Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  “Lang must have jettisoned the others,” Bannon reasoned, joining her.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “The only reason I can think of,” Bannon said. “Lang had no intention of letting anyone escape Tiamat Bluff alive, except himself and a small chosen few I guess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Bannon said, “We stick with the original plan.”

  “Okay,” Larson said. “Yes. Right. I can access the computer mainframe from the machine room over there.” She pointed at a pair of steel doors along the interior corridor wall. “I’ll start the system shutdowns away from here, in non-critical areas before sweeping through the electronics in this section. That should allay any suspicions for a little while.”

  Bannon nodded. “Good.”

  “The runway lights will go out. That’s how you’ll know the power’s down. You’ll only have less than two seconds to open the hatch open and get inside.”

  “Can I get back out?”

  “Yes. But not without alarms going off in Ops.”

  “Understood. And I’ll be able to power up the sub’s comm system?

  “Yes. They operate completely independent of the Bluff.”

  He nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  She crossed the corridor, operated the biometric pad next to the machine room’s double doors.

  Bannon held his breath. But the door lock clicked and she was in.

  She turned. “Give me ten minutes to hack into the programs I need to access and another five to cycle through the systems.”

  He nodded, checking his watch.

  She disappeared inside the machine room. He waited, glancing up and down the corridor expecting a roving patrol any minute. None came. He held his hand paused over the hatch lever.

  True to her word, fourteen minutes later, the corridor running lights blinked and then went out. He slapped the lever down and dragged the heavy oval hatch open. Beyond it was another round hatch. He spun the center wheel until it stopped and pushed the inner hatch open, pulling the one behind him closed.

  The DSRV’s interior lights came on, motion-activated.

  He was in the stern section of the fifty-five-foot-long sub. The main section was an open area with fold down seats along the bulkheads on either side. Not built for comfort, the seats were hard, molded plastic with thick canvas five-point harnesses.

  Bannon crossed quickly to the cockpit and dropped down into the pilot’s chair.

  The dashboard gauges were lit up. Bannon quickly located the communications console and set to work to make his call. With time for just one call, he had to make it count. He listened as the sub’s comm system connected to the cell phone he’d settled on.

  The phone rang. And rang.

  And rang.

  “Pick up. Pick up,” he said under his breath. This was no time to leave a voicemail.

  Finally, the connection was made.

  A voice, not recognizing the number of the incoming call, tentatively answered, “Yes?”

  “Blades! Thank God. It’s me. It’s Brice.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  An hour after getting Bannon’s call, Tara was still shaking, reeling from the devastating news that Skyjack McMurphy was dead. The pain of that was so raw, so fresh, she struggled to find the strength to go on. She and Kayla were still on the Sea Ray traveling north when the unexpected call came in. Her heart sored at hearing Bannon’s voice, but then to have to be the one to tell him his best friend was gone, that ripped her aching heart to shreds.

  She’d said the words, barely getting them to form in her dry throat.

  A silence followed that last so long she feared the call had dropped, but then Bannon spoke. A simple and quiet response. “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see?” she repeated, her hand covering her opposite ear against the lashing wind and engine noise. “We’ll see what? They killed him, Brice. That qiteat min alqarf—”

  Bannon interrupted her. “I’ve got to go. You’ve got your assignment.”

  The line went dead.

  Tara lowered the phone and stared out over the dark Atlantic Ocean. Moonlight shimmering on its calm rippling surface. We’ll see. Had he not heard her properly? Was he in denial?

  When she could find her voice again, she relayed Bannon’s orders to Kayla. Then took over the helm of while Kayla made arrangements to get a plane fueled and prepped through her contacts at Coast Guard Air Station Cape Cod while Tara reversed the small craft’s direction and made a beeline for Sandwich, Massachusetts.

