard gave the assault group leader directions to the safe room. His men started clearing every room as they worked their way down the hall.

  * * *

  “How many?” Colonel Westerman, the commanding officer of the president’s personal military unit, asked.

  Master Sergeant Peters shook his head. “Forty, fifty . . . maybe more. All heavily armed, and from what I saw, well trained.”

  Westerman closed his eyes, a grim expression filling his face. He nodded and opened his eyes. “Delta defense it is,” he said to his unit. “Take Andrews and all wounded into the safe room. The rest of you find some cover. We make our stand here.”

  Peters helped move his wounded comrades into the safe room and closed the heavy armored door, spinning the round wheel to engage the locking mechanism.

  * * *

  Martha took a quick peek over the top of the overturned desk. Derrick stood six feet back from the door at forty-five degrees to the side, gun aimed at the door. Her heart jumped as the door knob rattled. A loud knock came from the door.

  “This is the unit. We’re clearing all rooms. The danger is contained. Open the door!”

  Derrick hesitated. “Password!” he shouted.

  “Ophelia,” came back through the door.

  Derrick hesitated again, but then unlocked and opened the door.

  Martha got a glimpse of the soldiers and recognized their uniforms. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  The sound of the gun shot shook her deeply. She gasped as Derrick fell to the floor, blood pouring from his head. A soldier approached her, his rifle aimed directly at her.

  * * *

  Gerard followed the mercenaries through the halls to the safe room. Resistance was lighter than expected. All that meant was the president’s personal military unit and any remaining secret service agents would be clustered around the safe room, each prepared to die in place as the assault continued. He sensed the thoughts of the soldiers protecting Andrews. And indeed, all of them were prepared to die.

  So be it, he thought.

  “We have the first lady,” a voice said over the radio.

  Good, Gerard thought. Never hurts to have leverage. “Keep her there.”

  * * *

  Master Sergeant Peters checked his ammo pouches. Six magazines of thirty rounds each. Once they breached the armored door, he would be lucky to get through his second magazine before he died. The sound of explosions and automatic gunfire outside slowly came to an end.

  Agent James nudged him.

  “They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

  Peters nodded. “It won’t be long before they get in here and the rest of us die.”

  James looked around and motioned for Peters to follow him into the far corner. Once there he whispered, “I inherited a piece of information from my predecessor. There’s a way out. It’s small. I don’t think we can get everybody through it in time, but it’s an option.”

  * * *

  Senator Stevens made his way down the main hall. Both sides were littered with dead soldiers and secret service agents. He picked dead agents at random, located their cell phones, typed in a number, and put the phones back where they were. When he had done this to twenty phones, he joined Gerard near the safe room.

  Assault Leader Gruber studied the armored door. He looked at the walls, the ceiling, and then back at the door. “If there was a decent edge, we could use some high velocity explosives to blow the door. But as it’s built we can’t get enough punch without bringing down the entire hall.”

  Gerard considered bringing the president’s wife to the door and threatening her to get them to open the door. He frowned as he sensed the attitude of the soldiers inside the room. They weren’t going to be moved to endanger the president. Not for her life, or anyone else’s for that matter. “What about thermite charges?”

  Gruber studied the door for a moment. “It’ll take a little longer, but it will get you into the room in about six minutes.”

  Gerard nodded. “Set it up. Let your men on the ground level know how long this is going to take.”

  Gruber turned to his men and started shouting commands.

  * * *

  Master Sergeant Peters knelt next to Andrews with Corporal Juan Carlos, the medic, attending him.

  “How’s he doing?”

  Carlos took a small bottle of oxygen from his medical kit and strapped a mask on Andrews. He then ripped a plastic pouch open and dumped the contents into Andrews’s wound. He used his finger to push the powder deeper into Andrews’s chest.

  “He’s mostly stable and unconscious, but still bleeding internally. The blood-stop powder will clot most of the wound, but he needs to be in an emergency room within thirty minutes, otherwise he’s not going to make it.”

  Peters looked at the armored door. He stood and spoke to his teammates, “We have five minutes, maybe less, before they breach the door. We may be able to get Andrews out, but there’s not enough room for all of us. Some of us need to stay and fight.”

  “How many can go?” one of his men asked.

  Peters turned to Agent James. “I’ve never seen the actual escape route, but I understand it will hold a maximum of four people at a time.”

  The soldiers of the president’s personal military unit nodded and turned their attention to the armored door.

  “It’s you, me, Doc, and Andrews,” Peters said quietly.

  Agent James looked around the room for where the escape route was located. He stood in the far corner, took three paces, and turned to the wall.

  “Move the desk. It should be behind here.”

