He paused and looked around at those gathered and then back at Hanson. “Fifteen seconds!” John snapped.
“John?”
He looked up. It was Scales, who was shaking his head.
“Stay out of it, damn it!” John shouted. “We’ve been through hell for two and a half years, and I want the answers now. Lee didn’t die just for us to stand around like a bunch of assholes in front of a door this bastard can open.”
He looked back at Dean. “Ten seconds … eight seconds!”
Several of the prisoners, obviously terrified, shouted for the captain to relent, one crying out that he knew the answer and would give it.
John could see that the man had lost control, his trousers soaking through.
“Six seconds.” He pressed the cold muzzle of the gun to the captain’s forehead.
“All right! All right!” Dean screamed. “I’ll talk.”
John nodded and stepped back, suddenly feeling completely drained.
“Get him to open the door now,” John commanded. “If he doesn’t open that door in three minutes, bring him back here and I’ll kill him.”
John walked back to Sergeant Bentley, easing the hammer of the .45 down to the safe position. He held the weapon by the muzzle, which was warm, and offered it back to the sergeant, who took it.
Bentley stared him straight in the eyes. “By God, sir, would you have done it?”
“After all we’ve been through?” John said, not answering the question. “And, Sergeant, don’t ever ask me that question again.”
A couple of troopers of Scales’s command dragged Dean up to the door. He fumbled to open the collar of his uniform and drew out several keys on a chain around his neck, muttering that the electronic controls had been shot out. He handed one to a guard accompanying him, explaining that they both had to insert the keys in locks ten feet apart and turn them simultaneously. They did so, and with a metallic hiss, the vast doorway cracked open.
Bob stepped forward. “Hold it there!” he shouted, going up to Hanson’s side. “You got a security detail in there?” he snapped.
A moment of hesitation.
“You play us wrong now and I hand you back to my friend Matherson. Do you have a security detail inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are in first, and order them to stand down. I got a sniper aiming straight at your back. You play us false and you will be the first to die, and I turn those outside over to Matherson and his men. You read me? If the killing is to stop now it is up to you, Captain. I want any security to come out, weapons held overhead, or by God I’ll have an Apache outside this door pouring 30mm and then a Hellfire down inside.”
“It’s over!” Hanson cried.
“Then make sure it is.”
Hanson, shaking and barely able to walk, approached the front of the blast door, which had slid open just a few feet, hands held high over his head.
“This is Captain Hanson. We are surrendering this facility to forces of Eastern Command. Safety your weapons and come out with them held over your heads.”
John could hear voices from within arguing back and forth for several long, drawn-out minutes. Dean started to step into the cavernous darkness but froze in place when Scales barked out an order for him to not take another step in, shouting loudly that he was General Scales, in charge of Eastern Command, and was taking control of this facility and those who surrendered would be treated honorably.
Dean, voice breaking, began to sob, crying out that it was over and for the detail within to come out as ordered.
Finally, they began to emerge, and within minutes, half a hundred were out the door, dropping weapons as they emerged to be hustled off by a detail set up by Sergeant Bentley.
Finally, there was no one left except Hanson partway into the half-opened doors.
Bob finally came up to his side. “How do we open these things wide?”
Dean nodded to a control panel inside the doorway. Bob told him to go ahead. Dean entered a code, and the doors slid the rest of the way open.
John watched this in angry silence. The doors must have weighed several dozen tons or more and were at least three feet thick. Fifty yards into the tunnel, there was another set of doors, not as substantial but still significant, and for a second time, the same ritual was played out of cracking them open, Dean taking a few steps in, shouting for the security detail behind them to come out with weapons secured and surrender.
It was a tense few minutes with several of them refusing until Bob, with his excellent command voice, talked them down, that the entire firefight had been a tragic misunderstanding and as he was commander of all troops east of the Appalachians, those within were under his command, to obey immediately or face court-martial. They finally surrendered.
“Another security detail beyond here?” Bob asked as he nodded down the wide, cavernous corridor carved out of solid rock, three lanes wide, illuminated every hundred feet or so by a dimly glowing fluorescent light set into the ceiling.
“Just those off duty and everyone else.”
“Everyone else?” John asked.
Dean looked at him but said no more.
“Get this bastard out of here,” Bob snapped, looking back at Sergeant Bentley. “All prisoners secured outside. All wounded regardless of side treated ASAP. I think ten of our men can handle this rabble now that they’ve surrendered. I want the rest on me. I want you with me as well, Sergeant, so get it squared away and then catch up.”
Bob watched as Dean, staggering from shock, was led back into the brilliant midday light of the entrance.
“Would you have done it?” Bob asked, looking at John.
John just gazed at him, still feeling cold, nearly broken inside, wondering now what shock would confront him next.
