Wall of Night (47 page)

Out of time,
Tanner thought.

Chono Dam

Surrounded in front and back by a pair of commandos
Skeldon and Cahil carried the remaining three charges down the trail to the mine's entrance. The colonel brought up the rear. Cahil could feel the man's eyes on his back.
Marching us to our deaths,
he thought.
Not if I can help it
…

As planned, Skeldon, with a charge balanced on each shoulder, walked ahead of Cahil. Bear could feel the C4 disk rubbing against his belly. He mentally rehearsed his movements.

Have to be very quick,
Bear.
Once he made his move he would have but seconds before the commandos' confusion turned to action. There was, he realized, a very real possibility he'd be shot before he got two steps. If so, he could only pray Skeldon would somehow see it through to the end.

Forty minutes after leaving the camp, they stopped in front of the mine's hidden entrance. The point man knelt down, rolled the stone aside, then wriggled into the tunnel, followed by the next man.

“Push your charges through,” the colonel ordered Skeldon.

Skeldon dropped to his knees and slid his charges into the hole. A pair of hands appeared and dragged each inside. Cahil followed the same procedure and then the colonel ordered them into the tunnel. Once everyone was through and standing inside the cave, Skeldon and Cahil hefted their charges and the group started out again.

The point man's flashlight danced over the rocky walls. The scrape of their boots echoed down the tunnel, each man's step raising a tiny cloud of dust. A breeze blew past Cahil's face, cooling the sweat on his forehead and chilling his neck. He shivered.

How far
?
he wondered. He eyed the passing walls, searching for his landmark.

After another two minutes, he saw it: a dumbbell-shaped bulge in the wall. A few steps ahead, Skeldon passed it. His right index finger tapped twice on the charge. He'd seen it.

Cahil started counting steps. Sixty-two paces to the ambush point.

He glanced over his shoulder. The tail man and the colonel walked with their M-16s at the ready, fingers resting on the triggers.
Gotta be quick
… In the confines of the tunnel, an M-16 blast would send bullets ricocheting off the walls, each a tumbling piece of deadly shrapnel looking for flesh.

The tunnel began sloping downward. The air grew cooler. Cahil could smell musty water.

Getting closer.
Forty-three
…
forty-four
…

When they reached the ambush point, Skeldon wouldn't wait to see if he was moving; he would simply attack the two lead commandos and trust Cahil was doing his part.

Fifty-four
…
fifty-five..
.fifty-six
…
Just yards now.

Cahil reached up and undid the button on his shirt, rubbed a finger over the C4 disk.

The tunnel turned sharply right, then straightened out.

Sixty
…
Where is it,
where is it
?

He reached into his belt, palmed the detonator cap, then pressed it into the C4. He gently folded the disk in half and closed his fist around it.

Sixty-one
…
There
!

Ahead, hanging low from the ceiling, was the rock shelf. The point man's beam flashed over it, then moved on, rounding the corner. Skeldon passed beneath the shelf.

Now
!

Cahil let the charge slip off his shoulder. It hit the dirt floor with a thud. He danced backward a few steps as though trying to save his toes. The commando behind him backed up.

“Sorry,” Cahil said.

“Pick it up!” the colonel barked.

With the C4 balled in his right first, Cahil knelt down beside the charge.
Ready,
ready
… He glanced back, taking aim, then closed his eyes briefly and said a quick prayer.

From ahead, a surprised shout: “Aiyahhh!”

Cahil lashed out with a mule kick that slammed into the commando's belly. The man stumbled backward into the colonel, who struggled to raise his M-16. Cahil cocked his right arm and threw the C4. Even as it slammed into the shelf, he dove forward.

A flare of light filled the tunnel, followed by a muffled explosion. Smoke billowed around him. As it cleared, he looked ahead and saw a pair of flashlights lying in the dirt; in their shadowed beams Skeldon and one of the commandos were locked together in struggle. The other commando lay on the ground, his head partially crushed beneath Skeldon's pipe charge.

Out of the corner of his eye Cahil saw movement behind him. He spun. The commando he'd kicked shuffled through the smoke, his M-16 dangling from one hand. His right arm was missing at the elbow; blood gushed from the stump. His jacket front, neck and face were a mass of bloody pock-marks. He took two more steps, then groaned and collapsed.

Cahil scrambled over to him, snatched up the M-16, and charged around the corner.

Skeldon was lying on the ground. A commando stood over him, M-16 raised.

