The Line

by Bob Mayer

  Boomer had to concur with that reasoning. "It's probably not safe to stay here," he said.

  "If you're right," Skibicki said, "I've got a place where you'll be safe."

  PACIFIC PALISADES, OAHU

  30 November

  4:30 P.M. LOCAL/ 0230 ZULU

  The place Skibicki chose for Boomer and Trace was his mother's house, high along the slopes of the Waiwa Forest Reserve, six kilometers due north of the East Loch of Pearl Harbor.

  Maggie welcomed them and after a brief huddle with Skibicki settled Trace down in her spare bedroom. The four of them met in her living room, brightly lit by the sun in a descending hover over the mountains to the west.

  "This is ridiculous," Trace said. "I mean, I just got shot at for Christ's sake and the police act like it's no big deal."

  "The crime rate is so high nowadays," Maggie said. "I remember when you could leave your house unlocked all the time. I used to never lock my car, no matter where on the island I went. Now I have to carry a can of mace on my key chain."

  "I don't think the cops are going to do much about this," Boomer said. He looked at Skibicki. "What do you say we do a little work on our own?"

  Skibicki nodded. "What do you have in mind?"

  MAKAKILO, OAHU, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

  30 November

  7:30 p.m. LOCAL/ 0530 ZULU

  Although night was settling over the mountainside, the two men had no trouble maneuvering. Their night vision goggles took what light there was and computer-enhanced it to provide a greenish version of daylight inside the lenses.

  One of the men set the tripod for the Remington 700 down, then carefully screwed the rifle onto the tripod. He flipped the on switch for the rifle's night scope and gave it a few seconds to warm up, before trading his goggles for the view through the scope. He scanned the house, then the immediate area.

  "Anything?" the other asked.

  "House is dark, no cars parked outside."

  The second man sat down, leaning his back against the small pack he was carrying. "The woman comes back, you do her, first clear shot you get. Take out her trigger-happy boyfriend too and anybody else."

  The first man smiled and settled in comfortably behind the scope.

  CHAPTER 7

  MAKAKILO, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

  1 DECEMBER

  3:30 a.m. LOCAL/1330 ZULU

  Boomer watched as Skibicki unlocked the footlocker that was bolted to the back of his Jeep. The drawer on top held tiger-stripe fatigues, their fabric worn with time. He lifted the tray to get to the contents beneath. He grabbed a Calico M-950-A machine pistol and checked its functioning. It had a built-in sound-suppressor that gave it a short, stubby barrel. The body consisted of a pistol grip and an open bolt assembly facing up.

  Skibicki reached in a black bag and pulled out a cylindrical magazine—the most unique feature of the Calico. The magazine, two and a quarter inches in diameter and a little over seven inches long settled into place on top of the weapon, overhanging the rear slightly. Totally unlike any other magazine Skibicki had ever used, the fluted cartridge carrier in the center of the magazine held seven 9mm bullets and the helix around the cartridge carrier held forty-three more rounds, giving the molded plastic contraption a fifty-round capacity and outgunning any other pistols and automatic weapons around.

  Skibicki slipped a shoulder harness over his head, hooking the pistol to the right side and sliding a spare magazine into the open pouch on the left. He took a small cloth brass-catcher and slipped it over the bottom ejector, ensuring that his brass would stay with him if he had to shoot.

  He removed a second Calico and handed it to Boomer. "Fifty rounds in the magazine. It operates closed-bolt, retarded blowback, like the H&K MP-5 you use in Delta."

  Boomer slid the magazine on top of the housing and chambered a round. He checked the heft of the weapon, sighting down the raised sights across the small parking lot where they were leaving Skibicki's Jeep.

  "You can fire one-handed," Skibicki said. "Real smooth operation. It goes up and slightly right at first, then settles down on target. You can fire all fifty rounds in one burst if you want." He handed over two additional magazines and a shoulder holster. "You got a laser sight on top. Switch is here," he added, tapping the side of the gun. He handed over a set of PVS-7 night vision goggles and slipped on his own set. "Ready to go for a walk?"

