Running the Maze

by Jack Coughlin

  “In the trunk of my car outside. Is the gizmo finished?”

  “Ready. At a hundred thousand feet, it will automatically pop a spark to jump between two wires in the propellant feed system, and the whole flammable vehicle will blow up.”

  “And you’re sure you can get it aboard? Absolutely?”

  “Yep. I’m on the support crew and will make the final safety inspection before the bird is ready to fly.”

  Curtis stared at Gardener, who did not blink. He was not backing out. A hundred thousand dollars was waiting in the parking lot, walking-around money, a million more coming when the device was planted, and four million more when his astronaut wife, Erin, her spaceship commander lover, and their fucking Mars rocket were blown into tiny pieces. Damned straight he would do it.

  20

  THE BRIDGE

  AYMAN AL-MASRI OF THE NMO and Sergeant Hafiz stood on a discreetly designed terrace in what was to become the new residence for Commander Kahn. Overhanging rocks made the deck invisible from curious satellites, and it provided an expansive view of the valley below. The leader could take fresh air here. “Savage weather,” al-Masri commented as the thunderstorm pounded the surrounding mountains. “So mean outside, but dry in here.”

  “Another special touch from the chief engineer,” replied Sergeant Hafiz. “I’m glad you approve of the living quarters. Rather bare and Spartan, but it can be organized in any way that the Commander would like.”

  “He prefers a very simple lifestyle, actually. Even a fast hare gets tired after a long chase. He needs rest, lots of rest, but he won’t slow down.”

  A snap of lightning was followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. “Work topside has been suspended because of the weather,” said Hafiz, pleased that the security inspection was almost done. “The interior work continues. I propose as soon as the new engineers arrive, they concentrate on finishing out the living quarters and adjacent corridors and rooms. The other work can proceed then, with the Commander already secure, with everything he needs.”

  “Listen to that roar,” al-Masri said, deftly changing the subject. “Is the river going to flood again?”

  Hafiz gazed out into the thick curtain of falling water. “I doubt it. This storm is just passing through. The big typhoon system that caused all of the trouble had stalled in the mountains and rained like this for almost three months. This should pass on about dawn.”

  “When we were young soldiers, you and I spent a lot of time out in these typhoons. I would hate to do so now.” The al Qaeda man shuddered at the memory of those cold, forlorn conditions.

  “It is better to be inside.” Hafiz agreed, but a second later he caught the real meaning of the man’s words. “Yet someone must stay out on guard.”

  Al-Masri glanced over, and the dark eyes were piercing. “Have you heard from your patrols? Either the one down in the valley or the one that you sent out in relief? It has been some time.”

  Hafiz was honest, knowing a lie would be detected immediately. “Not yet. The storm is playing havoc with the communications, but if you are set for the evening now, I will get back to my other duties. I want to get some of the chief engineer’s assistants into the main control room to see if they can get it up and running again, at least on a minimal basis.”

  “That would be excellent, Hafiz. My own people are ready for some sleep after our long journey, and we can finish the inspection tour tomorrow. I readily admit that I have been most impressed with what I have seen so far.”

  “Well, I shall leave, then. Sleep well.”

  “And you will check on those patrols?”

  “Yes, of course. I was planning to do that immediately,” Hafiz said.

  “Leave me a radio. I would appreciate you contacting me as soon as you discover what has been going on out there. Let us hope the problems are just due to the bad weather.” The sergeant placed his own handheld radio on a table and left the New Muslim Order security chief standing on the overlook, his hands buried in his sleeves for warmth.

  THE VALLEY

  KYLE SWANSON PLODDED UP along the trail, his brain turning over possibilities while mud sucked at his feet and rain whipped his body. The storm was a tactical blessing, providing both some concealment and cover, but it was fucking miserable, and moving forward felt more like swimming than walking. He did not look back for Coastie. It was best to leave her alone with her thoughts, handing over an implied shame if she did not keep up.

