Subterranean (37 page)

Khalid crouched by the fork in the tunnels, leaning first into one, then into the other. He sniffed, like a cur on a trail. The left-hand tunnel had a subtle sting to the air, causing a slight burning in the nose. Smoke. He proceeded left, holding his lighter before him. He had been careful to twist the controls to set the flame at its lowest setting, creating only a feeble flicker, conserving the butane in his lighter. If it should run out, he would be blinded, unable to complete his mission. He had to pamper his tiny flame.

In the stygian darkness, even this small flame was enough to light the way for several meters. He marched steadily ahead, not wasting time to rest. There was no way of judging how much farther Linda and her group might be. But there were clues he was heading in the right direction: footprints in mud, a wrapper from a ration bar, a spot where someone had stopped to urinate, the ammonia odor still pungent. He was close.

His mind wandered as he raced along the monotonous tunnels, allowing his trained body to continue its pursuit, stepping around pitfalls, leaping crevices, climbing over boulder-strewn obstructions, hell-bent on narrowing the gap.

Linda pushed Jason farther back around the tunnel's curve, praying that Blakely knew what the heck he was doing. It was quite possible the entire tunnel system could collapse on them. Still, she knew they had to take the risk. To go back only invited disaster.

“I wanna watch,” Jason said.

“No, honey. It's dangerous. Here, put in your ear-plugs.” She handed him two cotton balls from their first-aid kit. “And when I tell you, cover your ears and open your mouth.”

“Why?”

“The explosion is going to be dangerously loud. It can damage your eardrums.”

Jason fidgeted. “I still want to watch.”

Blakely suddenly appeared before them, slightly winded. “All set. I've shaped the charge to blow away from us. Are you ready?”

Linda nodded. “How good a shot are you?”

“Okay, but with this pressure . . .” He shrugged.

“You only have the one shot.”

He raised the flare gun. “I know.” The cherry bomb had been embedded in the plastic explosive, and the plan was to ignite it with the flare from a safe distance. He waved them back farther.

She nudged the boy behind her. “Good luck.”

Blakely swiped his damp brow with the edge of his sleeve, then took a few steps down the tunnel to get a straight shot. She noticed his lips had a purple tinge to them. The stress and the foul air were worsening his heart condition. Watching as he plugged his ears with cotton, she admired his tenacity. He then gave her a thumbs-up sign and leveled the flare gun.

She pantomimed to Jason to cover his ears and open his mouth. He did as instructed but kept trying to peek around her to see where the doctor stood.

With her ears covered, she heard the pop of the flare gun, sounding like a toy, then saw Blakely lower his gun. Nothing happened.

He turned to her, shrugging, and opened his mouth to speak when the explosion occurred. The wind seemed to precede the noise. She watched as Blakely was suddenly blown backward by the concussion, flying off his feet, colliding with the wall.

Before she could move to help, she too was thrown down the tunnel, landing on top of Jason. The cracking roar washed over her like an invisible freight train barreling past, the noise so loud that her mind tried to turn it off. First the boom, then nothing but a dull ringing. Dust and smoke poured down the tunnel, choking her, leaving her and Jason isolated in a sphere of her helmet light. Walls of swirling dust swallowed them up.

She helped Jason to his feet. He held his elbow and winced, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Dazed, she wasn't even sure which direction led back to Blakely. He could be hurt. She unhooked her hand lantern, hoping its additional light would penetrate the darkness better than just her helmet lamp. She swept the beam through the dusty air. Nothing.

Jason pointed with one hand, while pulling cotton out of his ears. “Over there. I think I see a light.”

She now saw it too, a glow of light bouncing her way. She let out a relieved breath. She hurried over to check on Blakely, hoping that the way forward was now clear.

“Wait!” Jason suddenly yelled, pulling on her arm to halt her.

She glanced down at him. “What?” She then looked back as the figure penetrated the smoke, lunging into her sphere of light. It wasn't Blakely. She stumbled a step backward. No!

He held a lighter aloft in one hand and a pistol in the other, blood drizzling down his right cheek from a gash at his temple. “How appropriate that a thunderclap should precede my storm,” Khalid said, then aimed the pistol at Linda's chest.