  Peters shoved the desk aside. A thin line dipped into the wall, almost entirely covered by paint. Peters took his KA-BAR knife and stuck it into the groove. It sunk in about an inch. He quickly cleaned out the paint around a two-foot by two-foot panel and pried it open. He knelt and stared into a dark two-foot square tunnel that disappeared into the rock. Using his tactical light, he studied the tunnel.

  “It gets wider about ten feet in,” Peters said. “Beyond that, it looks endless.”

  Agent James nodded.

  “It’s a long, hard crawl, and we’ll have to drag Andrews, but we can make it.”

  Peters glanced at Carlos, who looked at Andrews.

  “I’ve got a body bag in my pack,” Carlos said. “We can leave the zipper partially open so he can breathe. It has handles so we can drag him along.”

  Peters helped put Andrews into the body bag and dragged him over to the tunnel. He handed his flashlight to James. “It’s your tunnel. Lead the way.”

  James crawled into the narrow tunnel. Peters watched as James pushed through the pain he must be experiencing from his shoulder wound and disappeared into the tunnel.

  Peters grabbed the handle on the body bag and pulled Andrews into the narrow passageway. Carlos followed. One of his men pounded the panel back into place. He heard the desk scraping on the floor as his men covered the escape route. The wider round section was not large enough to stand up in, but they could sit. It was a tight fit to get past each other, but it could be don
e.

  “Make sure you’re all the way out of the narrow section,” James said.

  “We are,” Peters answered.

  James focused the light on the ceiling above Peters.

  “You see that lever embedded on the ceiling? Pull down on it hard.”

  The lever was two feet long and sunk into the rock ceiling. Peters pulled on the lever, but it wouldn’t move. He looked at James.

  “Harder,” James said. “If it won’t move, we’re all going to die.”

  Chapter 34

  Stevens covered his ears as the thermite charges ignited, burning bright white on the armored door. The effect was as if a large searchlight had been turned on at the end of the hall, sending macabre shadows fleeing into the recesses of the bunker. One loud explosion and the molten steel sprayed throughout the hall, first sticking to every surface then burning its way into the walls, ceiling, and floor.

  Automatic gunfire spewed from the large hole in the armored door. Gruber’s men responded, firing 40mm grenades through the hole and into the breached safe room. After more than fifty grenades were fired, Gruber called a ceasefire. His mercenaries approached cautiously, weapons raised, and took a peek into the room. After a brief look, they all walked away, heads lowered.

  Stevens slowly walked to the door. His eyes watered and his face ached from the intense heat radiating from the still yellow metal running down the door. He expected to see dead bodies, but this was a long way from that. What remained had no relationship to bodies. The shrapnel from the grenades had torn into everything. The entire inside of the room was red, littered with raw and splattered parts of the humans. He slowly nodded. This is the fate that awaits all who oppose us.

  It is, Gerard’s thoughts replied, as he walked over to see for himself. They are, after all, just dumb animals.

  * * *

  Peters grabbed the lever with both hands, pulled his two-hundred and fifty pound body off the floor, and yanked with all his might. The lever moved, but nothing else happened.

  “Harder!” James said.

  Peters lifted himself and yanked again and again on the lever. Each time it moved about two inches. When the lever reached the vertical position the stone ceiling of the narrow tunnel slowly slid down, forever sealing the escape route from the safe room behind it.

  * * *

  Martha sat nervously in a padded chair wondering what the soldiers were going to do to her. They hadn’t said anything to her directly except to point to the chair, so she’d stood, walked over to the chair, and sat down. They weren’t real members of the president’s military unit. That she knew for sure. The soldier-in-charge zip-tied her hands behind her and forced a black bag over her head, then he zip-tied her ankles to the legs of the chair. They told someone that they had her, and that was about it. They didn’t seem to care what happened to her one way or the other.

  She tried to breathe deeply and slowly to ease her racing heart. It took about five minutes, but she was calmer now. She heard an explosion and more gunfire, then more explosions. Then everything was quiet. Her heart raced again. Martha closed her eyes, believing that her husband was now dead, and that she would be next. She tried not to breathe as she waited for the bullet that would end her life. It seemed to take forever.

  Without being able to see anything she focused on what she could hear. She was aware that six soldiers had entered the room. Hushed comments and feet shuffling on the carpet consumed her attention. The door opened and then closed. She could still hear several soldiers in the room. She could feel their presence around her and sense their crude, uncaring attitude. The door opened and closed again. She listened carefully for breathing or footfalls—anything that would let her know if someone was there. Only deathly silence surrounded her.