Bob put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ve all been through too much,” he said, gesturing down the long tunnel. “Let’s see what’s down there and if this trip was worth the price.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was a very long trip down, a hike of well over half a mile. John and those with him and Scales fell silent except for occasional whispers and Bob explaining this entire facility was carved out of solid rock and was not a natural cave.
The road began to level out from its five-degree pitch, the air within warmer so that parkas were unzipped. Bob cautioned those with him to keep their Kevlar jackets buttoned up tight and weapons held up in a nonthreatening manner and to only return fire if fired upon first.
A babble of voices began to echo—shouts, cries, yells of confusion and fear. Bob ordered the main group to stop, and he sent several scouts ahead, again reminding them of orders not to shoot.
Long minutes passed. Bob squatted down on the hard tarmac, reaching into a pocket and pulling out some hard candies from an open MRE pack and passing them around.
As they waited, Bentley came up. There was a wordless exchange of glances, and it was an indicator to John that this officer and top NCO truly worked as a team, respected each other, and could work on instinct of mutual trust without a word being said.
Bentley unclipped a flashlight from his vest, snapped it on, and continued down the tunnel until finally he was only a pinpoint of light. Several more minutes passed and then all jumped with a start; a single shot, followed a second later by two more, echoed like a cannon in the cavernous hall, the flashlight snapping off.
“Son of a bitch,” Scales snapped. “Up, get ready to move, weapons on safety, but be ready to engage if fired on.”
The troopers with them began to move out, edging along either side of the tunnel. Bob gestured for John and those with him to hold back for a moment, passing a quiet order to the one medic who had come in with them to get against the wall and be ready to set up an aid station.
“I don’t want a bloodbath,” Scales announced. “If we find what I think we’re about to find, I don’t want a bloodbath.”
They started forward, crouching low. A flashlight came
back on down at the end of the corridor, blinked twice, and then several seconds later blinked five more times. Bob, unclipping his flashlight, repeated the signal back, and came fully erect.
The flashlight at the end of the corridor grew brighter, moving up and down, obviously held by someone walking toward them, shifting the high-intensity beam up toward the ceiling so as not to blind them. The troopers advancing ahead of John and those around him stopped in place. There were some whispered exchanges, and then Bentley came into view, illuminated by the dim overhead fluorescent lights, left hand holding his .45. In the pale light, John could see blood soaking his arm. He had his right hand firmly gripped to the collar of a civilian dressed in what was the nearly ubiquitous uniform of government officials of chinos and a blue dress shirt. The man was short next to Bentley, nearly bald, features heavy, looking back and forth nervously at the troopers who were poised to either side of the tunnel.
Scales stood in place, not coming forward, John falling in by his side.
A few more steps and Bentley showed just enough restraint not to send the man he was hanging on to sprawling to the pavement, but he did shove him forward so he nearly lost his balance.
His dignity obviously insulted, the pudgy-featured man drew himself up, tucked his shirt back in—which had been disheveled by Bentley’s rough handling—looked down at his left sleeve, which was splattered with blood, and shot an angry glance at Bentley, who remained by his side.
The medic was already up by Bentley’s side.
“It can wait,” Bentley snapped. The medic looked over at the civilian.
“That’s my blood on him,” the sergeant said sharply.
“Just who the hell are you?” the civilian cried, voice a bit quivery, but Scales ignored him.
“Sergeant Major Bentley, are you hit?”
“I’ll be all right, sir; it can wait.”
Scales glanced to the medic.
“Don’t see anything arterial, sir; I guess it can wait a few minutes.”
“Fine, then.”
The civilian cleared his throat to try to interrupt, but Scales continued to ignore him.
“Report, Sergeant—what was that shooting about?”
“This man here had a bodyguard who decided to take issue with my presence. He fired first.”
There was a pause.
“So I killed him.”
He said so as if it were just a typical day’s work, and Scales nodded.
“A lot of others around—you’ll see in a minute. I had to aim for the center of his body. Didn’t want any stray shots to get someone else.”
“He murdered my man—”
Again Scales cut him off. “Let the medic tend to your wound, Sergeant, and thank God you are safe.” At last, he turned back to the civilian. “You are damn lucky my sergeant was able to walk back; otherwise, it would have gone very badly for you and a lot of others. Do you read me?”
That caught the man off guard.
“Now you can talk. Who are you, and what is your position?” As he spoke, he took a step forward, hands balled up and resting on his hips. John had seen this more than once when his friend wished to convey a very strong “don’t mess with me” attitude.
The civilian nervously cleared his throat. “I’m Richard Pelligrino, head administrator of this facility.”
“And this facility is…?”
“Site R.”
“I already know that,” Bob snapped. “What is it now?”
Pelligrino hesitated, looking around at all those who were gazing at him. “Who the hell are you to come barging in here like this, slaughtering my security team?”
“You are answering the questions, not I, and you’d better answer me now, Mr. Pelligrino. I’ve got over two hundred troopers outside who are very pissed off. I’ve got a full battalion airlifting here within the hour. I have the assets. Maybe you know who I am, my command, and what I can bring to bear. Do you realize that, Mr. Pelligrino?”
