Besieged

by A. J Tata

  “With chains around her so she sinks.” Mirza gathered himself, though he was simmering on the inside.

  “As you wish. Once the code is done, we will prepare the cars by way of satellite and then execute tomorrow night.”

  “Follow me,” Mirza said.

  They walked into the middle of his command center. He punched a couple of keys on one of the keyboards, and the large monitor in the middle showed the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, from Georgia to Massachusetts.

  “These ports are disabled,” Mirza said, pointing at Savannah, Charleston, and Norfolk. “New Jersey, Manhattan, and Boston are next. As the American Navy lifts and begins to haul the ships out of the channels, we will conduct fresh Sparrow attacks. My intelligence tells me that four specialized naval ships left Jacksonville and Norfolk before we closed that channel. They are en route to the sunken ships.”

  Mirza looked at Franco, who was staring intently at the map.

  “This map shows the cars positioned as we discussed,” Mirza said, pointing up and down the American interstate system and road network between Washington, DC, and South Carolina. “We have car carriers parked all along the East Coast, in every Walmart parking lot, campground, truck stop, anywhere big trucks are allowed to spend the night. I’ve got thirty carriers, with each carrier taking six cars. That’s one hundred eighty Cefiro suicide-bomb cars for one hundred twenty targets, with built-in redundancy. If the first car destroys the target, then it frees up the other to move toward the next objective, instead of wasting time on the already destroyed target. Thus the need for Misha’s code. The cars and Sparrows must be able to communicate to continue the blitzkrieg advance to the nation’s capital.”

  He waved his hand from the border of South Carolina to Virginia to Washington, DC. He moved in front of Franco and typed a few keystrokes. Immediately, he could see the satellite trackers indicating where all thirty car carriers were located.

  Franco had at least followed his instructions to locate the car carriers strategically along the borders of the states. Importantly, each carrier had access points to Interstate 95, a north-south-running axis of advance that provided an approach to the entire East Coast and Washington, DC.

  The harder Mirza looked, the more the rest of the map faded and he saw the brilliance of his plan. These cars would work in concert with the aerial attacks he had planned.

  “It has been a long day and a long trip,” Mirza said. “We will rest, finish the code, and then commence the attack.”

  “I’m glad you are here, Commander,” Franco said.

  “If the girl doesn’t fix the code, you will be at the bottom of the river with her,” Mirza said.

  CHAPTER 14

  JAKE MAHEGAN

  MAHEGAN FOUND THE TURN IN THE TUNNEL THAT PATCH HAD mentioned. The distance had been 472 paces, less than a kilometer. That seemed right. He was about a mile from the R & D compound and would now be coming at it from the west side, parallel to the eastern route of escape he had used earlier.

  He made the right turn and continued walking. There had been several left-hand turn possibilities, but he knew that they would only feed back into the military terminal. Whereas the previous rail and tunnel looked recently used, this path was nearly virginal. He was breaking spiderwebs and stepping on loose dirt that had risen above the rail. In places, the tunnel began to lower, and he leaned his massive frame forward, as if he was running in slow motion. He walked for at least twenty minutes, until he hit the end of the labyrinth.

  There was a wall made of bricks, old red ones, like someone might find in Colonial America, and it was blocking any farther movement. He wasn’t sure if this was the end of the military compound or the end of tunnel as it originally had been constructed. Judging by the brick wall, he guessed that it was the end of the tunnel and that he was proximate to the mounds that he had seen.

  On his daylight recon of the compound with Ximena De La Cruz, he had seen nothing inside Cefiro that had alarmed him regarding Misha’s whereabouts. As he’d walked the compound, though, the mounds had intrigued him. If they were old ammunition bunkers, someone could have easily converted one of them into a kidnap hideout by placing a cot, a bucket, and a few combat rations in it. Also, as he had approached the mounds, Rhames, De La Cruz’s security expert, had sped into action, preventing him from getting near them. Was this a coincidence? He didn’t think so. Unless the kidnappers were keeping the kid inside the building, one of the mounds was his best guess.

