by A. J Tata
“I’m abler than them,” Cassie said. She walked in and lifted Savage’s arm with the bleeding hand while Mahegan used the hatchet to sever the chain. With both arms free, he worked on the leg shackles, loudly banging through the chains.
Savage fell forward onto Cassie, who held strong with his considerable but diminished weight.
“I’ve got a pulse, but it’s not much,” Mahegan said, securing the hatchet in his cargo belt.
“We’re going to have to carry him,” Cassie said. “But we’ve got to get him some water first. He’s dehydrated.”
“Enemy, twelve o’clock,” Patch Owens said.
Mahegan lifted Savage from Cassie, who had been bracing him upright. Savage was six feet tall and to Mahegan felt as if he weighed about 180 pounds. There were no clothes in the cave, but Mahegan quickly retrieved his flying suit and stuffed Savage in it as best he could. It provided him some amount of dignity and gave Mahegan a manner in which to drag him if necessary. The suit would be unusable, but he didn’t plan on needing to jump off any other mountains, either.
Owens and O’Malley were holding their fire. They had downed three water bottles apiece and had gone to work on the pouch of Clif Bars that Cassie had packed. That left six for Savage, Cassie, and him. He and Cassie could get away with one apiece if they could get four down Savage’s throat without him choking. Mahegan was reasonably certain that O’Malley and Owens could respond to a threat.
“One hundred meters, boss,” Owens whispered.
None of them had any night vision capability, but Mahegan had the flashlight under the rail of the AR-15.
“Get inside the cell,” Mahegan said. They filed past him as he laid inside the door opening and aimed the muzzle toward the mine shaft opening.
Backlit by the somewhat lighter shade of black from the opening of the mine shaft, two men walked toward Mahegan. He had no doubt there were others waiting at the mouth, but that was a long-range problem as far as he was concerned. He felt a foot on his left buttocks and heard Cassie whisper, “Don’t worry. Not getting fresh. Just taking aim.”
She was standing above him, rifle aimed along the tunnel toward the attackers.
“I’ve got left; you’ve got right. Shoot immediately after I do,” Mahegan whispered.
“Roger,” she replied.
They were in a somewhat protected position, the solid mine shaft wall of granite and dirt protecting everything but their heads. Presumably the guards knew the approximate location of the cell, if not its precise position. The two men stopped at the cell from which he had freed O’Malley and Owens.
Once they realized the cell was open and empty, the two men began running toward them, though Mahegan still believed that the attackers had not seen their position. As they ran ahead clumsily, their black outlines became more prominent. He felt Cassie’s foot shift slightly, perhaps tensing to take the shot . . . or receive one.
Mahegan sighted along the enhanced tritium-illuminated iron sights, aiming for center mass of the man on the left. With less than twenty yards between Mahegan and the running men, Mahegan slowly squeezed the AR-15 trigger until it released and sent a 5.56 mm bullet into the abdomen of the attacker. Cassie’s shot was less than a second later, and she felled the man on the right. Both attackers stumbled forward and slowed, dropping to their knees. Mahegan placed another shot in the left man’s face while Cassie fired the newly acquired AR-15 at the man on the right. Both dropped dead in their tracks.
The shots rang loudly in the mine shaft, echoing along the tunnel toward the opening. Mahegan watched for others, but none immediately came rushing forward. No doubt there was a camera showing some of what had just transpired and someone was coordinating an effort to close off the entrance. He had no sense that there was a ventilation shaft, had felt no breeze move air in any direction. He picked up the same stench of urine and feces that he had smelled since entering the first cell. It was as stagnant as a farm pond.
Unlike the cave that he and Cassie had escaped from near the French Broad River, here there was only one way out—the entrance where up to twenty fighters might be lying in wait for them.
Mahegan said, “Keep watching the entrance. I’m going to check these guys out.”
“Roger,” Cassie replied.
O’Malley and Owens crawled out of the cell, both wanting to help. Mahegan told them, “You guys watch Savage. Make sure he’s okay.”
