24 Declassified: 10 - Head Shot

by David S. Jacobs

  Armstrong’s panting gasps were sometimes interrupted by shouted remarks that reached Jack in bits and pieces like garbled transmissions.

  He thought of that hoary comedy cliché, the one where a couple of drunks hold each other up as they stagger and reel from lamppost to lamppost. That’s what he, Armstrong, and Bailey would have looked like to a stranger’s eyes. Not so funny when you were living it.

  Another junction point. Armstrong seemed to take forever to find the green arrow marker while Jack kept Bailey on his feet. Jack told himself that that was okay, better she should take her time and get it right rather than make a mistake that would send them up a blind alley. The trouble was that Bailey’s legs kept folding at the knees and he’d start sliding down the wall, forcing Jack to expend more effort to keep him upright.

  It was a relief when Armstrong took her place beside Bailey, lessening some of the weight on Jack. They lurched forward, resuming their stumbling, swaying stagger along the tunnel.

  Jack’s hearing was returning, the roaring muting down to a continuous low murmur like surf breaking on an unseen shore. It counterpointed the sounds of their passage, the heavy breathing, gasps, and groans, the foot- dragging shuffle of their forward march.

  An eternity of slogging and heaving brought them to a third junction. Jack shook his head, stifling a groan. It wasn’t fair to have come so far only to have to continue the ordeal. What of it? Fairness was irrelevant, only facts mattered. The fact was that they must go on.

  Wasn’t there some character in Greek myth whose punishment for offending the gods was something like this? Only he was condemned to roll a rock up and down hills for all time. Jack had it better than him, he told himself. At least he didn’t have to climb any hills.

  Pick them up and put them down. Jack couldn’t help resenting Frith and Sanchez. They must know what had happened. Where were they? Why hadn’t they come to help?

  Never mind about that. Just keep moving.

  The airborne murk was starting to thin out as it streamed ahead. It was like a river made up of many currents of different hues, some light, some dark, all of them intertwining and writhing, coming together and splitting apart on their journey to the same destination.

  There was light ahead, a pale glow shimmering off in the dim distance. The tunnel brightened to a kind of ashen sooty dusk. A pair of figures were outlined at the far end of the milky, smoke-strewn brightness.

  It took a minute for Jack to realize that the duo was Frith and Sanchez and the glow was, literally, the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Armstrong called out to them, a wordless cry. She was answered by a series of flat muffled cracks from outside. Jack’s hearing had recovered to the point where he was able to recognize them as gunfire.

  Frith and Sanchez turned at the sound of her voice. They crouched sheltering behind the tunnel’s rock walls, pointing their weapons at the gap in the wooden barrier. Smoke and dust poured steadily out through the opening. A large number of holes in the barrier let in beams of sunlight. Bullet holes.

  More flat cracks sounded from outside, punching fresh holes through the boards and ricocheting off rock walls.

  Frith said, “Get down! We’re under attack!”

  Jack heard that. He got down. So did Armstrong and Bailey. All three of them more or less collapsed at the same time, tumbling to the tunnel floor. Which was just as well. It was safer down there. For the moment.

  Frith gave the trio a rundown on the situation: “Holtz said, ‘That’s funny.’ That’s all, just ‘That’s funny.’ That’s the last message we received from him on the headset. He didn’t respond after that. He must’ve noticed something wrong but too late to do anything about it. There was no sound of a shot being fired. We found out why later.

  “The blast came a few minutes later. A cloud of smoke and dust came out of the tunnel. It got so thick in here that we couldn’t breathe so Sanchez and I got out. We went out on the ledge. That smoke saved our lives. It caused the shooter up top to miss his shot. Or shots. We don’t know how many he fired before he tagged Sanchez.”

  Sanchez glanced over his shoulder at Jack, Arm-strong, and Bailey where they sat on the tunnel floor with their backs to the wall. His face and clothes were blackened with dirt and soot, just like the rest of the group. He grinned, said, “I got hit in the back and knocked down but my Kevlar vest saved me from worse. Gave me a hell of a jolt, though.”