Blakely groaned, pain flaring red in his chest. His first thought was that it was his heart again, but he noticed that the pain worsened as he inhaled and retreated as he exhaled. Broken rib, he thought. He ran his hand over his right side. Just below his armpit, a lump of agony confirmed his suspicion. Definitely broken, but only one of them. Damn, like he didn't have enough problems already. He leaned his head back on the wall, closed his eyes, and pulled the damp handkerchief back over his nose. Although it stank of mucus and sweat, it was better than inhaling the air stirred by the blast.

He would wait for the dust to settle, then let Linda help wrap his chest before they continued forward. He sighed, meaning to relax, but a sudden fear opened his eyes again. What if the blast hadn't cleared enough of the rock to allow them passage, or worse yet, just collapsed the tunnel further? What if he had broken his rib for nothing? He needed to know.

Grimacing, teeth clenched against the pain, he reached to his waist for his flashlight. He popped it from his belt with a wince. Any motion felt like someone was jabbing him with a dull spear—and twisting it mercilessly! Struggling against the pain, he raised the light and clicked it on. The beam shot forward but was blocked by the eddying rock dust and smoke. He could not see beyond ten feet.

Maybe if he could move just a few yards forward he could examine the explosion site. What if he had screwed up in shaping the charge? No, he couldn't have. He had done just like Hans, the German demolition expert for Alpha Base, had shown him.

There was only one way to find out. He carefully pushed up to his feet; the pain flared worse but only to a point that raised tears in his eyes. He could stand it for a short time. He took a deep breath, girding himself for the painful journey forward. Just before he took his first step, he heard a raised voice echo from behind him. It was Linda. Good, at least she was okay. He pointed his light toward the voices. His lamp revealed only black smoke, and the dull ringing in his ears blocked out all but the loudest noises. He shook his head, swinging his light back toward the bomb site. They'd be joining him shortly.

He took a step forward, meaning to check the blast site before they returned. The increased motion burrowed the spear of pain deeper in his side. Cautiously he took shallow breaths, knowing that a broken shard of rib bone could slice into his lungs.

After taking two more steps, he stopped to rest, his brow now dripping with sweat. This wasn't good for his heart either, but desperation pushed him on. Besides, if he had screwed up in placing the charge, he wanted to be the first to know.

Following the trail of debris with his light, he saw the wall of rock that had blocked the way forward and smiled. A gaping maw large enough to pass a baby elephant through now opened the way ahead.

From behind him, a pistol shot suddenly echoed down the tunnel. Not thinking, Blakley jumped and twisted at the retort. A whiplash of searing fire ripped into his chest as he turned. His flashlight beam dimmed to a flicker as the pain blackened his field of vision, threatening to overwhelm him.

He took a step forward, his arms wrapped around his chest trying to squeeze back the pain. He coughed into the handkerchief over his face, triggering a spike of agony that sent him to his knees. Smelling his own blood in the sputum, he tore the handkerchief from his face in disgust. Pinpoints of lights cartwheeled across his vision as he fought oblivion.

A second shot rang out.

Linda winced as the bullet ricocheted off the rock over her head and zinged past her ear. Khalid stood coolly before her, punctuating his words with blasts from his pistol, pocking the walls with glancing shots. She placed a hand on Jason's head, trying to reassure him as he cowered behind her.

Khalid spoke slowly. “I had hoped that you would recognize the importance of my mission.”

“Khalid,” Linda began. Her words were sticking in her throat, but she had to try to reason with him. “You left me no choice. I couldn't let you abandon them, leaving them to die.”

Quicker than she could react, Khalid lunged at her, shoving her aside, and grabbed Jason's arm, pulling him free of her. Set off balance, she slipped and fell to the floor, landing hard on her knee.

“Don't, Khalid!” she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. “Please. I'll do anything.”

For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, his pistol wavering. Then he clutched Jason tight to his chest, pressing the muzzle of his pistol to Jason's temple. The boy's eyes were wide with fear but dry, his lips pale. He squirmed, but Khalid knew how to restrain a hostage; even with Jason's frantic wiggling, the muzzle never shifted from his temple. She realized there was no hope.