Owens said, “Old man’s barely alive. You need firepower. We’ve got that.”
Mahegan looked at Owens in the dark and saw a glint in his weak eyes. He wanted to contribute. O’Malley was the same. Owens had an AR-15, but O’Malley was empty-handed.
“Got a weapon for me, man?”
“Here, use this,” Cassie said, handing him her Berretta pistol.
“Peashooter? Damn,” O’Malley said.
“Focus, people,” Mahegan said. He moved out to the two shot men, checked for pulses, and determined that both were dead. They were dressed in black cargo pants and tight-fitting shirts. They had carried AR-15s and wore tactical vests that contained extra ammunition magazines and, to Mahegan’s satisfaction, hand grenades and smoke grenades. He scavenged it all, distributing it to Cassie and his two teammates.
“Okay, you guys defend here while I go deeper and look for Cassie’s parents,” Mahegan said. “Use these grenades. You’ve got enough ammo to hold them off for about ten minutes. I won’t be longer than that. And here’s a rifle, Sean.” O’Malley pocketed the pistol and took the AR-15 from Mahegan.
“You’re not going without me,” Cassie said. Mahegan understood that she wanted to be present when and if they found her parents, but he needed someone coherent to stay with his three teammates. He shined his flashlight into the dark mine shaft that seemed to give way to a natural cavern. Blackness swallowed the beam of light.
“Okay, let’s take them with us,” Mahegan said. “Because I doubt we’re getting out that way except by brute force.”
Mahegan looked over his shoulder where five men stood vaguely silhouetted by the tunnel opening over one hundred yards away. Oddly, they weren’t pouring out a fusillade of bullets or rockets, but Mahegan was certain that was to come. The single rail line ran straight down the middle with about five yards of clearance on either side of the sloping, curved ceiling cut into the rock. One man tentatively lifted something onto his shoulder and immediately Mahegan said, “RPG!”
The rocket-propelled grenade left the tube and began smoking toward them as Mahegan pushed Cassie back into Savage’s cell for protection. The rocket steamed past them in a blazing trail of fire and smoke. Mahegan watched as it continued deep into the cavern and saw it explode another hundred yards into the abyss. The explosion was muted, as if muffled by another layer of something. Mahegan remembered visiting the caverns in Linville, not too far away.
Several years ago, he and his team had conducted a training mission in Linville in preparation for combat in Afghanistan. Linville was unique because it had an underground river that provided ingress and egress in a variety of places. While he didn’t notice any ventilation shafts on his walk into this shaft, if it gave way to a natural cavern, as it appeared to, given the ragged edges of the tunnel, there was a chance that a water system flowed through the labyrinth.
“This way, quick,” Mahegan said. He recalled studying the map and saw Fletcher Creek, Mills River, Long Branch, and several other streams cutting through the mountains. It was possible, he thought, that this cavern led to water somewhere.
Mahegan fired his AR-15 at the figures approaching from the mouth of the mine shaft. It was suppressive fire, nothing more. Bullets came barreling back on them, pinging off the sides of the cavern and rifling along the walls of the corridors.
“Stay in the middle,” Mahegan said. Owens and O’Malley, both naked from the waist up, scarred and bruised, carried Savage, using the wing flaps of the wingsuit as a makeshift poncho litter. “Get on the tracks,” he said, telling them to walk along the midd
le of what was left of the rail line. “And Cassie, pull rear security.”
They walked in single file with Mahegan leading them down the dilapidated rail line along the narrowing mine shaft. The shaft gave way to a natural cavern. There were no more support beams, and the walls were jagged limestone that opened considerably after another one hundred yards. Cassie was firing three-round bursts every few seconds, forcing the attackers to duck, take cover, and delay firing anything bigger than a rifle at them.