  They'd driven back trails through the jungle north of Puu Makakilo until they were about a thousand meters away from a hill on the northeast side. The side opposite Trace's house. They left the Jeep behind and started through the vegetation, allowing the bulk of the hill to shield them from the site they'd found the previous day. After carefully checking both directions, they scampered across Palehua Road, the same road Trace had used when she'd unexpectedly come upon the men.

  As they got closer to the summit, Skibicki slowed down. Boomer matched the veteran's pace. They went around the side of the hilltop. When Skibicki went prone, Boomer dropped to his belly also, and they remained frozen for fifteen minutes. Boomer caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke borne by the landward breeze and his finger curled out and flipped off the safety on the Calico. He tapped Skibicki and then touched his nose. Skibicki nodded.

  They began moving down the hillside at an excruciatingly slow pace, often pausing for five to ten minutes, using the rustle of the wind to cover their movement. They didn't have to exchange a word, the two men moving as a unit. An untrained person would have thought their progress unbelievably slow, but Boomer appreciated the older man's stealth.

  After two hours, they finally reached a point on the edge of the small clearing, slightly to right of the tree that had been marked by the knife throwing.

  Boomer scanned the clearing, taking in the two men and the sniper rifle set on tripod. One man was watching the house through the scope on the top of the rifle. The other was lying down, his back against a rucksack. Several cigarette butts were in the dirt next to him.

  Boomer and the sergeant major watched them for a half hour waiting to see if there was any change to the routine. Finally, Skibicki glanced at Boomer, who nodded. He edged sideways until he was about fifteen feet away from Skibicki. When the sergeant major stood, Boomer did also, the pistol held steady in his right hand, muzzle centered on the man at the rifle.

  "Just hold it right where you are," Skibicki said.

  Boomer was surprised when the one on the right rolled left, reaching for a pistol in his shoulder holster. Skibicki fired a sustained burst, the first round hitting the sniper rifle, ricocheting off, then he walked the line of bullets into the man, hitting him four times in the chest as the weapon the man had been reaching for cleared its holster. It fell to the dirt next to dead fingers.

  If the second man had reacted promptly, his partner's death might not have been in vain, but he froze, caught between reaching for his own pistol and surprise.

  "Hands up," Boomer said.

  The man bent forward to stand up, and his right hand brushed his pant leg. Boomer's training kicked in and he fired, his bullets stitching a bloody trail up the man's stomach and chest. The man's arms flew wide as the bullets knocked him backwards. The Calico handled smoothly, the unique balance of weight caused by the non-traditional magazine allowing it to be fired accurately with one hand.

  Boomer walked over to the body and checked the hand. A knife was clutched in the dead fingers.

  "Good job," Skibicki said.

  "Damn," Boomer replied, his fingers gripping the handle of the Calico tightly. "Why didn't they surrender? We had them cold."

  "It was us or them," Skibicki replied. He pointed at the sniper rifle. "They weren't sitting here waiting to have a discussion with Major Trace. I'd say they were going to finish the job by putting a bullet in her head to completely erase all the information."

  "But why?" Boomer asked. He gestured around the clearing. "I don't understand why that manuscript is so damn important."

  Skibicki was searching the bodies, pul
ling out their wallets. "Oh, fuck," he muttered. "It just got worse." He tossed one of the wallets over.

  Boomer rubbed his forehead to forestall a growing headache when he saw that the man carried an ID card from the DIA: Defense Intelligence Agency. "Oh shit," Boomer said. "We're fucked."

  "It was us or them," Skibicki repeated. He looked up. "You sure those guys yesterday didn't try to identify themselves to Major Trace?"

  "She would have said something if they had. They didn't act like they were there on legal business from what I saw."

  "They didn't act that way here either. They should have talked to us."

  "Maybe not," Boomer said. "Hell, if I had two guys draw down on me in the dark, I'd probably go for my gun too. Goddamn," he kicked the trunk of a tree. "What's going on?"

  Skibicki drew a couple of black balaclavas out of the men's backpack. "They also have silenced weapons. I'd bet a month's pay that the ballistics on those guns matches the slugs in the wall down there."

  "That still doesn't justify our shooting them," Boomer said.

  "They fucking didn't freeze when I told them to," Skibicki growled.