  Behind him, Ledford doggedly kept putting one boot in front of another, moving blindly in the curtains of wind and rain, fueled only by pride. She had not cracked yet, and she would keep going no matter what. Her mind pushed the physical discomfort and the aching muscles to a place where they did not matter, so she could get on with the job. Despite the cold, the muck, and the danger, she was excited. Some reptilian part of her brain was actually enjoying being a predator out stalking prey in the storm.

  They were now within a hundred meters of the big bridge, and it towered above them like a medieval castle on a mountaintop. Huge slabs of stone had been set and locked into other monstrous rocks to form sheer, high walls that rose about ninety feet above the valley floor at each end and supported the massive arch over the swollen river. Waterfalls poured off of it in thick sheets. The lights high up top burned brightly and reflected through the spray to reach the churning clouds.

  Swanson kept moving his head back and forth, checking for outside security and any dangerous areas. He no longer worried about the camera stalks and electronic perimeter devices. If they had not been activated in the past hour, either they had not been triggered or something was wrong in the circuitry. He slowed the pace to look around more closely, trying to find the entrance at the base of the bridge. Despite the map’s indication of such an opening, he saw nothing but bushes and solid rock. He removed the night-vision goggles for a better look. The muddy trail led straight into a thicket, which hugged hard against the wall. That last patrol had come straight down the path, so this had to be their route. There was no other way. He held up his fist, and they came to a halt, Beth moving up close.

  “Straight ahead,” he said quietly. “What do you see?”

  Ledford also removed her NVGs and stared hard at the terrain, each side, and up and down. “Nothing. Nobody.”

  “The path disappears right into that line of bushes. Have you seen any other major trafficway? Something I might have missed?”

  “Just rain, Gunny. That’s all.”

  “OK.” He made up his mind. “You hang here and give me cover. I’m going forward and look around in that brush. There’s got to be some kind of entrance hole around. Those guys didn’t pop out of nowhere.”

  “I’ve got your six.”

  He grinned at her through the downpour, reached out, and slapped the top of her black beanie, a rolled-up knitted ski cap. “I know you do.”

  As Swanson moved closer, he could make out more detail. The brush was almost like a fence that stretched some thirty feet across, and the spacing indicated they had been planted instead of just growing wild out of the weeds. Thick foliage in the middle, a tangled mass ten feet high, was reacting differently to the rain than did the brush clumps on either side, which were crushed down beneath the onslaught of the storm. This section remained firm, indicating that it was somehow anchored in place. He removed the glove from his left hand and reached out: plastic. It looked almost perfect from a few feet away, but it was as phony as a movie set.

  Kyle put the glove back on and plunged both arms into the thicket, grabbing handfuls of plastic with each fist and pulling hard. It gave way so easily that he lost his balance and fell backward into the slime as the brush, mounted on a swivel, swung free.

  Beth rushed forward as soon as she saw him go down, her rifle swinging in a 180-degree arc. “Gunny?”

  “I’m OK,” he replied, rolling to his knees and then standing. “This stuff is just plastic. Realistic as hell, but only a special effect that no satellite camera would ever det
ect. The gate swings open, then closes tight again.”

  “And there’s a door!” she said.

  An opening in the rock had been machined to be almost perfectly square; it reached back about six feet into the slab, where a solid metal door with a big lever handle blocked the other end. With no light, it had been invisible behind the bushes.

  “Yep.” He was on a knee now, studying the area for possible booby traps or other surprises. A camera was secured by a wall brace, and he smashed it with the stock of his rifle.

  “We’re going inside?” Beth asked.

  “Yep.”

  THE BRIDGE

  SERGEANT HAFIZ DECIDED TO go out himself. Two patrols were now out of contact, and he was out of guards. The three corporals who had led the patrols were absent—he did not know where they were—and all of the Taliban security forces were either dead or unaccounted for. All that was left was the approximately one hundred civilian workers on the night shift and the ten men of the NMO security team. The civilian construction workers would be even more useless in the valley than the Taliban roughnecks, and Hafiz would be damned before he begged help from Ayman al-Masri. By the process of elimination, that left it on his shoulders.

