Thunder In The Deep (02) (32 page)

The guard stepped down from the ladder. Another took his place, and covered them warily with his rifle. The alarm stopped. The blast door rose and reset. There on the other side was the welding gear. Ilse was gone. Montgomery pointed at the transformer, past Jeffrey's body, and spoke to the guard.

The second guard said something, nodded, and climbed down from the ladder. The rifles aimed into the duct disappeared.

Jeffrey heard a radio hiss and crackle. They must be talking to guards at the other end of the duct. Ilse's end.

Jeffrey climbed out headfirst at the other end of the air duct—that grate was swung wide open. Montgomery held his ankles till Jeffrey's hands could reach the floor. Awkwardly, Jeffrey stood. Montgomery handed down the transformer.

Jeffrey had an idea. He checked the coast was clear, so he could talk. "Chief, can you jam open the blast door with a welding rod?"

"Good thought, sir. Be right back." This way one bomb might be enough to kill both halves of the lab—or it might not.

Jeffrey saw a socket. "Chief," he said in a whisper. Jeffrey plugged in the extension cord and lifted the rig to Montgomery. "Weld the rod in place. In fact, try to weld the door open."

Montgomery nodded. He backed in, dragging the rig. There were blue-white flashes, then more scraping of metal on concrete. The end of the rig reappeared. Jeffrey grabbed it, then helped Montgomery down. He knelt so Montgomery could get back up to shut the grate, and remove any traces of the shims.

Ilse stepped out from behind a big steam manifold. It hissed and dripped. "Guards came by and did a sweep, but I evaded round these pipes till the ones on your side called them off."

Jeffrey smiled with relief. He gave her a hug, and she squeezed back.

"Let's get to the rally point." Jeffrey turned to Montgomery as they strode along, wheeling the welding rig, looking over their shoulders nervously, hoping they wouldn't be apprehended too soon, before they could turn the missile lab into a double nuclear Hell.

"You did it again, Chief," Jeffrey said to try to lighten the mood. "Faking out those guards."

- "So I'll get an Oscar, posthumously. . . . This maintenance worker act is wearing thin, sir."

Jeffrey nodded. The guards might double-check and see there was never anything wrong with the duct that needed welding, and that Salih's ID, not a repair authorization, had opened the grates.

"Also, sir, the guard asked me if we'd seen a late-twenties woman with shoulder-length brown hair. You, Ilse."

"They're on to me."

"How did you get down from the duct headfirst so fast?" Jeffrey said.

"The grate didn't look like it could hold me, so I tried to do a parachute landing fall."

"You've had jump training?" Montgomery said.

"No. I told myself this was no time to clutch, and just did it. . . . I don't think I broke anything."

"The grates," Jeffrey said. "It's been nagging on my mind. I think Salih and Clayton are still on the loose. The way they left the ductway clear, those shims—it's like they were trying to plant a message for us. . . . I'm starting to have a new plan."

"There's another problem," Montgomery said. "That automated checkpoint we came through near the utility space, you remember, with Clayton and Salih. How do we get Ilse past it now? I'm sure they've invalidated her ID."

"We have to knock out the videocamera," Jeffrey said. "Then one of us can carry her on his shoulders through the floor-to-ceiling turnstile."

"Won't breaking the camera set off another alarm?" Ilse said.

"Sir, let me use the welding rig real quick, since they'll be watching on the fish-eye. I'll zap the camera cable."

"I like it. Then, if we can move fast enough, the alarm should work in our favor." The alarm must have been silent. Past the turnstile, the threesome ran as fast as they could. They came to the spot where the rest of the SEALs were hiding. It was an especially hot, humid, and noisy cul-de-sac, where few lab workers or guards were likely to go, well concealed by big steel cooling pipes that also gave good cover from enemy fire. SEALs One and Nine brought their weapons to bear, then waved Jeffrey through as soon as his group was recognized.

Clayton and Salih were there, huddled over a floor plan and recon photos. Clayton was suited up for battle.

Salih held a pistol borrowed from a SEAL. Twenty other Gastarbeiter were there, also armed with borrowed pistols, or borrowed knives or grenades, or lengths of pipe. They weren't a rabble, but a disciplined formation in two squads.

"When we couldn't find you, sir," Clayton said, "Salih alerted his people. We were hoping you three would make it back on your own."

"I think there are guards right on our tail," Jeffrey said. It was better tactically for the first wave of guards to come to them. "Where's the toolbox?"

