Camel Club 01 - The Camel Club

by David Baldacci

  Reuben and Stone both handled their weapons expertly.

  “Nam, three tours and then DIA,” Reuben said in response to a curious look from Alex. “I know my way around a pistol.”

  “Good,” Alex said. He looked at Stone, who was checking his weapon.

  “You all right with that, Oliver?”

  “I’m fine,” Stone said quietly. Actually, he was terrified to have a gun in his hand after all these years.

  “In case we get split up for any reason, everybody got a cell phone?” Alex asked.

  “The signal probably won’t work well up here,” Reuben commented.

  “And once we get inside the building, there won’t be any transmission possible,” Stone said. “The building was constructed with copper and lead shielding.”

  “Great,” Alex said. “Okay, Oliver, lead the way.”

  They headed into the woods.

  “Does anyone have a problem with caves?” Stone asked as he halted the group at an entrance into the side of the mountain.

  “I have a real problem with getting lost and dying in one,” Alex said.

  “That won’t happen, but it does get a little snug in places.”

  “How snug?” Reuben asked anxiously. “I’m not exactly a little guy.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Stone reassured his friend.

  Alex stared into the pitch-black hole. “Is this the entrance to the building?”

  “It’s not one of the official entrances, but they’d be watching the official entrances, wouldn’t they?” Stone replied. “Okay, stay close to me.” He shone his light ahead and stepped inside.

  Simpson was the last to enter, and she clearly wasn’t very happy about this turn of events. She glanced around behind her, shivered and followed the others inside.

  It took them some time to navigate the curving passageways. In two spots they had to clear debris that had fallen down and blocked the way, and in several other locations they had to crawl through. Above them the ceiling creaked and groaned, prompting them to hurry along faster.

  They reached a shaft that had rough foot- and handholds carved into the rock. Stone went first. When he reached the top, he shone his light on a wall of black rock. However, when he tapped it, the wall was hollow. He felt along the wall, then carefully pushed on it until the section started giving way. Alex clambered up and helped him, and soon the wall had been pushed back.

  They all scrambled through the opening.

  The wall they had pushed out was wooden, but painted on the back side to look like rock. The other side of the wall, the one inside the building, had a shelf attached to it. Stone popped the wall back into place.

  Stone whispered, “Now, I think it would be wise for everyone to have their guns ready. We don’t know how close we might be to someone.”

  As they walked along, they looked around at the immensity of the place. And it was as though they had stepped back in time forty years. There were even ashtrays built into the stainless-steel walls.

  A few moments later loud noises echoed from somewhere, causing all except Stone to point their weapons in all directions.

  “It’s only birds that have gotten in,” he explained. “That happened in the old days too.”

  With those words Stone felt himself freeze. The old days. It sounded so innocuous, as though he were returning to his cherished alma mater for a reunion. This place had been his home for twelve months. A year of his life devoted 24/7 to learning the most precise and intricate ways to kill people. As a young man Oliver Stone had excelled in these surroundings and at that task. A Special Forces soldier, the transition to the CIA team had not been that difficult. He had traded one weapon for another, and his enemies became civilians who didn’t even know they were under attack. As a young man his successes in the field had made him a legend in the special ops world. As an older man he found it all too horrible to contemplate. He couldn’t believe that two such different men could inhabit the same body.

  As they walked along, memories kept flooding back to Stone. Every new sighting, every fresh smell or distant sound, brought with it a recollection of past horrors. The others would all be looking to him to lead them, perhaps to save them. And yet he had never been trained to save anyone. The sweat broke over Stone’s forehead. He had brought three people he cared much about to die here. On Murder Mountain.

  Reinke and Peters had driven to Murder Mountain after they’d heard Sharia’s claim that it had kidnapped Brennan, and then Acting President Hamilton’s televised demand. They left their car in a clearing and sprinted toward the woods. Passing through a narrow cleft in the trees, they reached another open area. Here a mass of fallen rock lay along with overgrown bushes. Picking their way around this barrier, a door was revealed when Peters drew aside a curtain of kudzu. Murder Mountain had been built right into the rock.