  He shined his light up at the top of the tunnel, which was just inches above his head. Running his hand across the grimy sheet metal, he pushed up and felt a slight give. Using his fingers, he traced the outline of the metal and actually found a hasp hanging loose. This was no high-security piece of equipment. It was a piece of junk metal that you might find on a wall locker.

  He found the hinges and then placed both hands at opposite sides of the sheet metal, which he assumed was a trapdoor of some type. He squatted and then pushed upward. The initial resistance gave way as he continued to push. Dirt and grass tumbled onto his head and arms. With his wingspan, he was able to get the trapdoor up to about a forty-five-degree angle.

  He looked through the gap he had created and saw night sky and the tips of pine trees. The ground and his angle to it blocked everything else. He noticed faint ambient light, which weakened the brilliance of the stars in the sky.

  The dirt and turf on top of the metal trapdoor were heavy, and it was not going to move any farther. He had pushed it against something solid, or dirt had wedged in the hinge, or both. He tried the only option, which was to shift his hands carefully as he lowered the hinged door so that it was resting on his forearms, which were outside of the tunnel, his hands clutching lumps of grass. He walked his feet up the old brick wall to his rear, using his shoulders now to push against the metal trapdoor. He surged away from the brick wall like a swimmer making a turn and dove upward so that half his body was outside the opening, with the metal door bouncing up and then slamming noiselessly into the shock-absorbing neoprene of his wet suit.

  He scrambled out of the hole, careful to keep one foot wedged in the opening. He propped his unlit Maglite in between the face of the hole and the trapdoor, hoping it would make his egress easier, should he choose that route. Out of the tunnel now, he low crawled about ten yards from the hole and remained perfectly still for a couple of minutes, letting his ears and eyes adjust to the rhythm of the night. He heard the owls again, their calls closer this time. Crunching boots pacing from above indicated that there was active security on the roof of the R & D building, if indeed that was where he was.

  When the boot noises diminished, he rose up and looked straight ahead at the R & D building, its tan corrugated metal walls reflecting weakly off the security lights skewing the night sky. To his left was one of the mounds. To his right was flat ground until it reached the fence, over one hundred yards away. At his two o’clock he could see the midway point where security had stopped his walk earlier.

  He spun to his left and low crawled on the far side of the first mound. He saw a metal-plate door like the one he had just opened, secured with an embedded hasp and an ultra-secure padlock. As he slid past the other mounds, he briefly inspected them and found the same style of security. Since Patch had told him that the most active heat signature had come from the last mound, he decided he would start there and work his way back.

  Approaching the last mound, he noticed it had a different outline and shape. From this angle, he saw there was camouflage netting above what looked like a glassed-in dome. The light high on the roof was backlighting the structure shaped like the top half of an eggshell.

  Holding his position from twenty feet away, he could hear someone coming toward the bunker. Lying perfectly still, he used the next to last bunker for cover as a man approached and knocked on the Plexiglas.

  A second passed, and he heard the man punching a keypad, the audible beeps loud, like a car alarm, in the quiet night. He cou
ld have heard those beeps one hundred yards away, maybe more.

  “Time to go,” the voice said.

  “Not go,” a young girl’s voice replied.

  It was Misha.

  “You don’t get a vote,” the man said.

  “Not go!” Misha replied. Then he heard the sound of a punch or a slap.

  The man started screaming. “You little bitch!”

  By now Mahegan was up and moving toward the man, who had a knife or a screwdriver sticking out of his neck. He was yanking at it while trying to grab Misha.

  He took down the man with a full open-field tackle that would have made any college football coach proud. He removed the screwdriver and drove it into the man’s heart and held it there until he died seconds later. On full autopilot now, he whipped around, intending to snatch Misha and run to the tunnel.

  But Misha had locked the Plexiglas canopy to the pod. He heard footsteps racing across the roof.

  Looking through the Plexiglas at Misha, he said, “Misha, it’s me, Jake. I’m here to help you find who killed your father.”

  Her large eyes stared at him through those thick wire-rimmed glasses. He visualized her rocking and swaying in her elementary school. Now she had just stabbed a man in the neck. He guessed that there was more to this little girl than anyone knew.

