Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  Admiral Devlin led the way, with Dick Holman hurrying to keep up. Kurt Lederman and Paul Brooks followed close behind. “I hope you’re right, Kurt. If not, we are going to have a lot of dead people on our hands.”

  At the door, a first class petty officer materialized, nearly colliding with Admiral Devlin. He stepped back sharply and saluted. “Sir, a second missile has been detected. Fired from north of Tripoli, it is on a northerly trajectory.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Devlin muttered as he pushed by the petty officer, nearly running as he headed toward the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center of the aircraft carrier. “Where are the Hue City and Spruance?”

  Dick Holman hurried to catch up with the athletic admiral. Kurt Lederman turned the other way and scurried up the ladder toward the intelligence spaces. Paul Brooks passed him as Kurt was keying in the combination to the hatch. He took two steps at a time up the nearby ladder, heading to the cryptologic compartment. The bongs of general quarters hit the super carrier as Paul stepped into the blue-lighted spaces of cryptology and information warfare.

  TEN

  Duncan spat out dust and debris, blinking his eyes repeatedly to clear them. “Anyone hurt?” he asked, coughing. He pushed himself up from the metal side of the sewer pipe, where the explosion had blown him. Duncan fumbled at the side of his belt for his flashlight.

  Beau shouted from the rear, “Okay back here! The explosion was upward and outward. Speak up, everyone!”

  “I’m okay,” replied Chief Wilcox, as if not completely sure he was. “But my face stings like hell.”

  Beau turned around and shone his flashlight in the chief’s face. “Well, there goes my night vision, Commander.” He took the proffered hand and pulled himself up. “And you look like shit, Commander.”

  “Chief, if your face didn’t hurt before because of how ugly it was, it should now. You’ve a few scratches and cuts from the explosion. Some blood below your left cheek, but nothing that looks life threatening. A six-pack, some iodine, and three eight hundred-milligram tablets of Motrin should take care of it.”

  “We’re okay up here, boss,” HJ replied from her position ahead. “I can’t see anything but dust back your way. Everyone okay?”

  “Captain, here it is.” Gibbons held up the end of a small strand of wire. ‘ wire.”

  “What?” Duncan hit his ear. He had a slight ringing sound in both of them. “I didn’t hear that, and I can’t see anything until this dust settles. Beau, take a quick muster.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Gibbons hit a trip wire, Captain,” Monkey relayed.

  “And a hell of a trip wire, too,” Beau said. He wiggled his jaw, relieving the pressure in his ears. Beau called out the names of the team, quickly going down the roster from memory. Gibbons, the combination radioman, medic, and SEAL. Mcdonald and Monkey, the two heavy machine gunners with their thirty-pound M-60s they lugged everywhere, reported okay. The two had refused to exchange these formidable weapons for ones better suited to tramping through the sewers. Up ahead, the only woman SEAL in the Navy with a Purple Heart, and at least a Bronze Star waiting for her, stood Heather J. Mcdaniels.

  Gibbons and Monkey called her Wonder Woman behind her back, until Chief Wilcox put a stop to it. Chief Wilcox had a few minor injuries to his face from the explosion, but the newest member of the team was already working his way forward, physically checking each member to assure they were all right. SEALs weren’t known for being honest when they were wounded. Bud Helliwell, mustang and only original officer from the deployed SEALs assigned to the USS Nassau Amphibious Task Force, ran his hand along his recently healed arm and cursed. It looked as if the arm was injured again. He wiggled his fingers and decided it wasn’t broken, it was just stunned, so he reported okay, though he had no feeling in his left thumb. But who needed thumbs? He had two of them.

  Duncan found the switch on his flashlight and inched his way back toward the opening. He shone the beam back along the sewer tunnel. A ton of rock and soil covered the opening. He moved the beam to the bottom. The steady sewage drainage along the base of the tunnel had lost its exit and was beginning to rise. No danger yet, but it would become one if they stayed here. The foul liquid was already licking at the top of his combat boots.

  “HJ, you and Gibbons keep moving, and keep an eye out for other trip wires. I don’t want us trapped between the entrance here and some sort of exit ahead.”

