Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  He dropped another wrench. This one bounced off the floor and into the base of the steel door.

  Three seconds later the latch turned and the door opened. The first thing Peter saw was a hand holding a Beretta semiauto pistol clearing the edge of the door. That was his cue. He rammed his body into the door with all the force he could muster. There was an audible thud as the steel slammed into a body or head just before the door closed on the arm. The crack of bone sounded clearly.

  Crushed between the edge of the door and the frame, the guard dropped the firearm. “Ahhh!” he moaned.

  Peter scooped up the Beretta and yanked the door open on the stunned guard. “Inside.”

  With the gun pointing at his face, the guard complied, cradling the broken arm against his chest. Peter grabbed him by the collar and spun him around, then closed the door.

  “On the floor. Face down.”

  The guard complied, offering no resistance as Peter frisked him one handed. He removed his phone and two spare magazines.

  “On your feet.”

  “You broke my arm! I can’t get up.”

  “On your feet. Or I’ll break your legs, too.” Peter kept the gun trained exactly at the man’s chest while maintaining a distance of several feet.

  Slowly, he rose to his feet. His face grimaced in obvious pain. “Over there,” Peter said, motioning toward the second armored personnel carrier, or APC.

  At the rear of the APC were two massive steel tow loops—essentially round steel eyes used for the purpose of fastening chain to tow another vehicle.

  “Sit down,” Peter ordered. The guard settled to the floor, still holding his broken arm at chest level.

  “Nadya, I need your help.” Two seconds later she was at the hatch and hopped to the concrete deck. “Over there, in that tool chest, is a roll of wire. Grab it. And find some wire cutters and duct tape.”

  She nodded and jogged to the chest. Peter heard drawers open and close, but never removed his focus from his prisoner. A minute later Nadya returned, displaying her spoils.

  “Good. Now, bind his ankles with wire. Make sure it’s tight. And I don’t care if it hurts.”

  With efficient movements, she bound the ankles and knees of the guard, wrapping three layers of wire for good measure.

  “Okay. Take his good arm and wire his wrist to the tow loop.”

  Nadya grabbed the good arm, but the guard resisted her efforts. “Raise your arm,” she said, her voice venom. “Or I’ll break it and you can have a matching pair.”

  Slowly he relaxed and allowed Nadya to secure his arm to the tow loop and place a length of tape across his mouth. His eyes were narrowed and dark; his jaw set hard. But his focus never left the barrel of the 9mm.

  Chapter 47

  UA Test Range, Eastern Oregon

  April 26

  Nadya returned to the radio, making certain the Crook County Sheriff Department was mobilizing. Finally, dispatch told her they found the location of the test range, but given the time needed to organize a hostage rescue team and the distance they would have to travel, it would take almost two hours for help to arrive.

  She lowered her head. “Yeah, well, guess I’ll just have to keep everyone entertained until you get here.” She signed off, and stood at the open hatch. Peter was examining a pallet stacked with medium-sized wood boxes. She looked to their prisoner. He appeared to still be securely fastened to the steel tow loop.

  With a sigh, she approached Peter, keeping her voice low once she was next to him. “Law enforcement says ETA is two hours.”

  Peter didn’t break his concentration on the crates stacked before him. They were banded with steel straps. Each a little under a foot tall by a foot wide by 18 inches deep.

  “You heard me?” Nadya prodded him. “Two hours.” She checked her watch. “Ellison and his men will be back in 60 or 70 minutes, maybe sooner.”

  “Yep. And we’ll be ready for them.” He hefted one of the wood crates and set it on the concrete floor. Then he turned to a tool chest and removed a pair of metal shears, quickly snipping off the metal band securing the lid in place. He slipped the shears into a rear pocket.

  The top lifted off. Peter was surprised it wasn’t screwed in place, but then again the steel bands seemed to do a fine job.

  Inside were two metal boxes, each standard GI-issue-olive-drab in color. Peter thought they were ammo cans for .50 caliber ammunition. But Nadya knew otherwise.