  Peters lifted a small metal cover on the door, revealing a button and loudspeaker.

  “It’s me and Tyler,” he said, talking into the loudspeaker. “Things are out of control. Hurry!”

  Reinke put the metal sheet back down and stepped back. As the massive door clicked open, three figures leaped from behind a pile of fallen rock. Tyler Reinke and Warren Peters dropped to the ground, their throats garroted. Captain Jack walked out from behind the rock and stood over them. He nodded approvingly. Reinke and Peters hadn’t even been able to make a sound to warn their colleague inside.

  A number of other men joined them and Captain Jack led them all into the building.

  CHAPTER

  65

  CAPTAIN JACK BROUGHT WITH him eleven North Koreans with well-earned reputations as killers of considerable skill and ruthlessness. It had been relatively easy to get them into the United States posing as South Koreans as part of a technology fact-finding program. Asians coming into the country didn’t inspire near the scrutiny that Middle Easterners did.

  However, despite his men’s murderous abilities, Captain Jack was also well aware of Tom Hemingway’s prowess, and he wisely chose to split up his crew keeping two men with him. Captain Jack had seen firsthand what Mr. Hemingway could do in a fight. Eight members of a Yemeni death squad had the misfortune of running into Hemingway while Captain Jack observed from a safe distance. It had been a slaughter. All eight Yemeni, each tough, hardened and armed, were dead within five minutes. Hemingway never even pulled his gun. He did it all with his hands and feet, moving with a speed, precision and power that Captain Jack—with all his world travels—had never before encountered.

  By now Hemingway would realize that something was wrong, and he would be coming for them. Separating his men would allow Captain Jack to wear Hemingway down, to outflank and finally surround him. There would be no hand-to-hand fighting. They would simply pour bullets into Hemingway.

  The ancient fluorescent lights overhead flickered and popped. Then a sudden flash of illumination caused Captain Jack and the North Koreans with him to cover their eyes.

  The first thing Captain Jack saw when he drew his hand away from his eyes was a foot that seemed to come right out of the wall. There was a thud and a grunt, and he watched one of his men topple headfirst to the floor. An instant later the other North Korean was being propelled backward with such force that he collided with Captain Jack, and they both went down in a tangle of arms and legs. His own training kicked in, and Captain Jack went flat to the floor, whipped his pistol around and fired an arc of shots in the direction of his assailant at the same time he drew out another pistol with his free hand. When the mag on his first gun emptied, he poured another line of shots from the second pistol in the same direction. However, his bullet struck nothing except wall.

  Captain Jack got to his feet, his hands working at the same time to reload his weapons as he struggled to catch his breath. Despite all his experience in killing people, the swiftness and ferocity of the attack had staggered him. He noticed that both his men were still down.

  Captain Jack used his foot to turn over the North Korean who’d sla
mmed into him. The man’s throat had been crushed so flat that he could see the bumps of his spinal column poking through the skin. Captain Jack touched his own throat, knowing full well that Hemingway might have easily killed him too. He looked at the other North Korean. The man’s nose had been crushed, its cartilage driven into his brain. It looked like he’d taken a cannonball flush in the face.

  “Jesus Christ,” Captain Jack muttered.

  He called out nervously, “Tom?” Captain Jack paused and then called out again. “Tom? That was pretty impressive, dispatching two first-class warriors in a couple seconds.” There was no answer. “Tom, I think you know why we’re here. Let us have him, and we can all walk away. And if you’re thinking you’re going to get backup from Reinke and Peters, think again. You’ll find them at the front door with their throats cut. So it’s just you against all of us. You can’t kill us all.”

  I certainly hope you can’t.