  Boomer was shaking his head. "We didn't identify ourselves." He laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Shit, what could we identify ourselves as? 'We're two guys with semi-automatic pistols running around in the fucking dark. Put your hands up'."

  "They robbed Trace's house," Skibicki said. "They shot at you both."

  "Yeah, I know that." Boomer walked over and put the ID back in the vest pocket of one of the bodies. There was a key in there. He pulled it out and looked at it in the dim light. Room 456, the Outrigger Reef Hotel. He put the key back in the pocket. The man's dead eyes were staring at the sky, reminding Boomer of the ambush several days ago in the Ukraine. No matter where he went, death seemed to be following. But here on a hillside in Hawaii was the last place he'd expected it.

  Boomer slowly stood. "Well, I guess I'll call our friends in the police department."

  Skibicki nodded. "You go down to the house. I'll go back and bring the Jeep around by the main road and join you there."

  "All right." Boomer made his way carefully downslope until he got to Trace's house. He went inside and pulled out the card he'd been given earlier in the day. He dialed the number and the phone was picked up on the second ring.

  "Oahu PD."

  "I'd like to speak to Inspector Konane," Boomer said. He didn't expect the man to be on duty at this time, but the phone clicked and Konane identified himself. Boomer quickly related what had happened and Konane said he was on his way and for Boomer to just hold where he was until they arrived.

  Twenty minutes later a pair of headlights cut through the dark, but it was Skibicki's Jeep. Boomer told him that the cops were on the way and Skibicki joined him in the drive, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

  Konane and Perry arrived five minutes after Skibicki.

  The inspector didn't waste any time. "Where's the bodies?"

  "This way," Boomer said, grabbing a flashlight.

  Boomer led, with Skibicki right behind and the two cops bringing up the rear. He crested the hill, stepped into the clearing and froze. It was empty. No bodies. No weapons. No backpack. Nothing. The dirt was scuffed where the bodies had been. That was it.

  "Well?" Konane said, walking around Boomer. "Is this the place?"

  "Yes." Boomer looked at Skibicki, who raised his hands helplessly.

  ''And?'' Konane pressed.

  "They were here," Boomer insisted. "Two men. They were armed. They had a sniper rifle trained on the house."

  "You Delta Force guys like playing games don't you?" Konane said. "This some sort of exercise?"

  "No." Boomer turned to Skibicki. "You tell them."

  "Everything he told you is true," Skibicki said. "There were two men up here and when they tried shooting at us, we killed them."

  "And the two bodies just got up and walked away?" Konane didn't wait for an answer. "Listen, it's the middle of the night and we've been on duty for twenty hours. I have half a mind to call your commanding officer and jerk a knot in his ass and yours. This isn't a military reservation here and you can't be playing your games."

  "But—" Boomer began, but Skibicki grabbed his arm. "Let 'em go," Skibicki hissed.

  The walk back to the house was in silence. Konane and Perry gave a few more dire warnings about false crime reporting and departed. As soon as the car pulled out of the drive, Boomer turned to Skibicki. "What happened to the bodies?"

  Skibicki shook his head. "I don't know. I went straight down to the Jeep. I didn't hear or see anybody. Maybe they had a back-up team nearby that moved in and sterilized the site."

  Boomer walked into the house and dropped into a chair. "What's going on?"

  Skibicki sat across from him on the couch. He pointed at the portable phone they'd used to call the police. "You need to get your friend out here. She's the one they want, so she's the key."

  Skibicki gave him Maggie's number and he called. She put Trace on and Boomer told her to come without telling her what had happened.

  Boomer and Skibicki waited, each lost in his own thoughts. By the time Trace arrived, Boomer had mulled over a few things. First, he told her what had happened. At the news of the killings, Trace's reaction matched Boomer's: "Why? What is going on?"

  "It has to be the manuscript," Boomer said.

  "What's so important about the manuscript?" Trace asked. "That shit happened fifty years ago."

  "This Hooker fellow is still alive," Boomer noted.

  Skibicki sat upright. "What was that? What did you just say?"

  "I said General Hooker is still alive. He's a character in Trace's manuscript."

  "A real person?"

