by Dave Edlund
“Ceramic blade and synthetic grip. Almost no metal in the knife.” Nadya was slowly lowering herself, back straight against the pole. Working only by feel, she lifted the pant leg and felt inside the top of the leather biker boots. There, her fingers touched one end of the folding knife. Deftly, taking care not to drop it, she lifted the blade from the small sheath.
“Okay, I have it.” She pressed up with her legs and slid back up the pole. Peter heard the familiar click as the blade was unfolded and locked into place.
“I’ll hold my hands as far apart as I can. Please be careful not to slash my wrists when you cut the nylon cuff.”
“I’ll do my best.” Peter felt her fingers running over his skin as he strained against the plastic tie. And then, with a snap, the tie was severed and his wrists free. Wasting no time, he took the knife from Nadya and cut through the FlexiCuff binding her to the post.
Peter folded the blade and returned the knife to the sheath inside his boot as Nadya was rubbing the chaffed skin.
“What about the guard outside the door?” she asked.
Peter nodded and hustled over to a large tool chest. He opened one draw after another until he found a suitable bludgeon. In this case, a large combination wrench for one inch bolts. Crude, but effective, he thought.
“I wish we had some firearms,” Nadya said, keeping her voice low.
Peter hefted the wrench, and then looked toward the two M113 tracked vehicles. “Those have machine gun mounts up top. What do you think they have inside?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Only one way to find out.”
The two vehicles looked identical. Peter walked to the back of the nearest one. The wide door was secured with a latch. He raised the handle slowly and opened the door, cautiously at first. Fortunately, the hinges were greased and the door opened silently, assisted by hydraulic springs.
Inside, there were bench seats at each side. Up front was access to the turret and the swivel gun mount. The driver’s seat was also up front. Otherwise, it looked like an empty box. Small metal compartments were mounted to the armored walls, but there were no weapons.
Peter was about to exit, when he had an idea. He moved forward, close to the instrument cluster at the front. “Nadya, come here please.”
She crouched to avoid hitting her head and joined Peter. “I think this is the radio.” He was pointing to a black panel with switches and rotary knobs, and what appeared to be a digital display. “Do you know how to operate it?”
She leaned in closer, running her hand over the controls, as if she was gleaning information by touch as well as sight. “Yes, you are right.”
She flipped a toggle switch and the panel lit up. The digital display showed a number that Peter assumed was a radio frequency. Nadya turned a knob to the left, the volume control.
“I’ll raise the antenna,” Peter said and he scurried outside. The whip antenna was folded down, and it was a simple matter to remove the metal whip from a hook and allow it to go vertical to its full height. He scrambled back inside.
“Is the radio working?”
“Yes, it checks out fine.”
“Set it to 156.8 Mhz. That’s the international distress channel.”
“Yes, that’s right. But how do you know that?” Nadya adjusted a dial until the digital display showed the requested frequency.
“I hang out with an interesting crowd,” he answered.
She handed the microphone to Peter. “Just press this button to speak.”
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.” Peter released the button and waited for a response. Nothing. He tried again. “Mayday. Mayday. We are in urgent need of help. This is an emergency, over.”
A tinny voice answered. “This is the Crook County Sheriff Department. State the nature of your emergency. Over.”
Peter handed the microphone to Nadya knowing that a female voice would garner a greater sense of urgency than a male voice. “Tell them where we are and that a fugitive is threatening to blow up the building. Give them my name. Tell them I am wanted by the Bend Police Department. Tell them to speak with Detective Colson.”
Nadya looked confused, and hesitated. “Just do it. It’s the fastest way to get help here.”
Nadya’s brow wrinkled as she gathered her thoughts. Before she could speak, the tinny voice came back. “If this is a legitimate emergency, state the nature and your location. If this is a hoax, you are committing a federal crime and will be prosecuted.”
“I need help. This is not a joke. There’s a man—he says his name is Peter Savage and he is wanted by the Bend Police. He says Detective Colson knows who he is. He’s threatening to blow up the building. Please, send help. I am at the United Armaments facility.”