  Frith went on, “Some falling rocks almost hit me. The shooter must have knocked them over the edge while he was angling for a better shot. I looked up and saw him. He was leaning way over trying to get a bead on me. He made a nice fat target. I got him first. He fell off. You can see his body sprawled out on one of the ledges down there. But don’t try. Stick your head out and his playmates will try to shoot it off.”

  Anne Armstrong said, “How many are there?”

  “About ten I’d say, at least to start with. They popped up in the rocks at the bottom of the hill right after the shooter fell. I guess they’d been there for a while but the first we knew about it was when they opened fire. I don’t mind telling you that it got pretty hot out on that ledge! We ducked back in here for cover. It’s hard to breathe with all this crap in the air but it beats not breathing at all.”

  Sanchez said, “We got two of them, so that leaves about eight, give or take a corpse.”

  Jack was checking his pistol to make sure that it was undamaged by the blast. It seemed to be working fine. He was eager to put it into action.

  Frith said, “That first shooter had a silenced rifle, of course. That’s why we didn’t hear anything when Holtz was shot or when he was using Sanchez for target practice. The others down below don’t give a good damn how much noise they make. Why not? Nobody around to hear them.”

  Bailey sat slumped against the wall, hugging his middle. His chin rested on top of his chest. He raised his head a little, said, “The one up top . . . How— how’d he get there?” His voice was a harsh croak.

  Frith said, “He must’ve been up there all the time. He sure as hell didn’t drive or walk up, Holtz would have seen him coming from a mile off.”

  Jack said, “That’s why Holtz had to go first. The Zealots probably had a man in place the whole time serving as a spotter. There’s plenty of places on the hilltop to hide out. He was probably watching us the whole time we were searching the site.”

  Frith nodded. “That’s how I read it. He must’ve sent for reinforcements when we found the bus.”

  Bailey said, “Our radios don’t work in the canyon. Why his?”

  Anne Armstrong said, “Probably because it’s not a radio. A satellite phone could do it.”

  Bailey said, “That’s a good one. He’s got a sat-phone and we don’t. He can call for help but we can’t. Those CTU budget cuts will be the death of us yet. What a joke—a sick joke.” He laughed without mirth, his laughter a harsh crow’s caw. His face contorted with pain; he bit down on his lip to keep from crying out until the spasm passed.

  Sanchez said, “Write a letter to your congressman to complain.”

  Bailey forced a weak grin. “I would . . . if I thought he could read.”

  Frith said, “We didn’t know what happened to you three. Thought the blast might have got you. Glad you made it back in one piece.”

  Jack said, “Somebody—most likely the shooter who got Holtz—tossed a bundle of TNT down the shaft to cover up the evidence.”

  Sanchez said, “What evidence?”

  “A mass grave at the bottom of the pit. We found the missing Zealots. There had to have been twenty bodies there, maybe more.”

  Sanchez frowned, puzzled. “Then who are the guys shooting at us now?”

  “That’s the big question.”

  Bailey said, “Why don’t you go ask ’em, Sanchez?”

  Frith lay in a prone firing position on the tunnel floor, pointing his rifle downhill. The figure of an armed man darted out from behind a boulder and ran toward the slope. Frith s
queezed the trigger. The figure fell sprawling and lay motionless on a piece of open ground. Frith put another round in him to make sure. He said, “Got one!”

  An instant later the dead man’s teammates loosed a fusillade at the tunnel mouth. The shooters were scattered in a loose arc among a jumble of boulders and slabs at the bottom of the hill. Some were armed with rifles and others with machine gun pistols of the Mac–10 variety. They had a lot of firepower.

  Frith and Sanchez wriggled backward, covering behind rock ribs and outcroppings. Rounds ventilated the remnants of the plank barrier. The real danger came from ricochets that bounced off the inside of the tunnel. The shooters didn’t have the proper range and the rounds angled away into the tunnel leaving the defenders unharmed.