  Now, the wheels of the hastily readied HC-144 Ocean Sentry, one of fifteen medium-range surveillance aircraft the Coast Guard operated, touched down on a remote airstrip on the outskirts of Ronald Reagan International Airport. Though the aircraft was designed to accommodate up to nine passengers, besides the pilot and copilot, the only one’s onboard were Tara and Kayla.

  Wheels down, Tara unsnapped her seatbelt but remained seated.

  Getting to her feet, Kayla said, “Are you all right?”

  Tara stared forward without seeing anything. “No.”

  She blinked and stood up. “Let’s go. I need to keep moving.”

  She brushed past Kayla and descended the fold downstairs without acknowledging the pilot who’d opened the door and flown them in from Cape Cod. Kayla offered an apologetic smile to the aviator. “It’s been a bad day. Thank you.”

  A silver-gray and blue Virginia State Police cruiser sat on the tarmac. There to meet them. A tall officer, African-American, in black fatigues stood leaning against the grill with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. Casual but alert. The runway awash with the car’s headlights. In addition to being a tactical SWAT team leader with the state police, Brandon Reynolds was also a petty officer second class, with the Coast Guard Police, Reserves.

  He’d worked with Bannon and the others in Afghanistan before they’d left the service. Not specifically assigned to Grayson’s unit, he was local to the area, and he was someone they could trust.

  “Brandon, thanks for coming out,” Kayla said, giving him a hug.

  “Of course.” He nodded to Tara. “Blades. What can you tell me about what’s going on?”

  “We need to move,” Tara said. “We’ll fill you in on the way.”

  She climbed into the back seat of the cruiser. Kayla and Reynolds exchanged looks. She frowned. He climbed behind the wheel and pulled out of the airport. Kayla gave him Kate Holloway’s address. He plugged it into the GPS. Reynolds glanced at the rearview mirror. His eyes on Tara. “You want to tell me what I’m driving into now?”

  “A father with two young children, girls, are being held hostage,” Tara said. “We need to rescue them.”

  “Near as we know, there are three hostiles,” Kayla added. “Two males and a female.”

  Reynolds drove. “Why just the three of us. You insisted off-book, but…”

  Tara and Kayla exchanged glances. Silently debating how much they could tell him.

  Kayla said, “You’re aware of what’s going on at Tiamat Bluff?”

  “Sure. The whole world’s tuned in. This about the President?”

  “And Brice,” Kayla said. “He’s down there, too.”

  “Damn it.”

  “It gets worse,” Tara said.

  Kayla said it. “Skyjack’s dead, Brandon. Killed by the terrorists holding the President and Brice.”

  Reynolds squeezed the wheel and grit his teeth. The muscles in his jaw twitched. “Mother—

  What’s this hostage situation got to do with it?”

  “The wife. She’s a Secret Service agent,” Kayla told him. “Her family’s being held to force her cooperation with the terrorists holding the President.”

  “We save her family, she’s back on our side,” he surmised.

  “Basically,” Kayla said.

  “So, no pressure then.” He drove fast but without lights or siren. “Skyjack. Jesus.”

  Twenty minutes
later, Reynolds slowed the vehicle to a crawl. They’d entered a quiet residential neighborhood. Tree-lined, neat, well-manicured lawns. Decorative street lamps illuminated the sidewalks where an older man walked a little brown and white Pomeranian. He watched as the cruiser passed by and waved. It was that type of neighborhood, where the police were welcomed, not feared.

  “The house is two blocks north of here,” he said, easing the cruiser to the curb. The street curved to the left ahead of them.

  “You have everything we asked for?” Tara asked.

  “In the trunk.” Reynolds unlocked the rear doors remotely and they got out.

  He popped the trunk. Inside was a black duffle bag. He unzipped it and dug out two 9mm Sig Sauers.

  “We’ve got our own,” Tara said, even as she pulled her holstered Sig from her hip and handed it to Kayla. She repositioned the sheathed duel-bladed haladie by slipping the weapon to the small of her back, keeping it hooked onto the bladed urumi she used as a belt.

  He put the guns aside.