Cahil took aim, fired. The man fell backward.

“You okay?” Bear asked, snatching up a flashlight.

“Yeah.”

“Grab his weapon and flashlight. We've gotta move; the others had to have heard the shots.”

With Cahil in the lead, they raced down the tunnel, their flashlight beams bouncing off the walls.

“How much farther?” Skeldon called.

“Should be coming up. When we get into the cavern, we'll split. You go right, I'll go left!”

“Right!”

They were approaching the last bend in the tunnel when Cahil saw pale, crimson light ahead. He stopped, dropping to one knee. Skeldon did the same. Cahil crawled forward to the bend.

Spaced at even intervals, four sputtering red flares dotted the cavern floor, casting the stalactites and stalagmites in eerie relief. Near the far wall, behind a row of small boulders, a pair of lanterns glowed yellow against the rock. A shadow of a figure hunched beside one of the bore holes. A few feet away a head popped up from behind a boulder, then ducked down again.

Cahil crawled back. “One's on lookout, the other's rigging the last charge.”

“What's the plan?”

“No plan. Hail Mary. We rush them and hope one of us reaches the charge.”

“Not exactly what I'd call a brilliant plan.”

“Sorry, I'm all out of brilliant. Concentrate your fire on the lookout”

“Right. Ready when you are.”

Together, they rose into a crouch. Cahil mouthed a silent three-count, then they stood and charged into the cavern. Skeldon veered right, toward the nearest boulder, Cahil straight ahead.

The lookout popped up from behind his boulder. Fire winked from his muzzle.

Cahil dove behind a stalagmite. Bullets pounded into the rock.

To the right, Skeldon opened fire. Cahil rolled left, fired off a dozen rounds, then rolled back.

“I'm going!” Skeldon called. “Gimme cover!”

“No, wait!”

It was too late. Skeldon was already on his feet and sprinting forward in a weaving run.

Seeing Skeldon, the lookout opened fire. From the corner of his eye Cahil saw Skeldon stumble and go down.
No,
no,
no
… Bear took aim, fired. The lookout toppled over.

“Mike!”

With a groan, Skeldon pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet, and began shuffling forward. He dragged his right leg behind him. He glanced back at Cahil; his face was twisted in pain.

Ahead there came a flare of white light.
Detonator cord,
Bear realized. The charges were lit.

The last commando rose beside the wall. He saw Skeldon and turned that way, M-16 coming up. Cahil jerked his own weapon to his shoulder, took aim, fired. The man crumpled. Cahil started running. Skeldon covered the last few feet to the wall, tried to hurdle the line of boulders, but fell forward.

Cahil was there in seconds. Both commandos were dead. Skeldon lay on his side, groaning, but still trying to crawl forward. The bullet had shattered his tibia; a jagged piece of white bone jutted from his pant leg. “The charges!” he rasped.

Cahil spun. The hissing end of each length of detcord had already disappeared into its respective bore hole; white light sparkled from the mouths; dangling from each lay the straps the commandos had used to lower the charges into place.

“You get those,” Skeldon said. “I've got this one.”

Cahil dropped his M-16 and rushed to the first hole. He knelt down, grabbed the strap, and began reeling it up. The glowing end of the detcord came into view; it was two feet from the charge. He grabbed it, jerked hard.
Snap
!
It came free.

A few feet away, Skeldon straddled the bore bole, his good leg braced against the wall, the other flailing in the dirt as he heaved at his strap. Tears streamed down his face. Each time he leaned forward to pull, his shattered leg bowed in mid-calf and Cahil could see a jagged tip of tibia jutting from the rent in his pant leg.

Bear forced himself to look away. He dove for the second strap.
Faster
…
faster
…
From out of the dark hole came the flaming end. Cahil grabbed it, wincing as the heat seared his palm. He jerked hard.
Snap
!

“Help me,” Skeldon called. “Ahhh!”

The end of the last detcord was jutting from the hole; it was six inches from the charge. With one hand wrapped around the strap, Skeldon leaned forward, his fingers stretched toward the charge.

“Hang on!” Cahil yelled.

From across the cavern came the
crack crack crack
of gunfire. Bullets thunked into the wall above Cahil's head. He felt a sting in his bicep. He dropped to the ground and turned.

The colonel, his face and neck slick with blood, staggered across the floor toward them.

“I've got this!” Skeldon yelled. “Get him!”

Cahil dove for his M-16. As his hand touched the stock, the colonel hurdled the boulders and landed in a crouch. He swung his barrel toward Skeldon.