They approached the box that Mahegan’s flashlight had spotted. A fifteen-by-five-foot wooden container sat atop a flatbed railcar. He led them off the rail, and they squeezed past the wooden crate. Instantly, Mahegan thought, Missile. This group of insurgents was hiding a weapon of mass destruction inside the cave. With no time to stop and further inspect, he pressed ahead, thinking. The presence of this crate and whatever it held explained the low rate of fire they were receiving and the unwillingness of the enemy to advance. In the short term, the crate provided Mahegan and his team some temporary protection. Long term was an entirely different story, but he would deal with that once he had his team safe.
“Hell’s that?” Owens asked from behind him as they walked.
“Dirty bomb, probably,” Mahegan replied. “We’ll come back to it once we’re safe.” Something, though, tugged at the back of Mahegan’s mind. Could he use the bomb, if that was what it was, to their advantage now to aid in their escape? The railcar had a hitch tongue where a locomotive or crew of men could pull it out of the tunnel. It did not appear to be self-powered.
Mahegan found a right turn off the main cavern and led his team in that direction, thinking that Cassie’s parents were not being kept in this part of the complex. As if they were in sync, Cassie said, “My parents, Jake. Let’s not forget them.”
“Not forgetting,” Mahegan said. He searched with his flashlight and saw that the thirty-foot-high ceiling of the cave was populated with thousands of bats. The gurgling he had heard earlier became louder, and he grew more hopeful for an exit other than brute force back through the mine shaft.
“Where are they?” Cassie asked as she backed around the right-turn corner of the cave.
“I’m searching everything I see. There have been no more cells,” Mahegan said. “They could be in another part of the camp.”
Cassie was silent for a moment as they continued to walk, then said, “Okay. Let’s find a way out, then.”
Mahegan listened and followed the bubbling sound, louder now, using his flashlight to find their way. The terrain was rough and uneven, not often trod, if ever. Owens and O’Malley were having a hard time but were sucking it up. Separately they would mutter the occasional curse word as they stumbled, but Mahegan understood they would have a hard time walking on a flat road, much less the jagged calcium and gypsum crevices they were traversing. His flashlight caught the first glimpse of water, a shallow pool ebbing against the ledge upon which they were walking.
“You always were a damn genius, Captain Mahegan,” Owens said in his Texas drawl.
“We’re about one minute from having our asses kicked, Patch. Call me a genius when we’re out of this shit hole and secure.”
“Roger that, boss,” Owens muttered.
Mahegan waded into the water and felt the gentle, grainy slope scrape against the bottom of his boots. The gurgling was now a full-on rushing noise, and Mahegan searched for the sound with the light. He felt the wall made of flowstone and gathered hope that he had found an egress that didn’t involve pushing the railcar into the waiting hordes of terrorists. He shined the light into the middle of a pool of water that at first glance seemed stagnant, but after a moment the subtle movement of water away from him was evident. He was standing in a recess pool probably carved out over a million years. The main stream was about twenty yards in front of him.
Ahead, was a river or swift stream tumbling through the cavern. It appeared out of the wall to his far right, maybe fifty yards away, and disappeared again into the wall to his far left, maybe seventy-five yards away.
“No way Savage can handle that,” O’Malley said from behind. “Not sure any of us can.”
Mahegan turned and saw his friend’s bearded face. O’Malley’s wide, green eyes reflected both a concern about their predicament and malnourishment.
“We’ve dealt with worse, Sean,” Mahegan said. “We’re going to have to try.” Mahegan nodded at the right turn they had taken about fifty yards away. The tips of crisscrossing beams of light searched for them like prison guards looking for escaped convicts.
“Gather around, team,” Mahegan said.
O’Malley and Owens laid Savage on the thin film of water that was barely covering their boots. Owens knelt down and cupped some water into Savage’s dried lips. Cassie stepped forward, and they formed a circle around Savage’s prostate body.
“I’ll lead us down. Sean and Patch, can you hold Savage by the feet and head, kind of like a water slide? Cassie, you bring up the rear?”