  Duncan touched the side of the tunnel to hold himself upright. His hand slid down the side, coming away from the ancient bricks covered with a slime of fungi and crud on his gloves. He wiped it on his pants leg.

  “Don’t touch the sides, if you can help it.”

  “Too late,” came the reply from several of them.

  “Well, don’t bite your nails, fellows,” HJ said.

  “Who brought her along?” Beau joked.

  “We need to move, Captain. This water has risen a couple of inches while we’ve talked,” Chief Wilcox said. The chief pulled a fluorescent crayon from a pocket on his pants leg and made a huge X on one of the rocks that blocked the entrance. On the side of the sewer, he drew an arrow pointing in the direction they were heading, though at this point they only had one way to go.

  Duncan pulled his crayon out and wrote, “Okay, heading out.” When the Marines broke through the rocks sealing the entrance, they would at least know everyone was okay and the mission was still a go.

  “Captain,” Bud Helliwell said. “The infrared devices the Marines gave us don’t work so good with no light or heat down here. About all I can see is the trickle of water and sewage along the bottom.”

  “We’ll have to use our lights. Every other person uses a flashlight. The rest of you conserve yours until we need them and stay close to those using them. And keep those headlamps turned off.”

  The line of Navy SEALs moved forward slowly, the headlamps on the helmets off, as HJ, Chief Wilcox, Beau, and Mcdonald used their small flashlights to light the way. Duncan turned his flashlight off and slipped it back on the ring alongside his belt. He reached up to the right side of the helmet and pulled the small handle down. A thumb-sized computer screen appeared in front of his right eye. He pulled his left arm up and hit the lighted Fl key on the small keypad strapped to the forearm. On the screen, a schematic of the Algiers catacombs appeared, along with a small red dot showing their position. The problem with the software the Marines loaded was that they could only load the sewer systems that the Algerian Water and Gas Company knew about. The Algerian supervisor argued that only a tenth of the sewer maze had been charted, and only that portion where they had their lines. The Marine captain in charge of their Urban Warrior software had laughed when he outfitted Duncan, telling him how last year the Algerian Water and Gas Company lost two workers in the maze. Never found them and still paying wages to their families. Duncan hated to be inside anything. He disliked the ride in the USS Albany when the submarine dropped them off five weeks ago to rescue President Hawaii Alneuf, and he particularly disliked being trapped under a foreign city surrounded by shit.

  Duncan hit the F4 button to check if they had contact with the surface, but a red warning banner flashed, showing no connection existed. He knew it would. It was nigh impossible to establish an electromagnetic connection through God knows how many meters of soil, brick, and concrete above them. An image of a hundred thousand butts sitting on toilets adding human waste to the catacombs flashed through his mind.

  The circumstances gave Duncan a new appreciation for sewer workers, especially those in New York caught belowground during halftime of the Super Bowl when the flash flood of a million flushes rush simultaneously through the smaller pipes of the city that never sleeps.

  Taking his mind off the possibilities of drowning from overhead action, Duncan pressed the F1 button again. The F3 button allowed them to pass information among themselves, but since he was the only one with the outfit, the button was useless. The keyboard was inconvenient. To u
se it effectively, he would have to lay his carbine down, and right now, the carbine gave Duncan a more secure feeling than the piece of modem technology the Marines used for urban warfare. The power pack for the contraption was strapped on his belt like a knife scabbard. The wires ran under his cammies, above his skivvies and T-shirt, to exit down his left arm. The Marine Corps captain, who insisted on telling and retelling the story of the two lost in the sewer catacombs of Algiers, warned Duncan to be careful, or the battery could become disconnected.

  Between the horror tales the Marine Corps captain told, he remembered to tell Duncan the battery had a useful life of five hours. Duncan had a second, backup battery in his small backpack. But he had no intention of being in the sewers long enough for the first one to go dead. He had been here nearly thirty minutes, and that was thirty minutes too long.

  If he suspected Bashir knew another way to where the hostages were being held, he’d strangle the weight-challenged Bedouin when he got out of here.