  Martha wiggled and stretched, trying to get her hands loose. She managed to get her right shoulder over the back of the chair, tip, and swing her arms around behind her. She stood slowly, trying to keep her balance. Remembering where she was in the room, she visualized where her desk must be. She shuffled in that direction an inch at a time, grimacing as the zip-ties dug into her ankles. Bumping into something the height of her desk first startled her then reassured her. Turning to the side, the chair, still attached to her legs, bumped into the desk. She backed up a little for the chair to clear the desk and twisted more until her fingers came into contact with the handle on the drawer. She pulled the drawer open and fished around for the pair of scissors. She found them and carefully worked the blades up and across the zip-tie around her wrists. She squeezed and released the scissors over and over again until the zip-tie broke and fell away. She yanked the black bag from her head and looked around.

  The room was empty except for Derrick’s body lying on the floor. She bent down and cut the zip-ties from her ankles, went around Derrick’s body, then to the door. She took a quick look down the corridor. No one was there. Slowly, she made her way down the corridor to the main hall with the scissors firmly gripped in her right hand. She gasped as she turned the corner. Four bodies of secret service agents lay next to the wall, blood soaking into the carpeting. Smoke clung to the ceiling, slowly drifting lower. The odor of gunpowder and explosive residue burned her nose and lungs. She turned and ran back into the sitting room, grabbed her purse, and pulled out a handkerchief. She held it over her mouth and nose. She ventured forward again, scissors ready to strike. The acrid smoke was gradually disbursing in the main hallway. She stepped carefully over the bodies on the floor as she slowly made her way to the safe room.

  Martha stood in shock and total disbelief as she turned the corner to the safe room. Bodies were scattered in clumps and blood was everywhere. Most of the walls had been blown away revealing steel supports and damaged wiring. Arms and legs had been blown off of soldiers she had talked with over the last several weeks. She couldn’t recognize their faces, but the names were on their uniforms. She closed her eyes, steeling herself for what she would find at the safe room. She glanced around, timidly taking tiny strides down the hall. Through the smoke she could make out the armored door to the safe room. A large gaping hole drew her closer and closer. Her breath ragged and short, she forced herself to look inside.

  She expected to see bodies, but nothing prepared her for what she saw. The entire room was a mixture of red and black. The smell of burnt flesh and blood overwhelmed her. She turned away, shaking. Her last vision of blood, shredded body parts, and burn marks was seared forever in her mind. She collapsed on the filthy floor and wept bitterly.

  * * *

  Senator Stevens stepped to the microphone in front of the White House and looked at the shocked crowd of people assembled in front of him.

  “I am Senator Stevens. I’m afraid that I bring you terrible news this evening.” He looked at the cameras spread out before him. “President Andrews has been killed by his own secret service agents. I was there. I saw it all. If not for the bravery of the president’s own military unit, who you see behind me, I too would be dead. Vice President Harper is safe and will continue on in Andrews’s place. Please join me in a moment of silence for our fallen president.”

  Stevens stood, head bowed, along with a dozen soldiers in their uniforms with red and white color-coded patches on their chests.

  Stevens took a deep breath and raised his head.

  “The FBI will be taking over the White House as they investigate this horrible crime.” He looked around at the hundreds of black cars with red and blue flashing lights jammed in around the White House grounds. “Meanwhile, the president’s military unit has to return to their headquarters with their dead and wounded comrades. If you will please move some of your vehicles so they can go home, I would appreciate it very much. Thank you.”

  The mercenary soldiers loaded their dead and wounded into the armored personnel carriers and fired up the engines. Cars and trucks were moved under the telepathic influence of Stevens and Gerard. As soon as the six armored carriers were on their way, Senator Stevens left for his home in Ge
orgetown.

  Chapter 35

  Master Sergeant Peters grunted as he tugged on the body bag containing President Andrews. “How much farther?”

  Agent James turned back to face him. “I can’t tell. There might be something up ahead.”

  Carlos checked Andrews’s pulse and listened to his heart. “He’s getting weaker. If we don’t find an end to this thing soon, it’s going to be too late. We have to keep moving.”

  Peters sighed, breathing hard from the exertion. “Then we go.”

  He pulled Andrews another six inches and scooted forward to pull again. Agent James was getting farther ahead and they were losing the light, so Carlos turned on his tactical flashlight. It was like crawling through miles of sewer lines not knowing if there was another end or if they were sealed in here forever.

  Peters paused, breathing hard.

  “Bad air,” Carlos commented. “No circulation.”

  Peters nodded and pulled Andrews forward another six inches.

  “Hey,” James said. “There’s something up ahead. We’re almost there.”

  “Thank God,” Peters said under his breath.

  Agent James scrambled faster. “We can stand up!”

  Peters finally reached the enlarged section and examined the walls and ceiling. The space was four feet on a side and eight feet high.

  “It doesn’t go anywhere. It’s a dead end.”

  James shined his light on the stone wall above the entrance. “Not necessarily.” He pointed to another lever embedded in the stone wall. This time the handle was toward the bottom, so the lever had to be pulled up. “The rest of the chamber is steel, except for this one wall.”