The Line bo-2

by Bob Mayer

  “Is there anything you would like to ask General Martin?”

  Boomer could see Martin’s face go red at the thought of answering questions from some lowly major. He didn’t understand this setup — why tip your hand to the enemy, even if you’re not sure they’re the enemy?

  Having served in the military for half his life, Boomer was amazed sometimes at the different perspective civilians used to face problems.

  “Sir,” he said, addressing Jordan, “I’m sure you have already asked all the pertinent questions.”

  “Young man,” Senator Jordan said, “you have confessed to us that you have committed two acts that would be viewed as criminal in nature: your actions in the Ukraine, and here on this island in the death of two men.

  I would suggest you take a bit more interest in the situation.”

  “What do you think he’s going to tell me?” Boomer asked, the irritation plain in his voice. He knew he was so far gone over the line now that nothing mattered.

  “Do you think General Martin is going to say, “Well, certainly, I was aware that the Delta Force mission into the Ukraine was designed to kill the NATO inspectors and embarrass this administration’s policy in that matter?”

  “Major, you’d better watch your tone,” Martin said. He looked at Jordan.

  “As you just said, this man is the one with the problem. He’s the one who has apparently confessed to breaking the law and committing murder—” As Martin ranted. Boomer suddenly realized what was going on. It wasn’t at all what a military man would do.

  But Jordan didn’t view this as a military situation — he apparently thought it was a political one. The modern soldier rarely saw his opponent face-to-face. The fight was conducted from a distance. Even if you were in a foxhole four feet from your foe, you didn’t exactly stand up and look him in the eyes. But in politics you always looked the people you dealt with in the eye. It was the way the battle was waged. He realized that Jordan was watching the two of them and evaluating.

  All that was fine and well inside this room. Boomer thought, but when the President went out to Pearl on the morning of the seventh they were going to be on very different turf with a very different set of rules.

  Bullets didn’t argue niceties. They were final.

  General Martin had finished and stood to leave.

  “Do you know General Benjamin Hooker, class of ‘thirty, sir?” Boomer asked suddenly.

  “He was head of the history department at the Academy for quite a few years.”

  Martin paused and looked at Boomer.

  “What does that have to do with anything we’ve discussed in this room, Major?”

  “I believe General Hooker is a member of The Line, and I want to know if you are in communication with him.”

  “You want to know?” Martin asked incredulously. He turned to Jordan.

  “I don’t have to put up with this. I have always paid you the utmost respect. Senator, but I do not need to sit here and listen to this crap.”

  “I want your word that none of what Major Watson said is true,” Senator Jordan said.

  “I said it wasn’t true,” Martin said.

  “I want your word,” Jordan repeated.

  “As an officer in the United States Army, you have my word,” Martin said.

  “I want the Sam Houston to immediately be ordered into port. I want any Army units participating in exercises on Oahu to return to their barracks. You will place all records of Delta Force operations for the past three months on my desk before close of business today. Is that clear?”

  “You don’t have the authority—” Martin began, but Jordan cut him off.

  “Do you want me to go to the President and get him to order it?”

  Martin changed tack.

  “Sir, those Delta Force records are—”

  “Close of business today,” Jordan said.

  Martin nodded.

  “Certainly, sir.” He leaned forward and put his hands on Jordan’s desk.

  “But I want something in return.”

  “And that is?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs pointed at Boomer.

  “I want him to go with me now. I don’t want him running around here causing trouble. He’s probably A.W.O.L., and I want him under the custody of the military.”

  Jordan nodded.

  “All right.”

  “Wait a second!” General Maxwell exclaimed.

  “You can’t do that.”

  Jordan blinked.

  “I can do any damn thing I want. Major Watson is military and as such is subject to the uniform code of military justice. We have to turn him over to the authorities sooner or later. I believe this issue has been resolved. I believe it will be best for all involved if we forget about everything that has happened the last several days.”

  Boomer was numb. He felt like a detached observer watching everything play out like he wasn’t involved at all.

  But when Martin escorted him to the door and two men in civilian clothes and military haircuts slapped handcuffs on him, he knew it wasn’t a dream.

  BENSON, NEW YORK

  5 DECEMBER

  1:30 P.M.LOCAL 1830 ZULU

  Consciousness returned to Trace on a tide of pain. Her leg throbbed uncontrollably. The pain in her chest was dependent on her breathing, but that being an essential bodily function, it was inevitable. She was flat on her back, and as her eyes slowly came into focus she saw a white ceiling above her head. She carefully turned her head. The room was painted off-white and the cheap dresser and small desk indicated that it had once been occupied by a child. The blinds on the window were closed, and she could see gray light all around the edges. The door opened, and Trace smiled as Harry walked into the room holding a glass of orange juice.

  “Glad to see you’re awake,” Harry said, setting the glass down on the small table next to the bed.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Lousy,” Trace said.

  “More specifically?” Harry asked as he lifted the sheet and looked at the large white cast. Trace was glad to see that someone had cut open the leg on her jeans, cleaned them and put them back on her.

  “Your leg?”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “It’s been set. Should heal fine,” Harry said.

