The Line bo-2

by Bob Mayer

  “What did you take from the cemetery?”

  “What are you talking about?” Trace said.

  “What did you take from the cemetery?” Marks repeated.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trace said.

  “I was doing a test flight and hit those wires and crashed.

  I’ve been trapped here and—”

  “You stole this helicopter from Target Hill Field after digging up something at Custer’s grave,” Marks said.

  “What did you dig up?”

  “I don’t know—” Trace finished the sentence with a scream as Marks slammed the blunt end of the ax into her ribcage. She tried to control her breathing with short gasps, as each breath caused the broken ribs to discharge mini explosions of pain.

  “What did you take from the cemetery?” Marks continued, the ax poised.

  “I didn’t take anything,” Trace gasped.

  Marks pulled back the ax for another blow. The left side of his head disintegrated as two 9mm rounds ripped through it, and his body was flung into the back cargo compartment.

  Karlen whirled, bringing his pistol up to bear.. He was still searching for a target as a line of 9mm subsonic rounds stitched a tight and neat pattern from his lower right stomach and up across his chest. The impact of the bullets slammed him against the Plexiglas in front of Trace, his blood forming a grotesque pattern as he slid down to ground, a look of surprise still on his face.

  Trace watched, still trying to breath shallowly, as a large figure materialized out of the edge of the swamp like a ghost, his black skin glistening from the sweat of his efforts running here, after hearing the scream.

  “You all right, missy?”

  “Harry,” Trace whispered.

  Harry came up, letting the MP5 hang on its sling. He took the ax out of Mark’s dead hand.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Overhead Major Quincy was still stunned at the rapid death of his two comrades. Isaac turned the helicopter, putting some distance between themselves and the large black madman with the submachine gun.

  Quincy finally reacted, keying the mike.

  “Gray Six, this is Five. Over.”

  “This is Six. Go ahead. Over.”

  “They’re dead. Gray Four is dead. There’s some man down there, working in the wreckage. She’s still alive.

  Over.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Keep them in sight. I’ll get help to you ASAP. Out.”

  Harry ignored the helicopter. It was an unarmed OH-58, and there was no place close around to land. They could fly around up there all day and beat their meat as far as he was concerned. He figured he had about thirty minutes before they got someone new out here on the ground and whoever it was wouldn’t be as cocky as these two assholes had been.

  He levered the ax handle between the edge of the seat just to the left of Trace’s leg and the panel. Leaning back he strained, watching the wood carefully, hoping the metal would move before the wood broke. With a slight noise, the panel moved a quarter of an inch. He heard Trace suck in her breath.

  “Sorry, miss, but it’s going to hurt getting this off you.”

  “Shit,” Trace said.

  “Only hurts when I laugh.”

  Harry smiled. Biceps bulging, he exerted pressure and now the panel moved back, until a good four inches of space appeared above her legs.

  Harry did a quick primary medical survey of Trace, making sure that he wouldn’t do any permanent or fatal damage by moving her.

  “We need the diary,” Trace said when he was done. She pointed out its hiding place and Harry tucked it into the back of his pants.

  Tenderly, he scooped her up in his arms. Trying to be as smooth as possible her carried her out of the helicopter and headed back for his car, the helicopter buzzing overhead like an annoying mosquito.

  Harry’s internal clock was working, judging reaction times versus road distances. It was going to be close.

  “Can you take a bit more pain?” he asked.

  “Do whatever it takes,” Trace replied.

  Harry carefully shifted her to an over-the-shoulder carry, then he began to jog. Despite his best efforts, every footfall was agony to Trace, jarring the broken bones in her leg and ribcage. She squeezed her eyes closed and went into the suspended time mode she had learned as a plebe at West Point — you were somewhere you didn’t want to be, doing something you didn’t want to do, but sihce you had no choice, you learned to zone out from reality. Trace tried as best she could but she’d never experienced pain like this and was very grateful when Harry halted at the car and lowered her into the passenger seat. She wanted to lean over to ease the pain in her ribs, but Harry insisted on buckling the shoulder belt on her. He got in and briefly consulted the map.

  “Gray Six, this is Four. Subjects are in a black El Camino open-bed wagon. Over.”

  “Stay with them. Four. Let me know which way they go. Out.”

  Spitting gravel, the tires of the El Camino spun onto the road. Harry turned the hood west along Proctoria Road.

  Trace watched the scenario and realized they were following the route used for the Recondo Run — a two and half mile run in full gear with rucksack that occurred at the end of Recondo training, the last hurdle to getting the Recondo patch. Trace remembered finishing the run with blood oozing through the socks inside her boots, barely able to stand for the entire following week, but she’d finished it. She knew now some of the reason for such brutal training-because there would be times when you would have to ask your body to do things it normally did not want to do and the more you stressed-it, the more you found out you could do so much more than you ever thought possible.

  Harry stayed with Proctoria Road, passing the turnoff for OP Charlie and splitting the gap between the ridgelines.

  Central Valley was spread out below them with the New York Thruway bisecting it a mile and a half away. The ground dropped off, losing 500 feet of altitude down to the valley floor.