  That was probably best, he thought, as he walked to the western end of the bridge, descending stairwells along the way because he could move faster on foot than waiting for an elevator. Getting around the complex reminded him of being within a big ship, where multiple levels were woven together for a common purpose. The comm operations were near the top, on the east end, but he did not want to call Islamabad again. General Gul would want answers that he did not have. He had already given cause for concern by pestering them for the regular troops.

  The defense control system was housed on the eastern side, deeper into the mountain. It would have been nice if the chief engineer had picked some other time to go crazy, so he could have been in there to work the fancy defense suite and its deadly electronic network. Hafiz brushed the thought aside. He had to deal with reality, not fantasy.

  He came to his own small quarters, a single square in which were a small desk, a few shelves, a single bed, and a bathroom. His gear was folded in neat stacks, and he pulled out a rubberized poncho, then retrieved the AK-47 beside the bunk and headed toward the lower exit, pulling on the rain gear. The weapon had been cleaned the previous night and had a full magazine, but Hafiz checked it anyway before slinging it across his shoulder.

  A little room just off the entryway contained supplies for maintenance workers and people heading outside, including a rack of rechargeable battery-powered lanterns. Hafiz chose one that threw a powerful beam. I really don’t want to go out into this mess, he thought. What excuse could they possibly have for not reporting in? When I find them, I will put my boot up their backsides hard enough to rattle their teeth. He picked up a fully charged radio, then headed for the main hatch.

  Hafiz pushed down the lever to unlock the main door and gave it a shove.

  * * *

  BETH LEDFORD WAS FLAT against the wall on the right-hand side of the door, reaching out with her left to push down the lever. Kyle Swanson was on the opposite side, also with his back to the wall, weapon poised and his finger on the trigger, ready to charge in as soon as she yanked it open far enough. You never knew what was behind any closed door.

  Hafiz registered that something was not right as soon as the door had opened just enough for a strong burst of fresh wind to hiss in, indicating the outer gate at the other end was open to the storm. The door continued to swing outward, seemingly on its own, for unseen by Hafiz, Beth Ledford had grabbed the handle on the other side and was pulling on it. Hafiz dropped the lantern, which bounced on the concrete slab floor and sent the beam of light dancing in the darkness. He fumbled to pull the AK-47 from the shoulder sling as a shadowy figure appeared in the open space, with a rifle already pointed at him. Hafiz did not panic, although he realized that his opponent had the advantage.

  Swanson had stepped forward and saw a large man bulked up in a poncho, unlimbering a weapon and staring straight at him. I see you, you see me, but I saw you first. He fired a three-round burst, then smashed shoulder-first into the big man and stepped over him to clear the rest of the room.

  Sergeant Hafiz felt the impact of the bullets. The shock of the attack masked some of the pain; then his head collided with the floor and his face came to rest with his eyes staring directly into the fierce glow of the lantern. He tried to make his hands grab the rifle so he could fight back. His body would not answer his brain’s command.

  Hafiz could detect the nearness of his attacker, but there was nothing he could do. There was a brilliant flash, but he did not hear the rifle fire when Beth Ledford pumped a final shot into his head.

  21

  BETH AND SWANSON EACH grabbed a wrist of the lifeless, heavy body of Sergeant Hafiz and hauled it outside to dump it in the soggy brush beside the trail. Returning through the gate that camouflaged the entrance, they swung it closed behind them and were in the tunnel and shut the inner door. Smeared blood streaked the smooth floor, and it was eerily still. Swanson pulled Ledford by the collar and put his mouth close to her ear.

  “You stay on my six at all times, Coastie. Do what I do. No questions, and don’t hesitate,” he said. “We have to push forward as far as possible. If we get contact, follow my lead.”