  “Fuzes,” she said. “But what good are fuzes? We don’t have any explosives.”

  Peter smiled, popped open the metal lid, and removed one of the conical devices. It was unpainted. The bare, rust-free metal suggested aluminum or stainless steel. Peter placed the fuze in his pocket.

  Nadya raised an eyebrow. “Did you find explosives while I was on the radio?”

  “Sort of.” He pointed at another stack of pallets, but all she saw were more crates.

  “Okay. Where?”

  Peter led her to the stacked goods, and then around to the far side. There, sitting on a lone pallet, were four 155mm artillery shells. They were the same dull green as the metal cans containing the fuzes. On each shell, stenciled in white paint, was the designation:

  155mm

  xxxAPERS

  COMPOSITION-B

  The four shells stood on their bases, and across the top was a cardboard placard that read: DO NOT STACK. The tip was missing from each shell.

  “Without a fuze threaded into the nose,” Nadya said, “these shells are inert. They can’t be exploded.”

  “I agree, and that’s not my plan. I’m gonna take the explosive out of a shell.”

  “Do you have any idea how long it will take to cut through the metal casing and remove even part of the explosive?” Nadya asked.

  “We have power tools.” Peter was not dissuaded in the least.

  “That casing is at least half an inch thick, and hardened steel.”

  Peter shook his head. “No, not these. See that designation? XXX indicates these are experimental rounds. APERS means they are antipersonnel. I’ve heard about this.”

  “From your circle of friends?” Nadya said, not trying to hide her skepticism.

  Peter nodded. “Actually, yes. I believe these are beehive rounds. They use an aluminum shell casing so it’s easier to split open.”

  He strode to the tool chest and retrieved a magnetic tray about the size of a saucer—it was used for holding small nuts, screws, and bolts. Returning to the pallet, he attempted to stick the magnetic base against one of the shells. “See, it’s not magnetic.”

  Nadya’s eyes widened. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  Peter refined his idea, thinking of the items he would need, and then rattled off the list. “We’re gonna need some steel wool. Maybe there’s some in the tool chest. If not, look around. Might be with sanding pads. Also, two extension cords, one long and one short. Plug the longer cord into the closest electrical outlet to the back of that APC.” Peter pointed to the APC that their prisoner was not cuffed to.

  “Got it.” She set out on her scavenger hunt.

  Peter snipped the metal band secured around all four projectiles and then hefted one; the injuries to his arms burned in a flare of pain. It was heavy, but manageable by holding the shell close to his waist. Without a moment to lose, he made directly for the horizontal band saw and gently laid the green shell on the cutting table. He shoved it back and forth, adjusting the cutting position, until the saw blade was about half an inch from the base. Then he reefed down on the locking block to hold the shell firmly in place.

  Just hope this band saw is not too noisy. Peter flipped the switch and energized the drive motor. As the blade came down, the bi-alloy steel teeth cut through the aluminum casing with ease, hardly making a sound. A minor but important victory, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Nadya had a coiled extension cord draped from her shoulder. She was searching through drawers at the b
ottom of the tool chest and abruptly stood, holding a plastic bag half full of steel wool.

  When Peter looked back at his work, the blade was almost three-quarters through the projectile. Good, didn’t hit any of the steel flechettes. He’d suspected the steel darts would be bundled and located farther up the shell where they would be propelled forward by the explosive charge in the base.

  Another half minute passed and then the saw completed the cut. Peter turned off the power, unlocked the latch, and removed the severed base. A material the color of beeswax was exposed inside the aluminum casing. “Bingo,” he mumbled too softly for Nadya to hear.

  Peter met Nadya at the tool chest where he pocketed a putty knife. “Got it.”

  “The explosive?”

  He nodded, seeming to hesitate.

  “What else do you need?” Nadya asked.

  He was studying one of the metal drawers in the tool chest, fidgeting with the glides along the side of the drawer. “Ah, there it is.” Nadya heard the click and then the drawer slid free. Peter dropped to a knee and dumped the tools onto the floor, avoiding loud clanging noises.