  The helicopter was above, having an easy time tracking them. Harry roared past the open field next to Lake Frederic whej-e Plebes camped out every year at the end of Beast Barracks and exited the military reservation onto Mineral Springs Road. He spun a right and drove through the small township of Woodbury, the helicopter gaining altitude but still following.

  Clearing the built-up area. Harry floored it, knowing he couldn’t beat the aircraft but hoping to put distance between himself and whatever ground elements the aircraft was directing.

  He knew there would be no local law enforcement officials. This was a private war.

  He cut over to the road next to the thruway, following it for several miles. First chance he got, he crossed over a bridge to the north side of the thruway. The entire western horizon was filled up with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain, an eight-mile ridge that crested out over 1,700 feet high. The Erie Lackawanna Railroad curved around the north side of the ridge, and Harry followed the hardtop pavement that did the same loop.

  “They’re going north.” Major Quincy was rumbling with the pilot chart — the only map they had.

  “Toward Washington ville. Over.”

  “What road? Over.”

  “Shit,” Quincy muttered. It wasn’t marked on the map.

  “Around to the north of this big mountain,” he replied, knowing that answer was insufficient.

  “Stay with them. I’ve got a unit leaving post right now.”

  The radio went silent.

  “They’ll never catch them,” Isaac said to his partner.

  “They’re too far behind — post is about twenty to thirty minutes back.

  We’ve only got another hour’s worth of fuel, and it’s going to be dark soon.”

  “Then we need to stop them,” Quincy decided.

  “First open area they hit, try to get down and block the road.”

  Isaac glanced at his partner to see if he was serious.

  “That guy has got a
n automatic weapon, and he’s willing to use it.”

  Quincy drew an M-16 from the backseat of the helicopter and pulled back the charging handle.

  “Then I guess I’d better shoot first.”

  Harry slammed on the brakes, expertly spun the steering wheel, and they were heading southeast, with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain now off to the left.

  “Where are we going?” Trace asked.

  “We’re trying to lose this helicopter,” Harry replied.

  “Then we get going somewhere.”

  The roads had all been lined with trees, but now they suddenly burst out into an open stretch, about 800 meters long, and the helicopter swooped in. A man leaned out’ the left side, M-16 in hand.

  Harry slammed on the brakes, then just as quickly punched the accelerator, causing Trace to yelp from the sudden pain of being slammed first against the seat belt, then back against the seat.

  “Sorry, missy,” Harry said as they shot underneath the helicopter, the skids barely five feet over the roof of the car, the pilot reacting too late. They were back in the shelter of the trees.

  “Get down, right above those fuckers,” Quincy ordered.

  “I’ll stop them.” He leaned out the left door, hooking his arm through the seat belt to steady himself as he tried to get aim on the car.

  Isaac brought the helicopter down as low as he could, concentrating on the trees whirring up toward them and by below.

  Quincy fired a three-round burst. It was impossible to see where the bullets had gone, but he knew for sure that he had missed.

  “Lower!” he ordered.

  Trace looked out ahead, then twisted her head. The man was leaning out, looking like he was firing at them. She looked ahead again.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Harry grinned, seeing what she saw.

  Isaac never saw it until it was too late. He was concentrating on the immediate danger of the trees just below.

  “Jesus!” Isaac screamed. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds, not sure whether to try to go over or if he could make it between two of the massive steel girder supports of the New York City Aqueduct which loomed across the valley floor, blocking the entire way up over 200 feet.

  It really didn’t matter that he froze. He could have never made it over and there wasn’t room to pass between. The blades struck first, a fraction of a second before the nose of the helicopter impacted with a steel girder.

  From a forward speed of over seventy miles an hour to zero, the helicopter compressed into the unyielding steel girder, the shattered pieces flying about, littering the valley floor for hundreds of feet.

  “Now we go,” Harry said, not bothering to stop to admire the wreckage.

  “Where?” Trace asked, no longer capable of being surprised by anything.

  He drove hard.

  “Colonel Rison’s place, missy.”

  After putting a dozen miles between them and the crash site, he pulled over. Pulling a military-issue first aid kit from behind his seat, he quickly bandaged Trace up as best he could.

  “The ribs will have to heal on their own. Try not to laugh too much, eh, missy?”

  “I’ll try,” Trace said..

  “We got a long ride. Let me give you a shot for the pain.”

  Trace was in no mood to object.

  Harry smoothly slid the needle in and pushed the plunger.

  “This will help you sleep.”

  Trace was too tired to ask again and too tired to be irritated at the lack of a clear answer as to the destination.

  She could already feel the effects of whatever was in the needle. She leaned her head back against the headrest and was unconscious within seconds.

  In the superintendent’s office back at the Academy, Hooker put down the now-silent radio. He sat still for a few moments, then looked up at his aide.

  “You take charge here. Try to track them down. I need to go to Hawaii immediately.”