  The death of one of their own provoked a prolonged outburst. The racketing rattle of assault rifles and machine pistols on autofire sounded like a street crew of jackhammer operators at work.

  The shooting subsided, falling silent except for an occasional potshot. Frith and Sanchez bellied back into position and scanned the slope. Frith was on the east side of the tunnel mouth, Sanchez the west. A flicker of motion in the corner of his right eye caught Sanchez’s attention and he swung the gun muzzle toward it but held his fire.

  He said, “One of them’s working his way up the west ridge. He took cover before I could get a bead on him.”

  More shots popped from below. Frith said, “They use that covering fire to change position, move in and up. A couple of shooters are higher up the slope now.” Jack noticed an M–4 standing propped up against the wall near Sanchez. It was Bailey’s weapon, the one he’d left behind before going on the tunnel probe. The ammo pouch stood beside it. “That M–4 functional?”

  Frith said, “Should be.”

  Jack said, “Let’s get some more firepower into play.”

  Bailey rested a clawlike hand on Jack’s shoulder. He said, “You take it. I’m not much good now—all busted up inside.”

  “Hang on. We’ll get you to a medic.”

  “Sure.” Bailey smiled with his lips.

  Jack low-crawled across the tunnel floor to the other side. He sat with his back to the wall with legs extended. He slung the ammo pouch over his shoulder, picked up the M–4, and examined it. It checked out okay. He said, “What’s the plan?”

  Anne Armstrong said, “We can’t just sit here and try to wait them out. It’ll be a long time before help arrives. Central doesn’t know we’re in danger. We’ve been relatively safe so far because the attackers are too far down to do much damage. The angle of their line of fire is too steep. But if they get higher up on the slope and flank us they’ll be in a position to shoot us to pieces with the ricochets. If we retreat deeper into the tunnel to avoid it, they’ll be able to come even closer.”

  Frith said, “They know it. They use each burst of covering fire to climb the ledges.”

  Sanchez said, “They’ve definitely got a couple of guys on the west ridge. I see ’em moving but they take cover before I can get a shot at ’em.”

  Jack said, “Another thing. Sooner or later the forensics team from CTU/DENV will be arriving here. We can’t let them come unsuspecting into a massacre.”

  Armstrong said, “What do you suggest?”

  “It’s been my experience that the aggressor usually has the advantage. We need to regain the initiative. Let’s make a breakout.”

  “I agree.” Frith said, “I’m always in favor of taking the fight to the other guy. But what about Bailey?”

  Bailey’s harsh laugh sounded, followed by a coughing fit. Blood flecks splattered his mouth and chin. A half minute passed before he was able to speak. “Forget about me. I’m excess baggage. If we stay put, I’m sunk anyway. If you make a break I’ve got a chance. We all do.”

  Silence fell. A short-lived silence that was quickly broken by a ragged series of shots from below. Sanchez squeezed off a quick burst at a figure breaking cover on the west ridge but missed. The figure ducked down behind a rockpile that was a bit higher up.

  Bailey looked Jack in the face, then Armstrong. He said, “Like I said before we went in the tunnel, I’m expendable. More now than ever. These are the cold, hard facts so don’t argue. Leave me with an extra pistol and some clips. If any of those bastards make it this far, I’ll give them a warm welcome.

  “Don’t delay. The longer you wait the less your chances get.”

  He was right and they knew it. Armstrong said, “It might already be too late if they’ve got people on the hilltop. They might be there if the shooter who got Holtz and the dynamiter are two different people.”

  Jack said, “We’ll just have to risk it. Otherwise they will get some shooters up there for sure and have us caught in a high- low crossfire that’ll kill any chance of a breakout.”

  Frith said, “This being pinned down works both ways. They’ve got us holed up here but Sanchez and I did the same thing to them. None of this bunch has been able to circle around to the east. I tagged the one who tried.”