“Copy that. State again your location.”
“I said United Armaments. They operate a facility in Eastern Oregon. I don’t know exactly where it is. I was taken here against my will. I’m in a large maintenance facility. There are tracked military vehicles here. I’m using a radio from an armored personnel carrier.”
“Copy.”
“Stay by the radio,” Peter said. “I’m going to try to get a weapon.” He exited the tracked vehicle and silently approached the door. He needed to lure the guard inside without raising so much suspicion that the guard called for backup.
He grabbed a handful of smaller wrenches from the toolbox and slid beside the door, his shoulder against the concrete-block wall. Satisfied he was ready, he dropped a wrench from waist high. It hit the floor with a metallic clang.
Peter waited several seconds, but nothing. The double steel doors were sealed well around the edges, no doubt to reduce the sound of mechanics working on vehicles so as not to disturb the people in the front of the building.
He dropped another wrench. This one bounced off the floor and into the base of the steel door.
Three seconds later the latch turned and the door opened. The first thing Peter saw was a hand holding a Beretta semiauto pistol clearing the edge of the door. That was his cue. He rammed his body into the door with all the force he could muster. There was an audible thud as the steel slammed into a body or head just before the door closed on the arm. The crack of bone sounded clearly.
Crushed between the edge of the door and the frame, the guard dropped the firearm. “Ahhh!” he moaned.
Peter scooped up the Beretta and yanked the door open on the stunned guard. “Inside.”
With the gun pointing at his face, the guard complied, cradling the broken arm against his chest. Peter grabbed him by the collar and spun him around, then closed the door.
“On the floor. Face down.”
The guard complied, offering no resistance as Peter frisked him one handed. He removed his phone and two spare magazines.
“On your feet.”
“You broke my arm! I can’t get up.”
“On your feet. Or I’ll break your legs, too.” Peter kept the gun trained exactly at the man’s chest while maintaining a distance of several feet.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. His face grimaced in obvious pain. “Over there,” Peter said, motioning toward the second armored personnel carrier, or APC.
At the rear of the APC were two massive steel tow loops—essentially round steel eyes used for the purpose of fastening chain to tow another vehicle.
“Sit down,” Peter ordered. The guard settled to the floor, still holding his broken arm at chest level.
“Nadya, I need your help.” Two seconds later she was at the hatch and hopped to the concrete deck. “Over there, in that tool chest, is a roll of wire. Grab it. And find some wire cutters and duct tape.”
She nodded and jogged to the chest. Peter heard drawers open and close, but never removed his focus from his prisoner. A minute later Nadya returned, displaying her spoils.
“Good. Now, bind his ankles with wire. Make sure it’s tight. And I don’t care if it hurts.”
With efficient movements, she bound the ankles and knees of the guard, wrapping three layers o
f wire for good measure.
“Okay. Take his good arm and wire his wrist to the tow loop.”
Nadya grabbed the good arm, but the guard resisted her efforts. “Raise your arm,” she said, her voice venom. “Or I’ll break it and you can have a matching pair.”
Slowly he relaxed and allowed Nadya to secure his arm to the tow loop and place a length of tape across his mouth. His eyes were narrowed and dark; his jaw set hard. But his focus never left the barrel of the 9mm.
Chapter 47
UA Test Range, Eastern Oregon
April 26
Nadya returned to the radio, making certain the Crook County Sheriff Department was mobilizing. Finally, dispatch told her they found the location of the test range, but given the time needed to organize a hostage rescue team and the distance they would have to travel, it would take almost two hours for help to arrive.
She lowered her head. “Yeah, well, guess I’ll just have to keep everyone entertained until you get here.” She signed off, and stood at the open hatch. Peter was examining a pallet stacked with medium-sized wood boxes. She looked to their prisoner. He appeared to still be securely fastened to the steel tow loop.
With a sigh, she approached Peter, keeping her voice low once she was next to him. “Law enforcement says ETA is two hours.”