  “See if you can find some large nuts, like half inch or so. Maybe over there in those parts bins.” Peter pointed to some shelves not far away.

  “Nuts?” She wrinkled her brow.

  “Yeah, projectiles. I’ll pack explosive in the bottom of this drawer. Then we’ll fill the top—covering the explosive—with nuts or bolts or whatever you can find. We’ll wrap it in cardboard and duct tape to hold it all together and then stand it on edge, aiming at the door.”

  A sly smile creased Nadya’s lips. “An anti-personnel mine.”

  “The detonator will be tricky, but I have an idea. See what you can find. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Using the putty knife, Peter scraped around the edge of the Composition-B explosive, separating the waxy material from the aluminum case. He sliced the squat, cylindrical chuck of high explosive into three circular slabs, each about an inch thick. As he was layering the slabs into the bottom of the metal drawer, Nadya arrived with two bins filled with heavy steel nuts. She dumped the contents over the layered explosive.

  Peter left a small section of explosive exposed at one end. Nadya cut a sheet of cardboard from an empty box and produced the duct tape she had used to gag the guard. She formed the cardboard over the top of the drawer to prevent the nuts from falling out while Peter fastened the cardboard in place with the tape.

  “Time to see if it will stay together.” Peter lifted the drawer so it was resting on the flat back end. Nothing shifted. Still, he decided to wrap more tape just to be sure.

  “We should position our mine in front of the door,” he said.

  “How about at the back of the APC? It’s about 40 feet from the door and the projectiles should spread to an effective pattern at that distance.”

  “Exactly. Set it on top of two of the fuze crates; we don’t want it right on the floor. I’ll get to work opening a fuze and removing the detonator.”

  “You know how to do that?”

  Peter couldn’t explain that, as a designer of magnetic-impulse small arms, he’d been asked to consult on development of the Navy’s railgun, a ship-mounted cannon that used an enormous magnetic impulse to fire shells. Consequently, he was familiar with both conventional artillery shells as well as the specialized projectiles that would be required for this futuristic weapon system. But even if he could tell Nadya, he didn’t have the time.

  “Stories for another day—assuming we live to see another day.” He filled his fists with several adjustable wrenches and screwdrivers, not knowing exactly what tools would be needed, and moved to a heavy-duty workbench. Mounted to the steel surface was a large vise.

  The fuze was a couple inches in diameter at the widest part. At the base of the pointed tip was a smaller-diameter protrusion with threads around the perimeter. Peter knew from his work on the railgun that this threaded portion contained the detonator and a small booster charge. It fit into the recess at the front of the shell.

  Carefully locking the conical section into the bench vise, Peter used a pipe wrench to gently remove the detonator and booster cup. Fortunately, the detonator was likely new and the two portions separated easily on lightly lubricated threads.

  Peter held the booster cup before his eyes, examining its construction. To the side was the detonator. It looked like a large percussion cap. If struck forcibly by the firing pin, the detonator would explode and cause the booster charge to also explode. But without a means for striking the detonator with a firing-pin-like object, Peter had to come up with an alternative. He had been thinking through this problem and was convinced there was another way.

  Holding the booster cup, Peter returned to the tool chest. In the top tray was a portable propane torch. He grabbed it and continued on to Nadya. She was busy placing the mine on top of two crates at the back of the APC.

  Peter pressed the booster cup into the section of exposed Composition-B explosive at the top of the charge. It was immediately clear that it wouldn’t stay there on its own. The explosive was barely moldable, and although he was able to press the booster cup into the slab of yellow-tan explosive, he was going to have to secure it in position.

  “Nadya, I need a section of wire to hold this detonator in place.”

  She nodded, retrieved the spool of wire she used to bind their prisoner and the wire cutters, and handed them to Peter. Two wraps and a twist, and the detonator was secured.