  “Your ribs?”

  “Same. They hurt.” Trace remembered the captain with the ax, and suddenly tears came to her eyes and she sobbed, the movement causing pain to explode and leading directly into a gasp.

  “Easy now, easy,” Harry said, cradling her head in a massive hand.

  “You been through a rough time, missy, and you done damn well, but we got some more work to do.

  The tears and the feeling got to be held off for a while yet.

  I know what you’re going through. First time I came back from a mission it hit me hard, but I only let it hit me when I was back, and we ain’t back yet.”

  “The diary?” Trace asked.

  “Yeah, the diary,” Harry said.

  “I got it, and we need to get it in the right hands.”

  “I know who needs to see it,” she said. She told him about Boomer and Skibicki and the entire situation in Hawaii and he nodded when she was done.

  “Yeah, I know Ski. We served together, and I’ve been talking with him about this.” He rubbed his chin.

  “They ain’t got much time. Today’s the fifth,”

  “What about Colonel Rison?” Trace asked.

  “The colonel’s gone, miss. We got to do this ourselves.”

  He stood up.

  “Wait a second.” He left the room and was gone for a while before reappearing with a phone in his hand. He plugged it into a jack in the wall.

  “I got us a way to get to Hawaii, but we won’t get there until tomorrow.

  Do you think you’re up to traveling.”

  “I made it this far,” Trace said.

  Harry handed her the phone.

  “I think you ought to
call Hawaii.”

  Trace dialed and talked to Skibicki. She was surprised but relieved when he told her Boomer had gone to the authorities.

  At least it was out in the open now. She told Skibicki about what had happened at West Point and where she was, then handed the phone to Harry, who walked out of the room, still talking to the sergeant major.

  There was no packing to be done. Trace had only the clothes she’d had on when Harry had rescued her, with the addition of the cast on her leg and a tight bandage around her ribs. Harry had pulled up the blinds.

  The snow-covered hills of the Adirondacks beckoned outside. It was as abrupt a change from the green of Hawaii as possible and Trace stared out at it, as her mind tried to work over all that had happened in the past few days.

  She looked up as Harry came back in the room.

  “How did you find me?” she abruptly asked, one of many questions that were flitting about her brain like unsettled demons.

  “Find you?” he asked as he handed her the diary.

  “At West Point,” she clarified.

  “I got back in contact with Skibicki,” he said.

  “He told me to put the word out on the NCO network to look for you. The MPS at West Point spotted you and I got a call.

  I came there as quickly as possible and waited until you got uncovered.”

  Trace wasn’t satisfied.

  “Why didn’t you recover the diary?”

  “I didn’t know where it was,” Harry said, checking her cast and adjusting a set of crutches for her height.

  “Why not?”

  Harry paused and looked at her.

  “Because I was with the colonel and they knew that. All they’d have to do is snatch me, and one thing I learned a long time ago: everyone talks, all you have to do is apply the right pressure, physical or mental.”

  After her recent experience. Trace could most certainly agree with that.

  Harry continued.

  “I didn’t know where the. letter was that the colonel gave you, but I imagine it was someplace that if anything happened to him, it would get into the right hands. Maybe there were copies of that letter.”

  “Where’s the colonel?” Trace asked.

  “I took him out of Philly and brought him back here.”

  Harry pointed out the window at the snow covered hills.

  “He’s buried where he always wanted to be buried. All I know now is we got the diary, and we got to get it to Hawaii.”

  “You haven’t been very specific on how we are going to do that,” Trace said.

  Harry cocked his head. Trace paused to listen. Even through the walls of the house she could hear a plane’s engine coming closer.

  “How are they going to land?” she asked, pointing out at the snow-covered hills and trees.

  Harry held out a hand, helping her to her feet.

  “You’ll see. Let’s be getting outside.” Trace fumbled with the crutches, but Harry made it easier, tucking them under one arm and lifting her with the other. He’d given her a down vest to put on and she was grateful for it as they stepped outside into the front yard.

  A twin-engine plane swooped in suddenly from over the hills to the south. Trace stared in amazement as it slowed and came to a hover directly overhead as the wings themselves rotated up, pointing the massive propeller blades up into the sky. She’d seen pictures of the V-22 Osprey but never been near one in person. It was much larger than she had imagined, and she was impressed with the way it slowly settled down into the driveway, the blades kicking up snow and causing her to duck her head and shield her eyes. The plane had no markings identifying it and Trace wondered who owned it — the last she had heard the military had opted not to purchase the multipurpose craft, a move violently opposed by the Special Operations community.

  A ramp in the rear came down, and Harry carried her on board. As he settled her down in the cargo web seating around the inside of the cargo bay, the ramp closed. The ramp swung shut and the pilots increased power, lifting the Osprey out of the snow and into the sky.

  As the wings rotated forward, the plane’s velocity increased, and it roared off to the west.

  FORT DERUSSY

  5 DECEMBER

  1:00 P.M.LOCAL 2300 ZULU

  “We’re moving you up to Schofield Barracks,” the agent said as he slapped the cuffs back on Boomer’s wrist.