Peter didn’t break his concentration on the crates stacked before him. They were banded with steel straps. Each a little under a foot tall by a foot wide by eighteen inches deep.
“You heard me?” Nadya prodded him. “Two hours.” She checked her watch. “Ellison and his men will be back in 60 or 70 minutes, maybe sooner.”
“Yep. And we’ll be ready for them.” He hefted one of the wood crates and set it on the concrete floor. Then he turned to a tool chest and removed a pair of metal shears, quickly snipping off the metal band securing the lid in place. He slipped the shears into a rear pocket.
The top lifted off. Peter was surprised it wasn’t screwed in place, but then again the steel bands seemed to do a fine job.
Inside were two metal boxes, each standard GI-issue-olive-drab in color. Peter thought they were ammo cans for .50 caliber ammunition. But Nadya knew otherwise.
“Fuzes,” she said. “But what good are fuzes? We don’t have any explosives.”
Peter smiled, popped open the metal lid, and removed one of the conical devices. It was unpainted. The bare, rust-free metal suggested aluminum or stainless steel. Peter placed the fuze in his pocket.
Nadya raised an eyebrow. “Did you find explosives while I was on the radio?”
“Sort of.” He pointed at another stack of pallets, but all she saw were more crates.
“Okay. Where?”
Peter led her to the stacked goods, and then around to the far side. There, sitting on a lone pallet, were four 155mm artillery shells. They were the same dull green as the metal cans containing the fuzes. On each shell, stenciled in white paint, was the designation:
155mm
xxxAPERS
COMPOSITION-B
The four shells stood on their bases, and across the top was a cardboard placard that read: DO NOT STACK. The tip was missing from each shell.
“Without a fuze threaded into the nose,” Nadya said, “these shells are inert. They can’t be exploded.”
“I agree, and that’s not my plan. I’m gonna take the explosive out of a shell.”
“Do you have any idea how long it will take to cut through the metal casing and remove even part of the explosive?” Nadya asked.
“We have power tools.” Peter was not dissuaded in the least.
“That casing is at least half an inch thick, and hardened steel.”
Peter shook his head. “No, not these. See that designation? XXX indicates these are experimental rounds. APERS means they are antipersonnel. I’ve heard about this.”
“From your circle of friends?” Nadya said, not trying to hide her skepticism.
Peter nodded. “Actually, yes. I believe these are beehive rounds. They use an aluminum shell casing so it’s easier to split open.”
He strode to the tool chest and retrieved a magnetic tray about the size of a saucer—it was used for holding small nuts, screws, and bolts. Returning to the pallet, he attempted to stick the magnetic base against one of the shells. “See, it’s not magnetic.”
Nadya’s eyes widened. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
Peter refined his idea, thinking of the items he would need, and then rattled off the list. “We’re gonna need some steel wool. Maybe there’s some in the tool chest. If not, look around. Might be with sanding pads. Also, two extension cords, one long and one short. Plug the longer cord into the closest electrical outlet to the back of that APC.” Peter pointed to the APC that their prisoner was not cuffed to.
“Got it.” She set out on her scavenger hunt.
Peter snipped the metal band secured around all four projectiles and then hefted one; the injuries to his arms burned in a flare of pain. It was heavy, but manageable by holding the shell close to his waist. Without a moment to lose, he made directly for the horizontal band saw and gently laid the green shell on the cutting table. He shoved it back and forth, adjusting the cutting position, until the saw blade was about half an inch from the base. Then he reefed down on the locking block to hold the shell firmly in place.
Just hope this band saw is not too noisy. Peter flipped the switch and energized the drive motor. As the blade came down, the bi-alloy steel teeth cut through the aluminum casing with ease, hardly making a sound. A minor but important victory, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Nadya had a coiled extension cord draped from her shoulder. She was searching through drawers at the bottom of the tool chest and abruptly stood, holding a plastic bag half full of steel wool.