  “Please, we’re running out of time,” he said.

  She pointed at the keypad and held up her hands to him as she signed a series of numbers. He punched in the code, and the Plexiglas dome opened. He lifted it as he heard voices speaking Farsi on the roof. These were the same men who had infiltrated via the containers. They had fully taken over the R & D facility.

  He grabbed Misha as rifle fire cracked loudly overhead, splintering the Plexiglas of the pod. Several men fired automatic weapons down on them as he dove with Misha behind the first bunker. If they stayed low enough, they might have just enough cover.

  He had Misha hug him and wrap her hands around his neck and her feet around his waist. Then he crawled quickly from bunker to bunker, alternating his timing so that they were less predictable targets to the sentries on the roof. His guess was that the lights might work to his advantage, dimming the night vision of the shooters. Like looking outside of a house when it is dark but there is a light on in the room.

  Pausing behind the last bunker, he eyed the ten feet or so between their protective cover and the sheet-metal trapdoor.

  “Stay here, Misha. When I call for you, be ready. There’s a hole and a tunnel. We’ll be safe there.”

  He ran toward the tunnel opening. He heard the distinctive ratcheting of a machine gun bolt assembly from the roof. He raced to the sheet metal covering the tunnel, grabbed his Maglite, slid his hands under either side as he straddled the hole, and then, as if he were in an Olympic dead-lift competition, he torqued the metal against one of the hinges, snapping it at about the same time the machine gun opened fire.

  He held the trapdoor up like a shield and went back to the bunker where Misha was waiting. She wasted no time and leapt onto his back as he knelt. Men were on the ground, closing on them by now, about fifty yards away, coming from both sides of the building.

  Bullets pinged off the shield as he lowered Misha into the tunnel entrance and jumped in himself. He fit the sheet metal as best he could on the top and whispered, “Run, Misha. I’ll catch up.”

  She darted through the tunnel in the only direction she could go.

  Bullets pounded the sheet metal as he moved about five feet away. The trapdoor, now back in place, lifted, and someone stuck a rifle into the hole and began a spray-and-pray pattern. He grabbed the rifle, snatched it away from the intruder, and reemerged from the hole, shooting in each direction. He thought he hit two men. The machine gun lit up again as he ducked back into the hole, closed it again with the unhinged trapdoor, and raced to catch up with Misha. He bought maybe a minute. There were no obstructions for the next mile. It was a race against bullets.

  Mahegan caught up with Misha as he heard feet hitting the dirt at the tunnel’s opening. “Lie down and stay in the middle.” He wanted her away from the ricochets that would funnel along the walls. After spinning around, he lay atop Misha and used the AK-47 he had just secured to fire into the blackness at the muzzle flashes. Unsure of how much ammunition was in the magazine, he fired only when he saw a muzzle flash. Soon he didn’t see any.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered. And they were running again. He heard more feet jumping into the tunnel, and they repeated the process. Misha scrambled onto the rail tracks; he covered her and then returned fire. Their shots were high.

  Mahegan’s were not.

  He could feel the weapon getting lighter, though, and knew that his pistol would be no good at this distance. He hoped he wouldn’t need it. So far Misha had shown incredible fortitude. She hadn’t spoken a word and had done everything he had asked. His goal was to keep her alive, and he thought she knew that.

  They were up and running again, and they covered a few hundred yards before they heard any further commotion in the tunnel. He picked her up and had her hug him as he shielded her. His sense was that their pursuers were bringing heavier firepower, like a rocket-propelled grenade, into the tunnel. If the enemy collapsed the tunnel beyond them, they would be trapped.

  His worst fears were confirmed. Having run a total of about eight hundred yards, he heard the unmistakable whoosh of a rocket, which rushed past his head, creating a swirling vortex of air. Thankfully, it struck the ground about a hundred yards behind them and exploded. He felt shrapnel from the rail line and the rocket spit into his back, the wet suit providing little protection.

  “Scared,” Misha said.