  “Captain, we got a fork,” Gibbons passed back.

  “Ask the captain to check the map,” HJ relayed.

  “Of course, if we had been given a hard copy, we could move faster,” Bud Helliwell added.

  “Sure, Ensign. You have to get into the computer age, Mustang Bud, or you are going to be left behind,” Beau said, slapping the sandy-haired ensign on the shoulder. “Besides, more fun exploring without a map.”

  “Bud, quit your whining. You want to ruin your reputation?” HJ asked.

  “HJ, check those nanorobots steaming around inside you. I think they’re building balls.”

  “Bud, why would I want something that would slow me down and cloud my brain? If I had balls, I would have the same problem you do — never knowing where my brains are.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Duncan said. He searched the computer generated map.

  “HJ, give Gibbons a hand, and see if you two can tell which fork the rebels used.” “I’ll go, too,” Bud said, wincing slightly as he put weight on his left arm when he shoved off the side of the sewer.

  The two SEAL officers moved slowly through the confines of the pitch-black tunnel, their lights providing the only illumination. The curved bottom caused them to stumble periodically, making it impossible to keep their hands off the sides. As they plodded onward, the metal wall near the entrance gave way to older bricks and rocks covered with foul-smelling slime that stuck to their gloves. The sticky wetness of the substance was already soaking through the thin fabric. Finally, the slightly curved bottom of the sewer changed to a rough, flat surface with small potholes worn out by the steady flow of Algerian waste. The soft grunts of Duncan’s team as they stumbled in the dark marked a slow progress. Duncan gave up trying to avoid the four to five inches of water and sewage flowing along the bottom of the sewer and started walking through it, hoping he didn’t hit the wide puddles that grew around the larger potholes. For all he knew, these ancient potholes might be bottomless, drowning anyone who fell into them before others could save them. Duncan softly passed a warning to the others.

  Chief Wilcox tramped through the center of the mess, stepping on the sides to push himself over areas where the water spread out to the sides. The others, one by one, quit trying to avoid the middle of the slow-moving sludge and started walking through it. The high sides of their combat boots saved most from what could have been broken or fractured ankles.

  Gibbons appeared out of the shadows ahead, standing between two six-inch waterfalls that poured from two man-sized sewer lines that ran off in different directions and were about four feet higher.

  “What you got?” HJ asked.

  He pointed at the left one. “I think this is the one they’ve been using, ma’am.”

  Bud leaned over HJ’s shoulder to see the tunnel Gibbons’s small flashlight illuminated. Bud shone his light down the other one. “I can’t tell the difference.”

  “I couldn’t either at first, Mr. Helliwell, but look closely at the bottom of the sewer. You can see scrape marks where their boots have cleared the moss and crud away.”

  “Moss hell, try alien fungus.”

  “Either way, sir, they’ve been scuffed off.” “It’s the left one, leading off to the north,” HJ said, glancing at the compass in her hand. She cringed slightly as Bud bumped her healing shoulder. “I wouldn’t trust the compass too much, HJ. No telling what around us could be affecting the needle.”

  “Bud, I’m not using the compass, and get off my back,” she said sharply, pushing the older but junior officer away.

  “Oh, sorry. It was the only way I could see. I forgot about your wound.”

  “It’s healed but still tender to the touch,” she lied, her body shaking from the contact for several seconds. She gritted her teeth, expecting someone to comment, and after several seconds passed, HJ relaxed. She didn’t know why this was happening. She wanted to scream and run through the pipes until she found a ladder or steps leading up. She didn’t care where they led; she just wanted out. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

  Gibbons reached in his pocket, pulled a fluorescent crayon out and made an X on the far side of the left tunnel. “Looks like we go this way, ma’am.”

  “Okay,” HJ mumbled.

  “What have you got?” Duncan asked as he appeared behind the trio.

  “Left side, Captain,” HJ replied, pointing to the tunnel. “Gibbons, show the captain the scuff marks.” She let out a sigh of relief, feeling the emotional moment pass.

  Gibbons pointed his flashlight along the slow-moving sludge line and highlighted the places where the growth of ages had been scuffed away.