  Sanchez said, “There’s plenty of cover we can use on the ledges. Woodpiles, fallen rocks, tumble-down shacks, all kinds of crap.”

  Jack said, “Best use it while we can, before they do.”

  It was decided. All that remained were the tactics. Jack and Armstrong took quick turns scanning the slope, noting strong points and weak links. A stack of old timbers stood on the ledge a stone’s throw east of the tunnel mouth. The next stepped tier below this ledge featured a rusted ore bucket, a steel-wheeled hopper the size of a compact car. It lay on its side on the west side of the terrace.

  A quick plan of assault was made, finalized. Jack and Sanchez would make for the ore car, Armstrong and Frith for the timber stack. Jack and Sanchez had M–4s; Frith had the M–16, and Armstrong armed herself with a second pistol, Frith’s sidearm, in addition to the one she was carrying. The thinking was that the M–16’s capacity for shooting at long range and close quarters would compensate for the lesser firepower of the pistols. Bailey had his own pistol and Sanchez’s. He and Armstrong equipped themselves with pocketfuls of spare clips.

  Jack said, “Something else we’ve got working for us. They think all they’ve got to buck is two guns, Frith and Sanchez. They don’t know about Anne and me. That gives us an element of surprise plus added firepower.”

  Frith said, “When do we go?”

  “After their next burst of covering fire. I’ll go first.”

  Armstrong and Frith dragged Bailey to the cover of the east side of the tunnel mouth near the entrance. Bailey’s face was dead white where it showed between the soot and grime streaking his face. He grinned through gritted teeth, gave them the thumbs- up sign.

  Frith and Sanchez loosed a few rounds down the slope to stir up the opposition. The enemy returned fire in earnest, burning off another sizzling fusillade. Shooters popped up from behind rocks and out of ditches to sling lead at the tunnel, betraying their location by doing so. They had advanced a lot higher uphill; the nearest were only two ledges below. A pair scaling the west ridge were nearly level with the ledge below the tunnel.

  Some laid down covering fire while others worked their way farther up toward their objective. The shooting fell off once the climbers took cover.

  Jack readied to make his move. The bomb blast and the tortuous trek back from the shaft had taken their toll on him, but his innate vitality and peak physical condition had helped restore some of his energies. So did the prospect of immediate action.

  Frith and Sanchez opened fire, Frith selecting the nearest shooters on the eastern half of the slope, Sanchez focusing on the pair on the west ridge. Their targets had already gone to cover and there was next to no chance of hitting them. The purpose of shooting at them was to keep them pinned down so they couldn’t fire at Jack when he made his breakout.

  Frith said, “Go!”

  Jack jumped out of the hole in the barrier, bent almost double as he angled west across the ledge with the M–4 in his hands. His appe
arance took the enemy by surprise. He reached the point on the ledge above the ore cart on the next terrace down before somebody took a shot at him. It missed.

  Others recovered their wits and began popping away. Shots cracked, rounds whizzing through empty air around Jack to bury themselves in the hillside.

  The slope to the terrace below declined at about a thirty- degree angle. Jack jumped off the ledge feet-first, throwing himself over the side. He slid down the hillside like a runner sliding into home base in a race to keep from being tagged out. It was a long slide. He set off a mini- landslide of falling rocks and dirt during the descent.

  The ore cart lay on its side with its open hopper facing the slope. It was orange- brown with rust but the sides of the hopper were several inches thick and its base was about twelve inches thick, not including the undercarriage with its trucks and sets of grooved wheels.

  One of the duo on the west ridge was so provoked by Jack’s ploy that he rose up from behind a rock to point a rifle at him to line up a shot. Sanchez had been waiting for just such an opportunity and squeezed off a three-round burst, chopping the rifle-man before he could fire.

  Jack’s feet hit the ledge below and then he went into a roll, a shoulder roll that took him across the terrace toward the shelter of the ore car. Lines of lead zigzagged the slope behind him, kicking up dust and cutting down small bushes and scraggly dwarf trees growing out of the hillside.