When Peter looked back at his work, the blade was almost three-quarters through the projectile. Good, didn’t hit any of the steel flechettes. He’d suspected the steel darts would be bundled and located farther up the shell where they would be propelled forward by the explosive charge in the base.
Another half minute passed and then the saw completed the cut. Peter turned off the power, unlocked the latch, and removed the severed base. A material the color of beeswax was exposed inside the aluminum casing. “Bingo,” he mumbled too softly for Nadya to hear.
Peter met Nadya at the tool chest where he pocketed a putty knife. “Got it.”
“The explosive?”
He nodded, seeming to hesitate.
“What else do you need?” Nadya asked.
He was studying one of the metal drawers in the tool chest, fidgeting with the glides along the side of the drawer. “Ah, there it is.” Nadya heard the click and then the drawer slid free. Peter dropped to a knee and dumped the tools onto the floor, avoiding loud clanging noises.
“See if you can find some large nuts, like half inch or so. Maybe over there in those parts bins.” Peter pointed to some shelves not far away.
“Nuts?” She wrinkled her brow.
“Yeah, projectiles. I’ll pack explosive in the bottom of this drawer. Then we’ll fill the top—covering the explosive—with nuts or bolts or whatever you can find. We’ll wrap it in cardboard and duct tape to hold it all together and then stand it on edge, aiming at the door.”
A sly smile creased Nadya’s lips. “An anti-personnel mine.”
“The detonator will be tricky, but I have an idea. See what you can find. We don’t have time to waste.”
Using the putty knife, Peter scraped around the edge of the Composition-B explosive, separating the waxy material from the aluminum case. He sliced the squat, cylindrical chuck of high explosive into three circular slabs, each about an inch thick. As he was layering the slabs into the bottom of the metal drawer, Nadya arrived with two bins filled with heavy steel nuts. She dumped the contents over the layered explosive.
Peter left a small section of explosive exposed at one end. Nadya cut a sheet
of cardboard from an empty box and produced the duct tape she had used to gag the guard. She formed the cardboard over the top of the drawer to prevent the nuts from falling out while Peter fastened the cardboard in place with the tape.
“Time to see if it will stay together.” Peter lifted the drawer so it was resting on the flat back end. Nothing shifted. Still, he decided to wrap more tape just to be sure.
“We should position our mine in front of the door,” he said.
“How about at the back of the APC? It’s about 40 feet from the door and the projectiles should spread to an effective pattern at that distance.”
“Exactly. Set it on top of two of the fuze crates; we don’t want it right on the floor. I’ll get to work opening a fuze and removing the detonator.”
“You know how to do that?”
Peter couldn’t explain that, as a designer of magnetic-impulse small arms, he’d been asked to consult on development of the Navy’s railgun, a ship-mounted cannon that used an enormous magnetic impulse to fire shells. Consequently, he was familiar with both conventional artillery shells as well as the specialized projectiles that would be required for this futuristic weapon system. But even if he could tell Nadya, he didn’t have the time.
“Stories for another day—assuming we live to see another day.” He filled his fists with several adjustable wrenches and screwdrivers, not knowing exactly what tools would be needed, and moved to a heavy-duty workbench. Mounted to the steel surface was a large vise.
The fuze was a couple inches in diameter at the widest part. At the base of the pointed tip was a smaller-diameter protrusion with threads around the perimeter. Peter knew from his work on the railgun that this threaded portion contained the detonator and a small booster charge. It fit into the recess at the front of the shell.
Carefully locking the conical section into the bench vise, Peter used a pipe wrench to gently remove the detonator and booster cup. Fortunately, the detonator was likely new and the two portions separated easily on lightly lubricated threads.
Peter held the booster cup before his eyes, examining its construction. To the side was the detonator. It looked like a large percussion cap. If struck forcibly by the firing pin, the detonator would explode and cause the booster charge to also explode. But without a means for striking the detonator with a firing-pin-like object, Peter had to come up with an alternative. He had been thinking through this problem and was convinced there was another way.