  Peter stood the portable propane torch on the crate next to the mine, and aimed the tip such that the flame would impinge the detonator. He estimated that within a few seconds of ignition, the intense heat from the torch flame would cause the detonator to ignite, setting off a chain of explosive events.

  “I need the steel wool,” Peter said.

  Nadya handed a large bunch to him, and he pulled it a little to loosen the fibers; then he wedged it in the wire wrap near the torch tip.

  Nadya looked at her watch. “We have to hurry. We’re running out of time.”

  Next Peter used the wire cutters to lop off one end of the short extension cord. He used his knife to cut back the insulation and expose the copper conductor of the two wires. He stuffed the bare copper wire into the steel wool, and then laid out the cord so the other end was resting on top of the tracks at the rear corner of the APC. Then he stood back, examining his work.

  He moved his eyes from the makeshift mine to the door. Yes, that should do it. Just hope the detonator works.

  “Is it ready?” Nadya asked.

  Peter nodded. “Almost.” He positioned the end of the long extension cord at the tracks of the APC. “Now, for a little camouflage.” He rolled the large tool chest in front of the mine. When Ellison came through the door with his mercenaries, they’d have no idea what they were facing.

  Chapter 48

  UA Test Range, Eastern Oregon

  April 26

  Standing beside the Humvee, Ellison looked to the clear night sky. In the distance, he saw a speck of light. It was moving, gaining size as it approached. Finally, he was able to make out the red and green wing lights. When the landing lights came on, he had to avert his gaze.

  The Gulfstream landed and rushed past his position. After breaking, and turning around, the G650 came to a rest not far from the parked Humvee, the turbine engines whining like banshees. Ellison had cupped his hands over his ears.

  Two minutes later, after cooling the engines, the pilot powered down the aircraft and the cabin door opened outward, allowing a stairway to fold down to the tarmac. Claude Duss stood in the opening, backlit by the dim cabin lighting.

  Ellison had not been waiting long. He was standing on the tarmac flanked by two mercenaries wearing black BDUs, each armed with an MP5SD submachine gun. Presently, their weapons were pointed down, and held with a relaxed grip. No threat was anticipated.

  Ellison stepped forward. “Welcome, sir. How was the flight?”

  “I
didn’t come here for idle chit chat,” Duss said. “You have Savage and the woman, Nadya Wheeler?”

  “Yes, sir. In the maintenance depot.”

  Duss folded himself into the passenger seat of the Humvee while Ellison and his two men climbed into the back seat. It was tight, shoulder-to-shoulder, but the ride would be short.

  With a squeal of brakes, the Humvee stopped at the depot. One of the bodyguards held the door open for Duss to enter, Ellison one step behind his boss. Once inside, Duss stood to the side, allowing Ellison to take the lead.

  He strode to the end of the hallway, followed closely by his three guards and Duss. As Ellison rounded the corner, he froze. The closest guard almost walked into him, stopping only inches away.

  “What is it, boss?” one of the guards asked.

  “Where is Kennor?” Ellison said.

  The guards looked at each other, as confused as Ellison was.

  “Get the rest of the men.” Ellison motioned in the direction of the rec room, and one of the guards dashed off. The other two mercenaries tightened the hold on their weapons and locked eyes on Ellison, awaiting orders.

  “Mr. Duss. I suggest you wait here.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I left Kennor here at the door.”

  Duss glared back at Ellison, his eyes narrowed and jaw set.

  The sound of boots on tile echoed off the hard walls and soon all of Ellison’s bodyguards—10 in total—were gathered outside the double steel doors. All were former military, now professional guns for hire. They no longer pledged their allegiance to country or ideals; their loyalty now was to a paycheck.

  “Has anyone seen Kennor?” Ellison asked the assembly.

  Ten faces stared back in silence.

  “You led me to believe,” Duss said, his voice menacing, “that the situation was under control.”

  “Jackson and Nye, you stay with Mr. Duss. The rest of you will enter the maintenance bay with me. Weapons ready. I don’t know how Savage and Wheeler could have escaped, but we aren’t taking any chances.”