Cahil fired. His three-round burst stitched up the colonel's back, the last bullet slamming into the back of his head. He dropped forward.

“Cahil … !” Skeldon had managed to pull the charge into his lap. The detcord sizzled. He stared at it for a split second, then looked up at Cahil. “Too late.”

The end of the detcord disappeared into the charge.

In that last second, Skeldon stared at him with an expression that Bear could only describe as sad resignation. “Sorry,” he said, then tucked the charge against his chest and rolled away, pointing the charge toward the cavern's far wall.

“Mike … !”

Bear pushed himself upright and dove over the boulder. He would never remember hearing the explosion, only the shock wave as it picked him up and hurtled him into the darkness.

Nakhodka-Vostochny

Jurens and his team bypassed the first roadblock without incident and made good time for the next hour until Smitty, who was walking point, called a halt with a raised fist. As one, they dropped to their bellies. Dhar, fourth in the line, froze. Jurens grabbed his pant leg and pulled him down.

Sunrise was less than an hour away now, and Jurens could see faint gray light filtering through the canopy above. Dew and frost clung in patches to the ground; he could feel the cold seeping through his BDUs.

Smitty turned and signaled:
Road
;
enemy foot patrol approaching
;
squad-size,
heavily armed.

Dammit,
Jurens thought. They were in a bad spot. If not for their hurried pace, they would have seen the patrol long before now and had time to set up in a defensive ambush position; as it was, they were bunched up with lousy fields of fire and only one route of retreat.

Sconi signaled back:
Proceed when clear.

Smitty nodded and turned back. Jurens wormed his way left a few inches until he could see the edge of the road. Now he could hear what had caught Smitty's attention: the murmur of Russian voices and the crunch of boots on gravel.

Thirty seconds later, a pair of booted feet passed before the trail not two feet from Smitty's face. The soldiers were moving slowly and in a modified squad wedge. This wasn't another bored patrol, Jurens realized, but a hunting party. Aside from an occasional whispered exchange, they made no sound. Sconi counted feet as they passed: eight men.

After what seemed like ten minutes, the last soldier passed the trail head. Smitty waited another two minutes, then crawled onto the road to reconnoiter. Without turning, he signaled back:
All clear.

Smitty rose to his feet, hunch-walked across the road, MP-5 tracking side to side, then disappeared into the underbrush on the other side. Dickie crawled forward, then crept across to join him, followed by Zee, then Dhar.

Jurens would never know how Dhar managed it, but halfway across the road he stumbled and sprawled in the dirt. He gave a sharp cry of pain. Dickie and Zee slipped out of the bushes, grabbed his collar and pulled him down the slope.

Jurens lay still, listening.

Then, from up the road, he heard the scuff of boots and a harsh whisper:

“
Shtoh
…
gdeh
?”
What
…
where
?

Jurens knew immediately what was happening. The squad had left behind a trailing OP, or observation post, designed to watch for enemy movement in the wake of the main force's passage.

Ten seconds passed. From Jurens's left came the sound of boots crunching on the gravel. A pair of man-shaped shadows slipped across the trail. The two soldiers stopped in front of him and knelt.

Very slowly, Jurens eased his MP-5 up and took aim.

“
Shtoh
?”
one of the soldiers asked.
Where
?

The other one pointed toward where Smitty and the others had crossed into the underbrush. Rifles held before them, they began creeping toward the spot. They stopped, peered into the foliage.

Nothing to see,
Jurens thought.
Keep walking
—

“Stope
!”

In unison both soldiers jerked their rifles to their shoulders.

Jurens and Smitty fired simultaneously. Sconi's three-round burst impacted the back of the first soldier's head. The second one, his chest similarly riddled, crumpled. As he did so, his rifle discharged. The single
crack
echoed through the night air.

Smitty and Zee were out of the trees in an instant, providing cover for Jurens's crossing. Sconi sprinted across the road, paused to snatch up the soldier's rifles, then slipped into the brush. Smitty and Zee each grabbed a soldier by the collar and pulled them out of site as Dickie tossed dirt over the blood stains and drag marks. Once done, they all gathered in a circle.

“So much for stealth,” Dickie said.

“What'd they see?” Jurens asked.

In response, Smitty jerked his head toward Dhar, who said, “Sorry.”

From up the road they heard the sound of a truck engine revving. Excited voices shouted to one another.

“Time's up,” Smitty said.