  “It’s okay, honey,” he huffed. While she was only maybe seventy pounds, his conditioning was being tested as he stumbled across the rail ties and carried her weight. He heard a second whoosh, and a rocket smoked beyond them again, exploding into the far wall, momentarily showing him that he had only about fifty yards to go to make the turn.

  A third rocket exploded early, missing by twenty yards. They were bracketing them, like artillery fire, Mahegan thought.

  They reached the rubble where the second rocket had hit. He heard a fourth rocket coming their way. He dove to the left seconds before the rocket impacted the wall. Rocks and bricks splintered and shattered, raining down on them, but they were unharmed. He was bleeding on his back from the first rocket, but he was still good to go. He dropped the AK-47, sure it was nearly out of ammo.

  “Let’s run as fast as we can now, Misha. Get on that side of the track, and I’ll be on this side.”

  She did as instructed and was surprisingly fast. They covered the seven hundred yards in less than four minutes and made a right turn into the ammunition depot main tunnel, where he had started. While there were other tunnels to their right, he didn’t know where they went—they might have been dead ends, or they might have had ladders leading out to either safety or danger.

  So he went with what he knew.

  They popped up out of the tunnel, and Mahegan secured the lid so that no one could open it from the inside. He used the Maglite to find their way south through the ammunition depot, away from the R & D facility. Running along the fence now, they found a worn spot where an animal had dug beneath. After some trenching, he had Misha slide under. She easily fit. He was a different story. She helped dig from her side, and he dug some more from his.

  Lights came on, and a siren started blasting. He saw the fence was rigged with a motion detector. He didn’t look up to see if there were cameras, because he was certain there were. He took a shot at sliding under the fence, and the wires cut into his wet suit and scarred his already bleeding back.

  But he was out.

  Knowing Misha could run, he said, “Let’s go. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 15

  DARIUS MIRZA

  HONESTLY, MIRZA PREFERRED THE CLOSE KILL, SLOWLY PULLING A knife across a windpipe or pouring gasoline on the baby of an infidel and the
n setting it on fire. But he had to think more strategically now, and the fifth container was always the one that was most important. His assault team of thirty men, which arrived in three containers, was more than enough for the job of securing the fifth container during transit, upload, and the final modification in Cuba.

  Yet now his team wasn’t even sufficient to maintain security within the Cefiro research and development facility. After this morning’s security breach and the escape of the child, he had decided to put the plan on hold for twenty-four hours, until he could get the girl back. He was confident they would. This decision required him to radio the lead ship, which was just off the eastern coast of the United States, avoiding a hurricane that was churning through the Atlantic Ocean.

  To pursue the girl and the vigilante, he broke his team into three groups. Ten men would dress in civilian attire and drive in unmarked SUVs in search of the girl. His cyber-operations unit was plugged into every television-monitoring system in Wilmington and Southport and was using the Fajr satellite to zoom in on possible suspects. The cyber-ops team communicated with the hunter-capture teams in the SUVs, who could, of course, kill when necessary.

  Another ten men would secure the interior of the building against penetration from the tunnels or direct assault. And his remaining men were actively patrolling the fence line, wearing Cefiro uniforms.

  Mirza had alerted and activated the entire Iranian sleeper network across the East Coast.

  He stood on the roof of the research and development facility, staring at the seam where the roof would separate at his command. Seeing the teeth of the retractable panels made him think of the fifth container. Knowing what the container held gave him peace of mind. When Mirza had given Colonel Franco the specs to construct this building two years ago, he had made sure that the building’s roof was retractable, like one of those American football stadiums in Texas. The fifth container required it.

  As the morning sun poked out of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance, he thought of the combat action early this morning. In working with Hamas and Hezbollah and even the Shi’a in Iraq, he had always found it important to do internal critiques of his command and his soldiers’ performance. During the firefight at the girl’s pod, he had sent a five-man team into the tunnel leading away from the pod. His only mistake had been not immediately sending another team along the other tunnel, which he already knew led all the way into the ammunition depot. If he had done so, he was certain he would have trapped the abductor and the girl.