Pelligrino’s gaze drifted to Scales’s name tag. He hesitated and then looked back up at him. “Why are you here? This position is not part of your command.”
“It is part of my command now and you are answering the questions. Therefore, my question. Who are you, and why are you here?” His voice rose as he snapped out the last few words.
“Like I said—” he began.
“‘Like I said, sir,’” Sergeant Bentley interjected sharply, still standing by Pelligrino’s side while a medic was cutting open his sleeve to examine his wound.
Pelligrino cast a sidelong glance at the sergeant, who was still holding on to his .45 with his good hand and then back to Scales. “Like I said”—he paused for a few seconds—“sir. I am the head administrator for Site R.”
“And Site R is…?”
Pelligrino hesitated, which provoked Sergeant Bentley to pivot slightly. The .45 was still down at his side, but the threat was apparent.
“Answer General Scales completely,” Bentley directed, articulating each word slowly and clearly. “We already know this is Site R. What is this place for now, today, Mr. Pelligrino? And no more game playing.”
“It is a designated civilian emergency relocation center,” Pelligrino finally replied, his voice barely above a whisper as if conveying a great secret.
“Sir,” Bentley again interjected.
“Sir,” Pelligrino whispered, head slightly lowered.
“Then let’s take a look at this emergency relocation center, shall we?”
“You can’t!” Pelligrino cried. “This facility has the highest level of security requirements, which I doubt you are qualified for. I am ordering you to turn around, leave now, and we can just call what happened a tragic mistake that I won’t report.”
Bob looked at him with absolute contempt. “My security clearances existed long before you most likely crawled out of your frat house at some Ivy League hole. I’ve put up with shits like you for over forty years, but not this day. If you want to debate it further, look around you. These men with me have as much security clearance as I do after the hell they’ve been through for the last two and a half years and every right to see what is down at the end of that road.”
Pelligrino started to bluster, and Bob, contempt obvious, stepped past him. “Someone drag this bastard along,” he snapped.
John, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, could not help but smile as Pelligrino was shoved to one side, a trooper grabbing hold of him by his collar and pushing him along. He had endured far too many like him during his brief stint at the Pentagon, some of them in uniform, who were just ticket-punching their way up the career ladder and to hell with what was actually right or how many got hurt or even died as a result of their actions.
The tunnel began to widen out. The troopers keeping pace with Bob along either side advanced with weapons raised but not positioned to fire, but could do so swiftly if need be. If there was danger around the corner, Bob did not seem to show the slightest concern, walking down the middle of the paved road that leveled out and then went into a curving turn to the left at the bottom. Half a dozen troopers ahead of him reached the corner where the road turned left and came to a stop, raising weapons and shouting at someone unseen to drop their weapon and keep their hands visible.
Bob motioned for the trooper pushing Pelligrino along to bring him forward.
“Now listen carefully, Mr. Pelligrino. Do you have more armed personnel around that bend?”
He hesitated, and again Sergeant Bentley was menacingly by his side.
He could only nod.
“Then you go forward and tell them to lay their weapons down and come out with their hands up, that the fight is over and no one gets hurt. But if one of my troopers gets shot, Sergeant Bentley or my friend John Matherson here will gladly put one into you. The fight is over, Pelligrino; let’s make sure no one else gets hurt.”
The thoroughly frightened administrator was shoved forward. He cautiously advanced the last few dozen yards, turne
d in the middle of the road illuminated by several floodlights, and squeaked out a command for those waiting on the far side to give up.
What sounded like an argument started until Pelligrino shrieked out that they were outnumbered and everyone would die if they didn’t surrender immediately.
Seconds later, the first men and women of what John hoped was a final line of defense emerged, hands over their heads. Bob’s troopers, weapons pointed high but still aimed in their direction, shouted out for them to move up the road on the double.
Several dozen emerged, and as they were moved up the road, John could see the looks of fear.
It was the medic who was trying to follow Bentley and work on him who helped defuse the tension, walking in among them, offering reassurances, announcing that if any were hurt they should fall out and she would take care of them; otherwise, they should just keep moving up the road toward the exit. To John’s amazement, one of them was actually smoking a cigarette, the scent of it wafting around him as they passed him.
A cigarette? Here? Just what kind of place is this really?
“Any more?” Bob shouted. A trooper at the very front of the ground turned, looked back, and replied with a hand gesture that all were cleared, but John could see there was a look of confusion from the other troopers who were standing at the bend in the road.
“Let’s see if all of this was worth it,” Bob said softly, starting out again.
Whatever they were about to see, John could not get out of his mind that his friend Lee was dead. Whatever they were to find, was it worth Lee’s death?
And then he turned the corner of the road dug half a mile down into a mountain and came to a stop in silent amazement.
The Final Day Page 31