  Captain Jack jogged in the direction of his other men. He hoped to God Hemingway hadn’t gotten to them yet. Despite his confident words, Captain Jack was now wishing he’d brought a lot more North Koreans with him.

  In another room off the main corridor, Hemingway picked up a pair of crescent swords. He took a deep, meditative breath, turned and raced off. Murder Mountain would live up to its name tonight.

  When the shouts of the men reached them, Alex and the others retreated into a room off the main hall.

  “That wasn’t Hemingway’s voice,” Simpson said.

  “No, but whoever it is, he knows Hemingway’s in here, and apparently, Tom just killed two of the guy’s men,” Alex said. “So if Hemingway is here, the president may be too.”

  Stone checked his watch. “We have a little more than four hours to find out for sure.” He looked at each of them. “Okay, our best bet is to split up. That way if we’re ambushed, they can’t get all of us.”

  Stone drew Alex aside. “This place has a number of training rooms that you need to be aware of.”

  “Training rooms?” Alex asked nervously.

  “There’s a firing range, a situation room similar to the FBI’s Hogan’s Alley, a maze and rooms of ‘truth’ and ‘patience.’”

  “Truth and patience? What is this place, a damn monastery?”

  Stone went on to explain that the training rooms were situated on either side of the main corridor, with two rooms on one side and three on the other. “You have to go through one room to get to the next, until you reach a set of stairs that lead to the lower-level holding cells. That’s probably where the president is.” Stone ended by saying, “Once you enter the training rooms, you have to go completely through them; there is no other exit.”

  “I’m beginning to think none of us are ever going to exit this place,” Alex said gloomily.

  Stone motioned behind them with his hand. “Because we came in through the storage area, which is closer to the start of the training rooms, that means we may actually be ahead of the man we heard, if he came in through the front entrance.”

  Alex fingered his night-vision goggles, but they were useless in the light. He glanced behind him but saw no one.

  Stone said, “Reuben and I will take the three rooms to the left, you and Agent Simpson take the two on the right. The doors only open the one way. So once you go into a room, the doors lock behind you. You can’t go back.”

  “Of course not,” Alex replied sarcastically.

  “Oh, Alex, I understand that Agent Simpson is a rookie agent, so, well . . . I feel responsible for everyone here, you see.”

  “I’ll look after her, Oliver,” Alex replied, gazing at his friend curiously.

  “Thank you. Now, there are some things you need to know about the rooms you’ll be going into. What I’m about to tell you, you need to follow to the letter. Understand?”

  “You’re the guy, Oliver. Just tell me and it’s done.”

  After Stone had finished talking with Alex, he led Reuben down the hall and reached the first door that was located off a side corridor, where the two men ducked inside.

  As they scanned the dimly lit room, Stone whispered to Reuben, “This is the firing range.” This explanation was unnecessary as they gazed at the cubicles where the shooters would stand, and then at the other end where old, tattered targets with bullet-ridden paper silhouettes of men hung on the movable pulley system.

  Stone said, “You go to the right and we’ll meet in the middle. Once we’ve cleared the room, the door out to the next room is over there.”

  They parted, and Stone made his way cautiously down the left side of the firing range. He’d barely gone ten feet when the door to the firing range opened.

  Stone immediately extinguished his light and crouched low, raised his pistol and forced himself to remain calm. It was nearly three decades since he had done this sort of thing. He looked up for an instant and thought he saw someone flit by, but it was difficult in the poor light to make out who. The last thing Stone wanted to do was shoot Reuben by mistake. And there was just enough light to make his night-vision goggles useless.

  Footsteps crept closer, and Stone eased forward on his belly until he was at the very back of the firing range next to the targets. As the seconds passed by, Stone could feel a strange sensation overtaking him. Changes seemed to be taking place in his mind and body. His limbs were becoming fluid and his mind completely focused on survival. His entire existence was reduced to a fifty-by-fifty-square-foot badly lit firing range full of shadows, crevices, difficult shooting angles and hiding places. He moved a little farther to the left and touched something. He looked up and suddenly had an idea.