“What's the plan, boss?” asked Zee.

“Run for all we're worth. It won't take them long to find these two; by then, we best be on a boat and heading to sea.”

USS
Columbia

“On my mark,” Archie Kinsock called. “Three … two … one—Blow ballast!”

“Blow ballast, aye,” the chief of the watch replied from the control panel.

A shudder rippled through
Columbia's
hull as compressed air rushed from the flasks and expelled the boat's water weight. The deck rolled beneath their feet; Kinsock and MacGregor grabbed at the chart table to keep their balance.

Kinsock kept his eyes fixed on the depth readout. The diving officer leaned over the helm console, his hands resting on the shoulders of the helmsman and planesman. Five seconds passed. Ten.

Lift,
lift,
lift
…
Kinsock chanted to himself.
Up baby
…

As if following his orders, the readout clicked from 160 to 158.

“We're moving,” the diving officer called. “One fifty-seven … fifty-six.”

“Trim us out, Chief. Even keel.”

“Aye, sir.”

Eyes fixed on his gauges, the chief punched a series of buttons. With a groan,
Columbia
rolled slightly to starboard, her deck coming level. “Coming level.”

The diving officer called, “One hundred fifty and rising.”

Kinsock keyed the squawk box. “Engineering, Conn.”

“Engineering, aye. Chief here, Skipper.”

“We're off the bottom, Chief. Deploy the thrusters.”

“Stand by.”

A few seconds passed and then Kinsock heard a faint hum as the thruster doors opened and the outboards deployed. “Conn, Engineering. Thrusters locked and ready. On your order, Skipper.”

“Conn, aye. Diving officer, bring us to PD.”

Without propulsion to give her headway,
Columbia's
climb to periscope depth became a careful dance of cooperation between the chief at the ballast controls and the diving officer, who passed a continuous stream of murmured orders to the planesman and helmsman.

Columbia
wallowed and tipped as she rose through the currents and thermal layers.

“Coming to PD,” called the diving officer.

“Gimme zero bubble.”

“Zero bubble, aye,” replied the chief. “Zero bubble. Steady at depth.”

“We've got a drift. Southeast at two knots,” the diving officer added.

“Aye. Up scope.”

With a hum, the periscope ascended from the well. Kinsock caught the grips and put his face to the viewer.

His first sight of the surface in three days took his breath away. The water was a cobalt blue, rolling and choppy with the wind tearing the crests into spindrift. He duck-walked the scope from the northeast to southeast; the horizon was clear of ships. He turned landward, skimming the viewer first over Cape Kamensky and then past the mouth of Vrangel Bay. Aside from a flurry of tugboat and ferry activity nearer the port, the surface was clear.

Kinsock closed the grips. “Down scope. Raise the antenna.” He turned to MacGregor. “Jim, go to Radio; time to tell home we're alive.”

“Aye.”

Two minutes later, MacGregor called: “Conn, Radio. Skipper, you better take a look at this.”

“On my way.”

When Kinsock pushed into Radio, MacGregor handed him a flimsy message:

WELCOME BACK COLUMBIA. CLEAR AREA ASAP. TACTICAL SITUATION DIFFICULT; WILL ATTEMPT DISPATCH ESCORT YOUR POSITION. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. SICKLE SITREP: OPERATIONAL; ATTEMPTING EXFILTRATION; DESTINATION: 42° 44′ N/132° 51′ E, GRID REF 12 ECHO DISCRETION YOURS. LUCK.

“I'll be damned,” Kinsock muttered. “They're alive.”

“And making a run for it,” MacGregor replied. “What'd that mean: ‘Discretion yours.'”

“It means we can either clear out and save our asses or go get Jurens and his men.”

“I vote for both.”

They returned to the Control Center and walked over to the chart table. Kinsock quickly plotted the message's latitude, longitude, and grid coordinates. “It's a fishing village,” he said.

“Makes sense. Steal a boat, get into international waters. How far away are we?”

Kinsock measured the distance. “Two miles southeast.”

“What do you think?”

Kinsock looked around the Center, his eyes resting briefly on each of the watch standers.
One hundred twenty men,
he thought.
All trusting me to get them home.
And if this
was
a democracy
?
What would be their vote
?
Run away or go back
?

Even before he asked the question of himself, Kinsock knew the answer.

“The hell with it,” he said. He keyed the squawk box. “Engineering, Conn. Power up the thrusters, Chief. Diving officer, make your course two-one-zero. We've got passengers waiting.”