  “In that case.” Reynolds moved the duffle bag and pulled an M16 out from underneath. “Anyone want this?”

  Kayla took it.

  The cop was already strapped with a Sig of his own in his regulation holster. He grabbed a Benelli Supernova 12-gauge pump shotgun from the rack attached to the trunk lid. Then he fished around in the black bag again until he came out with two stun grenades. He handed Kayla one and hooked the other on his belt.

  “And the rest?” Tara asked.

  Reynolds moved the black duffle bag aside and pulled out a small black suitcase—the size that would fit in an airplane’s overhead compartment—and passed it to Tara. It had wheels. She pulled the handle up. “It’s empty.”

  He tossed her the duffle bag. “It’s got a vest, a first aid kit, some flexicuffs and other stuff in it. Should give it enough weight to be convincing.” Tara stuffed the duffle bag into the small suitcase then caught the jacket and ball cap Reynolds tossed to her.

  “Anything else?” he asked as she took off her coat and put the thinner, black jacket on and tied her black hair into a sloppy ponytail. She snaked it through the back of the ball cap. The jacket and cap each had a Southwest Airlines emblem on them. The cop handed her a clipboard with several official-looking pages clipped to them and a felt tip pen.

  “Gum,” Tara said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have any gum?”

  Reynolds dug into his pocket and came out with a pack. He tossed it to her. She took out four sticks and shoved them into her mouth. Cinnamon flavor. Chewing, she said, “Give me ten minutes.”

  Kayla checked her watch before slapping a loaded magazine into the M16.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “Always am,” Tara said, walking down the sidewalk toward Holloway’s house, pulling the small suitcase behind her.

  “No, you’re not!” Kayla called out. Then more to herself. “You’re reckless as hell.”

  When she reached the house, Tara pulled the weighed suitcase onto the stoop of the modest Falls Church home. Reynolds had had the forethought to tie a couple of baggage claim tickets to the suitcase’s handle. Tara rang the doorbell.

  While she waited, Tara scribbled a note across the second page on the clipboard with a black marker.

  The door opened and a tough-looking woman with Hispanic features stared out at her. “What?”

  Tara sized her up while she looked at the clipboard. “Mr. Holloway?”

  “I look like a mister to you?”

  Tara reserved judgment on that and smiled. “I…no, of course not. It’s been a long night. I meant I’m looking for Mr. Holloway.”

  “Why?”

  “His…wife, I guess.” Tara pretended to be put off by the woman’s presence. She snapped her mouthful of gum. “I don’t mean to assume. Her bag missed her flight this morning. We contacted her and she requested we deliver it here rather than forward it on to Boston. She said she didn’t expect her trip to last long enough to—”

  The woman said, “Fine. Fine. Give me the suitcase.”

  Tara smiled trying to appear apologetic. Not something she had a lot of practice with. “I’m sorry, but I need to deliver it to Mr. Holloway. To Mr. Roger Holloway.”

  Tara glanced over the woman’s shoulder and caught sight of movement in the back of the house. She guessed it was the woman’s two accomplices moving their hostages out of her line of sight, and to keep them quiet.

  “I’ll need to see an ID and get a signature.” Tara smiled insincerely. “You know how it is.”

  The woman stared at the Southwest insignia, no doubt trying to determine which course of action would be less problematic for her; refusing Tara’s request and arouse suspicions, maybe causing her to talk to her supervisors about the woman’s strange behavior, or get Holloway to the door and get rid of the woman straightaway.

  “Roger!” she called out, making her decision. “There’s someone at the door for you.”

  There was no response.

  The woman kept a watchful eye on Tara.

  “He’s my brother-in-law,” she said, then shouted again. “Roger?”

  This time the woman turned her attention away from the front door. Tara pulled the wad of gum from her mouth and jammed the oozy mess into the door frame’s strike. It would prevent the latch bolt from latching if the door were pulled closed.

  Tara heard what sounded like a grunt then a voice called out, “Coming.”