Suddenly . . . “Leave the boy alone!” Blakely stumbled into view, startling Linda. Even Khalid jumped slightly, backing a step away.

Blakely leaned with one arm on the wall of the tunnel; the other held the flare gun pointed at Khalid. Linda knew it was an empty threat—the gun already spent—but Khalid didn't know. She allowed herself a small hope. She saw blood dribble from the doctor's lips, heard his labored breathing. The blow from the explosion must have hurt him badly. “I said,” he wheezed, “leave the boy alone . . . Release him.” The flare gun swung circles in his weakening grip.

Blakely stepped between Linda and Khalid. “Now!”

Khalid seemed to cower from the gun. Then, like a striking cobra, he burst forward, knocking the gun from Blakely's hand with a swipe of his pistol. “Empty threats are dangerous, Doctor. I watched you use the flare to blow the opening.” Khalid nodded toward the blasted tunnel. “Thank you, by the way.”

Blakely coughed and slumped against the wall, his lips narrowed and blue from pain and exhaustion. He turned to Linda, fresh blood flowed from his lips. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

She crossed to Blakely as Khalid backed away, clutching Jason with the pistol jammed to his temple again. She checked the doctor's pulse, weak and thready. He needed immediate medical attention. She turned to Khalid where he had backed about several feet away.

“Please, stop this,” she begged. “We can all leave together. There's no reason anyone has to die. Let the boy go.”

Staring at her, Khalid did the most amazing thing: He leaned down and placed his gun on the ground. For a moment, her heart soared. As he stood, however, he removed another small gun from a hidden holster above his boot. He pressed this new gun against Jason, whom he still held tight to his chest, the boy's arms pinned within the circle of Khalid's arm.

“You want the boy to live?” Khalid said, his eyes narrow. He kicked the gun toward Linda. “Kill the doctor.”

She stared at the pistol as if it were something toxic, afraid to touch it. “What are you talking about?” she said, turning her eyes up to Khalid.

“We're carrying too much dead weight here. I'll take either the boy or the doctor with us. You choose. There's one bullet left. I want you to shoot Blakely, or I'll kill the boy.”

“No!” she cried, backing away from the gun.

“Then the boy dies. It's your choice. I am only the instrument.”

“Khalid . . . please,” she said, tears flowing, “don't make me do this.”

Blakely spoke up. “Pick up the gun.” His words were so plain and calm that she found herself reaching for it before she realized it. She froze, her hand hovering over the grip.

“Do it!”

She snatched up the gun. It was still hot to the touch from the rounds already fired. She cradled it between her two hands, afraid to trust only one hand. She glanced up at Khalid.

As if reading her mind, Khalid warned, “You have a single shot, my dear. Even if you manage to hit me, the boy would be dead before you could squeeze the trigger.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Why?” she asked in a small voice. “Why do this to me?”

“I need help. And I need obedience. I will teach you how to obey.”

“I can't,” she said. “I can't just kill someone like that.”

“Listen,” Blakely said, his voice hoarse and moist. “You've got to do this.” Now in a whisper, “You need to buy some time. He's going to kill us all anyway.”

“But . . .”

He coughed. Tears welled in his eyes; lines of pain etched his features. “Do it. I'm not going to make it anyway.”

“I . . . I still can't,” she whispered, her head falling to her chest.

Blakely reached to her, placing a hand on her head, whispering in her ear, “My wife died four years ago. My kids have grown up. I've bounced seven grandkids on my knee. I've lived a full life. But Jason's is just starting.” He lifted her head, then picked up her hands that held the gun. He placed the gun in one of her palms and raised her hand, positioning the muzzle against his forehead. “Be strong, Linda.”

“No, please, no,” she cried, tears flowing down her cheeks.

He closed his eyes, still holding up her hand with his own. Hidden from view, she felt his finger push hers off the trigger. “I know,” he whispered. “I won't let the bastard win.” His finger replaced hers on the trigger. She felt his finger twitch, and the blast and recoil jumped the gun from her hands. It clattered to the ground, smoke trailing from its muzzle.