  The man crouched as he moved to the right, a pistol in one hand and a throwing knife in the other. He thought he heard something but wasn’t sure. He cautiously stepped into one of the firing range target paths.

  Seconds passed.

  And then the North Korean was startled by a scream. He turned and saw the thing flying at him. He fired and his bullets ripped through it.

  Stone fired an inch above the man’s muzzle flashes. There was a groan and the North Korean dropped to the floor. The “thing” that had flown at him was one of the paper targets. Stone had used a pull wire to initiate this diversion and screamed simultaneously, tricking the North Korean into firing and revealing his position.

  Then there was a more prolonged silence until Stone heard Reuben’s voice. “Oliver, are you okay?”

  A few moments later Reuben and Stone stood over the body after making sure the room was empty. Stone shone his light on the body. There were two bullet holes within a centimeter of each other, dead center of the man’s chest. Stone examined the man’s features, clothing and weaponry. “North Korean,” he deduced.

  “What exactly did you do at the CIA?” Reuben asked as he looked at the twin bullet holes.

  “I was officially called a destabilizer. It sounds far less offensive than what I actually was.”

  The machine-gun bullets ripped through the door to the firing range; Reuben and Stone threw themselves to the floor.

  The door burst open and a second man flew inside, still firing.

  Stone managed to kick a leg out and trip the man, sending him sprawling and his machine gun flying out of his hands.

  Reuben pounced on the much smaller man.

  “Got ’im, Oliver,” Reuben cried out. Reuben wrapped his huge arms around the man and squeezed. “Not so tough without your gun.” Then Reuben cried out in pain as the man smashed his heel on top of Reuben’s foot. Reuben’s grip loosened a bit, which was the only opening the man needed. Two blows slammed into Reuben’s chin, then two more thunderous strikes knifed into his gut, and Reuben was on his knees gasping for air and spitting up blood. The man’s hand raised, the blade in it held in a killing position. It descended toward the back of Reuben’s neck.

  The bullet hit him flush in the brain, and he dropped to his knees and then toppled to the floor.

  Stone thrust the pistol back in his belt and ran over to
his friend.

  “Reuben?” he said shakily. “Reuben!”

  “Damn, Oliver,” Reuben said slowly through his busted mouth. He rose on trembling legs. The two men looked at each other.

  “What the hell are we doing here, Oliver?” Reuben said, wiping the blood away. “We’re way out of our league.”

  Stone looked down at his trembling hands and felt the pain in his leg where he’d tripped the man. He’d killed two men tonight after not having killed anyone for nearly thirty years. Despite his brief feelings of his old training coming back, this was not like riding a bicycle. It was less about physical training and youthful strength and more about a mind-set that said it was okay to kill another human being by any means possible and for any reason. Stone had once been such a man. He no longer was. And yet he was trapped in a building that would very likely be his and his friends’ crypt if he didn’t continue to summon his old homicidal instincts.

  “I’m sorry for bringing you here, Reuben. I’m very sorry.” Stone’s voice cracked as he said this.

  Reuben put a big hand around his friend. “Hell, Oliver, if we gotta die, I’d rather go with you than anybody else I know. But we have to get back. I mean what would Caleb and Milton do without us?”

  Alex and Simpson were in a large, dark room that smelled distinctly foul. They had not heard the shots from the firing range because it was insulated for sound. Using his night-vision goggles Alex was able to see that there was a narrow elevated passageway leading across the room that was reachable by a set of metal steps.

  He whispered to Simpson, “I’ll go first, to make sure it’s okay. But cover me close,” he added.

  “Why do you get to play hero?” she asked.

  “Who says I’m playing hero? If I get in trouble, you better damn sure come bail me out, even if it means getting your ass shot up. Now, listen, when you go across that passageway, you stay right in the middle, okay? Do not step on the sides.”