  CHAPTER 20

  WAIWA. HA WAN

  4 DECEMBER

  10:00 A.M.LOCAL 2000 ZULU

  A day had passed, and Boomer was ready to explode on all fronts. No word from Trace — Skibicki had checked with Maggie. They had taken no action here, which meant the whatever The Line had planned was going along quite well without their interference.

  “I’m worried about Trace,” Boomer said.

  “She would have checked in by now. Something must have gone wrong.”

  “I’m worried, too,” Skibicki said.

  “There’s a hell of a lot at stake here. More than just the safety of Major Trace.

  She’s got the proof and with Colonel Rison dead, we’re up shit’s creek.”

  “Is there any other information you have that might be helpful?” Boomer asked. Skibicki had gone over to Fort Shafter the previous evening and, without going to the tunnel, had checked in with some friends to see what was going on.

  “ADDS from Special Warfare Group One is missing along with a Mark IX Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. No one knows who’s got it,” Skibicki said.

  “You mean the SEALS who own it don’t know where it went?” Boomer asked incredulously.

  “Roger that,” Skibicki said.

  “Someone from Pacific Fleet came in and loaded it up on a cargo truck and wheeled it away. They could have taken it anywhere and mounted it on the Sam Houston.”

  “But isn’t the Sam Houston controlled by Navy Special Ops?” Boomer asked.

  Skibicki shook his head.

  “Negative. All those ships are under control of Fleet Headquarters. My buddies in Navy Spec Ops have no idea where the Sam Houston is.”

  “So it looks like your idea about the DDS and SDV is correct,” Boomer said.

  “We got to go to someone,” Vasquez said.

  “There’s an advance security detail from the Secret Service here already,” Boomer said.

  “I suggest we go to them and tell them what has happened so far.”

  “We might as well pack our bags for a prison stay, then,” Skibicki said.

  “Or are you forgetting those two men we killed out at Kaena Point?”

  “Like you said — this is bigger than Trace; this is also bigger than us,” Boomer replied.

  “We know something’s going on. Let’s turn it over to people who can handle it better than we can. We agreed last night that if we didn’t hear from Trace we would act.”

  “But if they don’t believe us, we end up in prison, and that leaves no one out here in the real world who knows about the plot and can try to do something about it,” Skibicki countered.

  “What can someone do by themselves?” Boomer asked.

  “Well, we could have fucked up their jump into the island,” Skibicki said.

  “Maybe with a little better idea of what we’re up against, we can do a better job. We can’t go out to sea to check out these subs, but if they’re planning anything in Pearl Harbor we can go down there and check things out.”

  Skibicki closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them his mind was made up.

  “All right. I agree someone has to go to the Secret Service, but only if someone stays out here in the real world and does the best they can to stop this thing if the Secret Service doesn’t react in time.”

  Boomer could read between the lines.

  “I guess that means this’someone’ “—he pointed at himself—“goes to the Secret Service, and that’someone’ ” he — pointed at Skibicki—“stays out here.”

  “Pretty good figuring for a West Pointer,” Skibicki said, slapping him on the back.

  “Take me downtown,” Boomer said.

  OAHU, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

  4 DECEMBER

  11:00 A.M.LOCAL 2100 ZULU

  “Excuse me, the lady at the front desk said you were with the Secret Service, and I need to talk to you.”

  Stewart looked over the man who had approached him from across the lobby and decided he didn’t like what he saw. Whoever he was, thi
s man spelled trouble — the eyes that were flickering around the lobby, taking in everything, the untucked shirt with slight bulge underneath the right shoulder that suggested a concealed weapon and, most importantly, the uneasy feeling Stewart picked up. an instinct that he’d learned to trust.

  “I’m Agent Stewart. How can I help you?” Stewart edged sideways, looking over the man’s shoulder. The rest of the lobby was clear, and Stewart could see two of his men watching them carefully, so he felt somewhat more at ease.

  Boomer dug out his special Federal ID and showed it to Stewart.

  “Major Boomer Watson, Delta Force.”

  Oh shit, Stewart thought. Not a gunslinger from Bragg.

  He’d dealt with Delta before and had not enjoyed the experience.

  He hadn’t been told that any of them were going to be involved here.

  “Special Agent Mike Stewart. Presidential security detail.

  What can I do for you?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Boomer asked.

  Stewart checked his watch. He had an appointment with his counterpart in the Honolulu PD in thirty minutes.

  “Reference?” ‘

  “Reference security for the President’s trip,” Boomer replied.

  “I’ve got a meeting in thirty minutes,” Stewart said.

  “You need to be more specific. I wasn’t briefed that your unit had any jurisdiction or responsibility here on the island.”

  “We don’t,” Boomer acknowledged.

  “I’m not here in an official capacity. I showed you my ID to let you know I am legitimate.”

  “What can I do for you?” Stewart asked, weary of the roundabout conversation.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Boomer asked.

  Stewart frowned. There was something familar about the man.

  “I roomed with your second detail Beast squad leader,” Boomer said.

  “You’re class of’eighty-one?” Stewart asked.

  “Third company in Beast?”

  “Right.”

  “So — I repeat my question — what can I do for you?”

  “Can we talk somewhere private?” Boomer repeated.