  She gave a quick nod but did not reply. That life-taking bullet she had fired point-blank into the big soldier’s head was something that she had watched Kyle do to the targets they had downed on the patrols, so she had copied the same move, pulling the trigger without emotion. Once it was done, the man was surely no longer a threat to them. It may have been standard operating procedure in special operations, and she had learned it in a violent way on the job, but she was not yet to the point that it would have no effect on her.

  When she removed the night-vision goggles, Kyle saw tears welling in the blue eyes of his baby-faced assassin before she wiped them with her dirty sleeve. Because she had been going along so well, he had momentarily forgotten that she had not been trained for these gut-wrenching missions, that her surge of adrenaline had limits; she was running on fumes, and they had a long way to go. He pulled her into a hug, just as he would soothe a thoroughbred horse, or any first-timer getting a taste of close-up death. “You’re doing great, Beth,” he said. “As good as anybody, and better than most. Now let’s do this.”

  The first steps were the hardest as they moved into unknown territory, but they had no choice. They were totally exposed in the hallway, which measured about six feet wide, big enough for a small tractor to pull a trailer of material or supplies. The ceiling was about seven feet high and supported by webs of metal girders. Neat clusters of pipes hid the electrical wiring, and long fluorescent bulbs glowed with a bluish tint. The low hum of electrical generators could be heard from elsewhere in the complex, and the constant vibration was transmitted through the stone walls.

  Twenty feet down the hallway, on the right-hand side, was a closed door, and they crept toward it, stacking against each wall. Swanson saw it had no lock, just a knob, and he motioned for Beth to give it a slow turn. She opened the portal into a small room that was filled with neat stacks of cardboard and wooden boxes, routine supplies that probably serviced nearby facilities, including the entranceway. He motioned her inside, closed the door, and turned on the lights.

  Mops and brooms stood around like spindly sentries, radios and flashlights were recharging on a long metal rack, and a pile of fresh towels lay on a shelf. The tangy odors from the jugs and bottles of various disinfectants and cleaning fluids assaulted their nostrils. A bin of dry rags occupied one corner. Kyle tossed a towel to Beth and used another to rub away the mud that was thick on his boots.

  Beth took off the black beanie and shook her blond hair, then worked the towel into it hard and wiped her face. She tossed the hat aside, then also went to work on her boots. “I don’t think it matters any longer if they happen to not
ice I’m a woman,” she said. “I’m good to go, Gunny. Just some nerves.”

  Kyle peeled off his own wet wool beanie and dried the top of his head and his face with a soft towel. It felt better. “This place is incredible. From the outside, it seemed like part of the mountain, but inside, it is something else entirely.”

  “You think my brother got this far?”

  “Probably. Even farther. Maybe the door had been left open to bring in supplies or something and they stumbled upon it and just came on in to explore, like kids on a holiday hike.”

  Beth looked around the room. “There’s nothing here that would be worth killing them. That’s not it.”

  They walked to the next room, and the next, working steadily until they cleared the lower corridor, but still found nothing of interest other than the sprawl of the subterranean labyrinth. Some areas were still under construction, with tools, wiring, and lumber strewn about.

  An unexpected, high-pitched whine was barely audible in the silence. “We’ve got contact,” Beth said while Swanson was opening still another storage room. They both ducked into the darkness and closed the door, keeping their weapons ready. The whining came closer and passed them by, then stopped. A door opened down the hall; there were slow footsteps, and a grunt and a scrape as something was moved. Ledford flicked on her flashlight and shone the beam around. Boxes were everywhere, and she knelt to read the black printing. She took a quick, sharp breath, then snapped off the light when the whine resumed, suddenly closer and louder.

  It passed by again, heading the other way, and Swanson eased the door open and spotted the disappearing rear end of a blue golf cart with a couple of boxes stacked in the rear. The driver wore brown coveralls, but there was no weapon visible. Some civilian worker who had not been looking for anything unusual in this netherworld and had paid no heed to the mixture of grime and blood at the entrance. That sort of luck would not last.