“Been doing it okay so far,” Cassie said, looking at the approaching flashlight beams. “And we don’t have much time.”
“We can do it, boss. But we have no idea what’s on the other end and how much of that is under water. We could all drown.”
“Drown or get shot, take your pick. I’d rather see what’s at the end of this rainbow,” Mahegan said.
Cassie’s AR-15 sang with two three-round bursts.
“Whatever we’re doing, we better do it,” she said, pulling the trigger again.
Mahegan helped position Savage in the middle of the rushing stream, which was bitter cold. Now, they could add hypothermia to the list of life-threatening possibilities.
“Water’s freezing, man. We’ve got to go,” Owens said.
“Follow me,” Mahegan replied. He sat in the water in front of Owens, who was holding Savage’s feet. Behind Owens was Savage, whose head was being held by O’Malley as O’Malley hooked his legs beneath Savage’s arms and over his torso. Behind them, Cassie was kneeling in the water keeping the attackers at bay.
Above the din of the rushing water that was climbing up his torso as he inched forward on the sloping flowstone, the high-pitched tone of a grenade spoon releasing pinged loudly. He felt the water begin to move him forward and downward, knowing he had caught the flow. He had Owens’s feet hooked around his chest and felt them moving with him. As his head went underwater with the rush of the river, he heard Cassie’s muted voice: “Grenade!”
Mahegan was plunging feet-first in a near-vertical dive when he heard the muffled explosion. He hoped Cassie survived and was still with them, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it as he was free-falling through the darkness, submerged in water and unable to breath.
CHAPTER 23
YVES DUPREE SIGNED THE DOCUMENT THAT TRANSFERRED ALL OF Charles Sledge’s power as the chief executive officer to him, the General Counsel, who would now be the interim CEO.
It was approaching midnight on Friday, the day after Sledge had been murdered, and he had already notified all next of kin, made the funeral arrangements, and executed myriad legal documents that pertained to his will and considerable estate.
Dupree cared about none of that. In fact, he had a lackey associate do most of the work while he attended to other, more important matters. Dupree was especially interested in the Sledge’s new, clandestine project he had recently introduced as Blackstone. It was a multilayered information assurance program that protected the accounts of their millions of retail bank customers.
In his corner office at the United Bank of America building in downtown Charlotte, he stared at the screen and could not believe what he was seeing. He had helped implement Blackstone because the classified briefings they were receiving from the government indicated that a significant cyberthreat was targeting banks and infrastructure. After today’s debacle with millions of cars being stopped, he had immediately opened Blackstone to reassure himself.
Blackstone was spinni
ng across his monitor a series of numbers associated with bank accounts. Each number was between .01 and. 99, and it reflected the amount of money skimmed from each of the accounts. Every time Blackstone attempted to block the skim, an image of an actual cartoon rat appeared and knocked out a feckless-looking mouse. Hacker humor, Dupree thought. And every time Blackstone attempted to follow the source of the Trojan, the same cartoon rat appeared and lifted cartoon railroad tracks, spreading them apart, ties flying in the imaginary air, indicating that the path was blocked. With nearly 50 million customers, both individual and business, the skim would net about $25 million for the hackers.
Not a bad day’s hack.
But he also noticed something equally interesting on another monitor. Part of the overhaul of operations had included a real-time operations display of customer service metrics that any member of the executive team could review. There were multiple charts and graphs on the display to include items such as phone call wait times, customer satisfaction ratings, and number of customer complaints. The customer complaint chart looked like a hockey stick from yesterday to today. Yesterday it was somewhat steady and level, and today the complaint trend line had gone exponentially up.
Beneath the complaint trend line graph was a box with the top five complaints. Usually complaints included mortgage processing, fees and charges for savings and checking accounts, and foreclosures.
Today, the number one complaint by a large margin was inability to access consumer checking and savings accounts. The number two complaint concerned automated teller machines. People were unable to retrieve cash at the ATMs because their accounts were registering as closed.