  Duncan agreed with the second class petty officer’s observation.

  “Lead away. Gibbons, and be careful. There may be more booby traps in this tunnel. Keep an eye out for trip wires or anything else that looks suspicious.”

  “Hold up a minute, Gibbons,” Bud Helliwell said. He leaned forward and, with his flashlight leading, he ran his hand along the edges at the top of the tunnel. “Here it is, Captain.” He tugged on a loose brick, causing it to fall, splashing into the mess below and splattering it across the tops of their steel-toed combat boots and the bottom of their trouser legs.

  A small square of plastique explosive hung from wires above them. “Seems to me, Gibbons, that somewhere ahead is another trip wire. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be around your feet. It could be head or body level.”

  Gibbons shone his light down the new pipe, waving it slowly from side to side. “There it is,” Gibbons said, holding his light steady at a point in the sewer tunnel about ten yards ahead. “You can barely see it, but it’s there.”

  “Okay, Bud, you stay with the trip wire and make sure everyone steps over it. Gibbons, you lead the way, and be careful of a fallback trip wire ahead.” Duncan pressed F1 on his keypad, and the schematic of the sewer system lit up. “According to the schematic, this line runs alone for about a quarter of a mile before coming to an intersection with five other lines.” He looked up. “This would be where I would put explosives. Be careful. Go slow, and keep a fine eye out for anything else.” Gibbons spat several times.

  “What’s wrong?” HJ asked.

  “Nothing, ma’am. Just don’t wipe your mouth with your gloves.”

  Beau stumbled up to them. “Boss, what are we doing?” Duncan told Beau and Chief Wilcox about the explosives, the trip wire, and the length of the sewer tunnel they were entering.

  “Another thing. It is possible that somewhere along this tunnel, we’ll find where the hostages are being kept. Gibbons, you keep an eye out for any more traps, and keep tracking those scruff marks. If you go more than ten or fifteen feet without seeing a scuff mark or some indication we’re still on the right track, then stop, and let’s take stock of where we are and where we last saw the signs. Personally, I can’t imagine the rebels using these tunnels other than for a short movement between their base and escape,” Duncan said. His watch showed they had been beneath t
he city for over six hours. “I think we will find their base within the next hour, but let’s find it without getting ourselves blown up. It’s night above us, so we should have until morning to find the location.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Gibbons said. He put both hands against the wall of the new tunnel and pulled himself up into it. His carbine, strapped across his front, hung barrel down. If he encountered anyone, Gibbons would have little time to unstrap, unsafe, and fire. Duncan noticed the man’s survival knife was strapped to his calf, making it easier to reach in close quarters. He touched the handle of his knife, strapped along his waist. The way they were moving in this small system, the hands were closer to the calf than to the waist. If the point man encountered anyone unexpectedly, the knife might be his only defense.

  HJ and Bud followed. Duncan gave them several seconds’ head start and touched Monkey. “Okay, Monkey, you’re next. I hope you know not to fire the M-60 inside these tunnels?”

  The dark hid Monkey’s scowl. “Of course, Captain.” The huge man pulled himself up and disappeared into the sewer tunnel.

  Duncan turned to Mcdonald, who stood behind him. “Mcdonald —”

  “I know, Captain. My M-60 is safed.”

  Duncan pulled himself into the pipe and, with his left hand guiding along the sides of the wall, he moved forward. A fluorescent O marked the trip wire. Bud stuck his hand out, touched Duncan, and pointed.

  “Trip wire,” Duncan mumbled to himself, as he stepped over it.

  He heard the warning passed from SEAL to SEAL as the others followed. Chief Wilcox was the last to enter behind Beau, who followed Mcdonald.

  Wilcox stopped briefly at the X Gibbons made and drew an arrow pointing back the way they came. For a brief second, the image of the lost explorer in the movie Journey to the Center of the Earth flashed through his thoughts. The sterility of the movie had little in common with the smell, the crud, and the sewage that floated around them. A patch of gray fur bobbed on the surface of the stream. Dead rat, he thought.