  A man in dress slacks and a white t-shirt appeared in the hallway. He walked haltingly to the foyer from a kitchen-dining room combo. His hair was mussed and he sported a black eye. “What’s up?”

  “The airline screwed up. Didn’t put Kate’s bag on the plane,” the woman said. “You need to sign for it.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He reached the door and the woman stepped back.

  Tara noticed a dark stain on the collar of his t-shirt. Blood. As if it had soaked through an outer shirt, probably his dress shirt. He noticed her scrutiny and forced a smile. “I, um, spilled wine on my shirt. We’re having a…late dinner.”

  Tara handed him the clipboard and a pen. She instructed, “On the bottom there. And on the second page.”

  Her hastily scribbled note on the second page read: Here to help. Stay calm. Do as I say.

  She watched his eyes follow the words as he silently read the message. He looked up at her.

  Tara read a mix of concern and relief in the man’s eyes. She reached for the clipboard. “Thanks. I hate to ask this,” she said. “and I’m not supposed to do anything like this, but could I use your bathroom? I’ve been out all night and I’ve got five more stops to make before—”

  “Of course,” Holloway said quickly before the hard-looking woman could say no. “Use the one in the hallway. But please be quiet. My girls are asleep downstairs.”

  “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.” Tara danced a little. “I’ve really got to go.”

  “Just hurry,” the woman said. “Our dinner’s getting cold.” She stepped outside and grabbed for the suitcase Tara left on the stoop.

  “This way,” Holloway said.

  Tara tried to reassure him with a smile. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tara reached the end of the short hallway. She could see the kitchen-dining room combo. Holloway’s jacket and hastily removed dress shirt were in a pile on the floor. One chair was missing from the dining room table. Tara caught sight of it in the living room. A piece of duct tape still stuck to the leg.

  “It’s right here,” Roger said, indicating the bathroom. “Next to the basement door.”

  Tara nodded to him. In that moment, for Tara, it was as if time slowed to a crawl.

  Tactically, she determined one hostile would be downstairs with the girls, leaving the woman and second male up here, guarding Holloway and available to do random checks of the exterior and neighborhood to ensure local forces weren’t amassing against them. She hoped the third hostil
e was in the house and not outside somewhere.

  Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of movement caught her attention. She saw it reflected in a mirror over the fireplace in the living room. One hostile, a large brute of a man, hiding behind the wall adjacent to the eat-in kitchen area. He thought he was out of sight, but hadn’t considered the mirror. Across from the table with the missing chair were French doors leading out to a patio or deck. It was too dark for Tara to see much beyond a single brick step.

  At the front door, the woman rolled the suitcase nosily over the door saddle. The wheels rattled. She huffed with the effort, banging it down. Then she swung the door shut.

  Next came the sound of shattering glass. The French doors. A panel smashed inward. Broken by the butt of Reynolds’ 12-gauge shotgun and followed quickly by a tossed flash-bang. The grenade hit the floor, bounced, and exploded in a flash of light quickly followed by a second smoke grenade.

  “Get down!” Tara shouted, shoving a startled Holloway hard enough he fell to the floor and slid toward the kitchen island. “Stay down.”

  Tara unsheathed her duel-bladed haladie and paused only long enough to see—and hear—Reynolds kick in the French doors. They flew inward and smashed against the walls.

  Behind her, Kayla kicked in the front door. She tossed a second flash-bang through the now open door sending the hard-looking woman scurrying into a side room. Kayla stood in the doorway, her M16 at the ready, looking every bit like a female Rambo.

  Tara shouted, “One hostile’s in the front room. Another’s in the living room to the right. I’m going for the kids in the basement.”

  She tore the basement door open and armed only with her haladie in hand, she descended the carpeted stairs to the finished basement below. The carpet kept her footfalls silent, but the open stairwell exposed her to whoever was downstairs and whatever weapons they might carry.

  Before she reached the bottom step, she crouched and her throat clutched.