With Smitty still on point, Jurens and his team were halfway across the last road above the village when an army truck skidded around the corner and stopped fifty yards away. Soldiers began jumping from the back and running toward them. Behind them, up the embankment, gunfire raked the trees and punched the dirt at their feet.

“Go, Smitty, go!” Jurens called.

Smitty took off with Zee and a wide-eyed Sunil Dhar on his heels. Firing from the hip, Jurens and Dickie sprinted across the road and down the opposite slope. Bullets crashed into the trees around them, each impact sounding like a whip crack. Branches and leaves rained down on them.

“Keep going!” Jurens ordered Dickie.

Jurens dropped to one knee, plucked a grenade off his web belt, and tossed it through the canopy toward the road, then kept running. With a
crump,
the grenade exploded. Cries of pain and anger filtered through the trees.

Jurens crashed from the tree line and onto the beach. Dickie was waiting. Smitty, Zee, and Dhar were thirty feet ahead, running toward the pier some one hundred yards distant. To the left, Jurens heard an engine revving.

A truck screeched to a stop on the beach road. Sconi turned, fired half his magazine into the cab. In twos and threes soldiers leapt from the tailgate and began climbing down the rock wall. As each landed, he dropped to one knee and began firing. Jurens counted ten soldiers, then fifteen … twenty. Up the embankment, soldiers were crashing through the trees, calling out to one another.

Jurens and Dickie took off, heads down as they sprinted for the pier. Still in the lead, Smitty mounted the planking and kept running. Dhar tripped, fell. Zee stopped, grabbed him by the shoulder, and began dragging him.

“I can't!” Dhar cried. “I can't run anymore.”

“Then crawl!” Zee shouted.
“Move
!”

Dickie caught up to them, hitched one arm beneath Dhar's arm and together they began dragging him. Running beside them, Jurens turned and fired from the hip. Two soldiers went down. He ejected the spent magazine, slammed another into the butt, kept shooting.

From the pier he heard the throaty roar of an engine. At the end of the pier Smitty stood at the controls of a trawler. “Come on, come on …!” He mounted the transom, brought his MP-5 to his shoulder, and began firing three-round bursts over their heads.

“The hell with this!” Zee yelled.

He handed his MP-5 to Dickie, then heaved Dhar over his shoulder. Dickie lagged back with Jurens, both of them firing together. There were nearly forty soldiers on the beach now. Sergeants and officers were shouting orders, trying to organize their fire.

“How many grenades you got?” Jurens called.

“Two!” Dickie replied.

“Use 'em!”

As Jurens provided cover, Dickie tossed both grenades.
Crump,
crump
!
Double geysers of sand erupted amid the soldiers. With Dickie in the lead, he and Jurens turned and charged down the planking. Dickie cried out, grabbed his leg, stumbled. Jurens caught him. They kept running.

Ahead, Zee was five feet from the boat's transom when suddenly his arms went wide and he pitched headfirst onto the planking. Dhar landed in a heap on top of him.

“Zee's down!” Smitty called and leapt onto the dock. He grabbed Dhar and gave him a shove; he tripped over the gunwale and crashed to the deck. Smitty turned back for Zee. A bullet struck him in the upper chest; he spun and plunged into the water.

“Get him!” Jurens ordered Dickie.

As Dickie tossed both his MP-5s onto the afterdeck and dove into the water, Jurens dropped to one knee, turned, and poured fire onto the beach. He plucked his own remaining grenades from his belt, tossed one toward the soldiers, then rolled the last down the planking. It exploded, disintegrating a ten-foot section of the dock.

He turned, grabbed Zee by the collar, and staggered the last few feet to the boat. Zee was unmoving; there was a ragged bullet hole between his shoulder blades.
No,
no,
no
…

At the transom, Dickie struggled to climb aboard with Smitty, who clutched the gunwale with both hands. His face was ghostly white. Watery blood coated his neck. Dickie reached over, grabbed his belt and heaved. Together they rolled onto the deck.

“Catch!” Jurens called. He tossed his MP-5 to Dickie, then dragged Zee to the edge of the dock and jumped onto the afterdeck. He and Dickie grabbed Zee's shoulders and pulled him aboard.

“Get us outta here!” Jurens ordered.

Dickie ran for the cabin. Jurens snatched up his MP-5, fired three rounds into the stern cleat, shredding the mooring line, then turned and did the same for the forward cleat.