  “We don’t want your friends to get any strange ideas about breaking you out.” Boomer had heard him called Lucas by one of the other men who had been guarding him, and he filed that information for possible later use.

  After being brought out of the Royal Hawaiian, Boomer had been taken to a secure room at the small MP station on Port Derussy for safekeeping.

  From what he had heard so far, these men knew about him, Skibicki, and Vasquez.

  He’d even heard one of the agents say something about Trace in New York.

  Boomer had no doubt now that The Line existed. He couldn’t believe Senator Jordan simply taking General Martin’s word. They were all insane with their complacency.

  These diplomats were too sure that the wheels of justice and normalcy would turn properly and everything would stay in its correct place, but Boomer knew better. He’d been there on that hillside in the Ukraine.

  He knew the men of The Line were willing to sacrifice innocent lives to achieve their goals.

  Of course. Boomer reminded himself, he’d been too complacent also.

  Waiting a day for Trace to surface with the diary, if that’s what she’d gone to West Point for. Expecting someone else to do something about The Line.

  Boomer twisted his hands inside the cuffs as Lucas led him to a waiting unmarked car. He pushed Boomer into the back seat and slid in beside him. Another man in civilian clothes was at the wheel. They didn’t look like cops, military or not, to Boomer. Both men had the hard set to their face that said they were professional soldiers who had seen action. Lucas took a pair of cuffs that had a foot-long chain in the middle and snapped one around each ankle, ensuring that Boomer could not run.

  “Let’s go, Mike,” Lucas ordered.

  As the car rolled out the main gate to Fort Derussy and turned west.

  Boomer tumbled the pieces in his mind: Keyes and the team from 1st Group probably hiding on the north shore; Colonel Decker in the tunnel; the Sam Houston somewhere off shore; General Martin and the Joint Chiefs ensconced at Pearl. Skibicki and Vasquez were now alone against an organization that seemed to be everywhere and know everything. Boomer was afraid to even think what may have happened to Trace.

  Boomer looked around. They couldn’t allow him to live.

  The thought made more sense than anything that had happened so far on this confused day.

  They were on I’ll and shortly made the turn onto H2, which ran up the center of the Hawaii to Schofield Barracks, home to the Army’s 25th Infantry Division. Boomer knew he didn’t have much time to act.

  He was surprised when they pulled off the highway well short of the exit for Schofield Barracks. They were on a dirt road that descended off the shoulder of H 1, then looped underneath it next to a stream. An old rusted sign read WAIKAKALAUA AMMO STORAGE TUNNELS SITE. The road was on low ground following the small stream, and the terrain rose steeply on either side.

  They passed a long-abandoned guard shack and entered the site. Row upon row of steel doors were cut into both hillsides. A few of the doors were askew, opening into dark tunnels. Others were padlocked.

  The entire area looked deserted.

  “No one’s going to find you for a long time,” Lucas said as he pulled up. to one of the open tunnels.

  Boomer didn’t bother to reply. Days of frustration snapped as he realized the depth of his predicament. He twisted and slammed both hands into Lucas’s face, stunning him. Before he could recover. Boomer looped the cuffs over Lucas’s head and pulled him in, increasing pressure on his throat.

  As Mike slammed on the brakes. Boomer used Lucas to anchor him as he
lifted his feet up over the driver’s seat headrest, splitting them to the maximum allowed by the chain, and then dropping his feet down on either side of Mike’s head. He flexed his hamstrings, and the chain grabbed hold of Mike’s neck and pulled him up against the headrest.

  Boomer tightened every muscle in his body, contracting like a snake as both men desperately struggled against the chains around their necks.

  He felt blows in his chest from Lucas while the driver tore at his ankles.

  The driver was the smarter of the two as it finally occurred to him after almost twenty seconds of getting choked to pull his gun. The problem was he had his back to Boomer and he couldn’t move because of the pressure against his neck. Mike twisted his arm and fired blindly.

  Boomer felt the bullet speed by his face, hearing it impact with flesh.

  His face was splattered with blood. Lucas went slack and Boomer maintained his pressure on Mike as he spared a glance to the other side of the back seat. The bullet had hit Lucas in the jaw and taken off most of the top of his head.

  Another shot and the bullet shattered the right rear passenger window.

  The gun finally fell from unconscious fingers, but Boomer maintained the pressure for another minute against the possibility of a ruse.

  Finally, he lifted his legs and brought them back into the back seat.

  He went through Lucas’s pockets, ignoring the blood that was soaking his clothes and retrieved the keys for the cuffs. Boomer unlocked himself. He took the gun out of Lucas’s shoulder holster, then the holster itself. A Berretta 92, military-issue.

  He strapped it on under his shirt. He checked just to verify — Lucas was carrying a DIA ID card just like the others had.

  Boomer got out of the backseat and opened the driver’s door. He checked for a pulse: none. Pushing the body over, Boomer took the wheel. He drove into the ammunition storage bunker between the open steel doors. The car narrowly fit through and he parked inside. He took the leg cuffs with him as he went back out. Shutting the doors.

  Boomer locked them with the leg cuffs, then threw the key into the stream.