  Boomer nodded. He explained the two chapters: Hooker graduating and being inducted into The Line and Patton's death as described by the nurse.

  "I'll be a son of a bitch!" Skibicki exclaimed when Boomer was done. "I saw Hooker in Vietnam. He was a hatchet man for somebody high up in the Pentagon. He was one of the straight-leg pukes that tried to do away with Special Forces after the incident in Nha Trang."

  "Apparently Hooker's been behind a lot of things," Trace said.

  "So you're saying maybe Hooker is behind this?" Boomer asked.

  Skibicki shrugged. "I don't know, but from what you just told me, I think he'd be a little upset about his name in this manuscript. You're intimating that he was involved in Patton's death. Just think: what if he was? He certainly wouldn't want that to come out, even though it is fifty years later. Who knows what other dirt he's hiding?"

  "I guess it's possible," Trace said. "The nurse's story was just so outrageous that it never occurred to me it could be real and someone who was involved would come after me."

  "That might also explain why the DIA was watching you," Skibicki added. "Hooker probably still pulls a lot of weight in the Pentagon. He could get the DIA to do his dirty work."

  "What do we do now?" Trace asked. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east.

  "You all get to work," Boomer said. "Sergeant major, can you cover for me this morning?"

  "You have an idea?" Skibicki asked.

  "Yeah, I have an idea."

  "Remember your last one," Skibicki warned.

  HONOLULU

  1 December

  8:00 a.m. LOCAL/1800 ZULU

  The Outrigger Waikiki was easy to find, standing just to the east of Fort DeRussy Beach Park and Museum. Boomer parked at the museum and strolled down the beach past the hotel. It was a bit early for tourists, so the beach was almost deserted.

  Boomer was tired, but adrenaline was providing the energy now. He'd killed before on missions overseas, but never in the States and never under such confusing circumstances.

  He wondered why the two men were staying at the Outrigger. The Hale Koa, a military-run hotel on the Fort DeRussy reservation was just a couple of hundred meters down the beach. And then there were all sorts of BOQs at various post
s all over the island where the two men could have stayed if they had been on official orders. So perhaps they were at the Outrigger because this mission wasn't official?

  He walked into the lobby of the hotel as if he belonged, stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor. He was wearing shorts and the loose-fitting shirt he'd worn to meet Trace. He'd traded the Calico back to Skibicki for his Browning High Power and it rode comfortably on his left shoulder.

  The doors opened on the fourth floor and Boomer stepped out. He checked the small sign. 456 was to the right, several doors. He strode up to a maid and flashed his federal ID. "I need to have Room 456 opened."

  The woman did not react the way Boomer expected. "I just opened it for you people. What did you do, lock yourself out?"

  "You just—" Boomer turned, and the door to the room opened. A man pushing a luggage rack piled high with scuba tanks came into the hallway. He looked up at Boomer and their eyes locked, the cleaning lady looking from one to the other.

  If there was one thing Boomer had learned early in his military career—not just learned but ingrained into his psyche at Ranger School—was when in doubt, attack.

  He charged forward, feinted with his right leg and snapped a left leg kick into the bottom of the man's jaw. There was an audible click as teeth smashed together. Boomer grabbed his shirt and pulled the unconscious body into the room. He stuck his head back out. "It's OK," he called out to the maid. She stared at him for a second, then shrugged and walked away, muttering to herself.

  There was no one else in the room. The luggage rack was still in the hallway, but Boomer did a quick search of the man first. Another DIA ID card and badge, which Boomer appropriated. A gun in a shoulder holster. Something was folded on the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Boomer pulled it out. A topographic map of Oahu.

  He heard the elevator open. Boomer stood and checked the hallway. Two men were approaching and when they saw him they broke into a run. Boomer slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. Thuds rained down on the door as Boomer spotted his only option. He ran out onto the small balcony. There was a small concrete extension surrounded by a chest-high railing. Boomer climbed onto the railing, steadying himself with his hands on the bottom of the balcony above. Carefully he slipped his hands over the edge of the concrete lip. He avoided looking at the ground forty feet below. As the door splintered open, Boomer swung a leg up, then the other. Standing up, he hopped over the railing and got out of sight.