"Inside a T-joint access hatch, in a cooling bypass loop we closed the valves to isolate. . .

. Where's Ilse's briefcase?"

"In a supply room in the other half," Ilse said, "down on the third level. Behind cartons of printer paper and water-cooler refill jugs."

"I know what's in your boxes," Salih said. "I'm a building engineer, remember? You'd never come this far just to spy. Do what you have to do."

"ROEs have been satisfied." Jeffrey checked his watch. "Lieutenant Clayton, arm and start your bomb, seven five minutes timer delay."

"Arm and start it, seven five minutes, aye." Clayton rushed off. SEALs One and Nine moved out to deepen the perimeter. One of Salih's squads followed each SEAL, crouching low.

Jeffrey and Ilse hurried into their black drysuits and flak vests. They pulled on urban warfare camo smocks—a pattern of broken shapes in white and black and gray, like shattered concrete and asphalt. SEALs Seven and Eight helped them don the rest of their battle gear. Jeffrey double-checked Ilse from head to foot, feeling very protective of her, especially now that they might have a chance to survive. She stood still for his close inspection, and made quick eye contact from very close, and there was something very intimate and special in her look.

Jeffrey turned to Salih. The Turk's stooped posture

was long gone. His eyes sparkled in a way Jeffrey hadn't seen before.

"You held something back from us, didn't you?" Jeffrey said. Salih grinned. "Need-to-know, Commander. In case you were captured yourself. After the first hangings, we reorganized from an ersatz labor union into infantry platoons in secret. A lot of the men did national service in the army, in Turkey or in Germany. I made corporal before I got out of the Bundesarmee." The German Army.

"Did your two men really confess about the guard?"

"I'm not good at making speeches. Those two volunteered, as soon as I explained things. They knew what would be done to them. I knew the rest of us would have to watch. That got my men fired up, far better than my words could."

Jeffrey gulped: the self-sacrifice, the ruthlessness. "I'm glad you're on our side, Mr. Salih."

"Call me Gamal."

"There are a hundred of you?"

"Some are massed at key points on the other side of the interlock, waiting to break cover when they hear the shooting reach them. The rest of us are here, or waiting near here. My men all know the only alternative to escape is death, from your bombs or from a German noose. We'll fight hard."

"How many more of you have firearms?"

"None so far," Salih said. "We'll get them the time-honored guerrilla way, from enemy dead. Some of you might reach the surface, with our help."

"All right." It would be a slaughter, but with both A-bombs in place they had nothing to lose. The same idea had come to Jeffrey after crawling through the air duct—to join with the Turks and try to fight their way out together—but Clayton and Salih were way ahead of him.

Clayton returned. "The device is armed and set." Jeffrey looked at the SEAL team leader with new, heightened admiration.

"There's one change," Jeffrey said. "On the way out, we work past the test chamber, and grab the model missile."

"Concur," Clayton said.

"There's something else," Ilse said. "We should swing by the computer center. Before the A-bombs blow, we steal the drive disks outright."

Over Jeffrey's helmet earphones came, "Six, One, contact! Contact!" Around a bend there was a crackling burst of assault rifle fire. Jeffrey heard soft sputtering, and whining ricochets, as SEALs One and Nine responded. A grenade went off with a flash and a sharp concussion, and there were screams.

To sounds of more gunfire, Clayton finished his hasty briefing, telling everyone where to go and what to do and how to stay coordinated. "Keep them guessing! Keep up the pressure! Don't stop for anything till we get out the front door!" Each platoon had phase lines, and intermediate objectives, like any infantry assault. Clayton, Montgomery, and Jeffrey each commanded a platoon. Each of the SEALs, and Ilse and Salih, led a squad of Turks.

Jeffrey's group took off in one direction, Montgomery's in the other. Ilse and Salih stuck with Clayton, the headquarters platoon.

There was a deafening blast. The overpressure tried to burst Ilse's lungs. Her headphones crackled.

"Six, Nine. Turnstile down with C4!" That was SEAL Nine calling Clayton. Smoke and concrete dust began to fill the air.

Another burst of assault rifle fire, then more grenades.

"Six, Three! Three Platoon advancing toward trucking

interlock!" That was Montgomery. Ilse knew his thrust was

a feint, but one with a purpose. He had to secure their

rear. With most of Clayton's scratch command half-starved Turks, they couldn't afford a fight on two fronts inside the lab.

Ilse followed Clayton round a bend. She leaped past dead Germans and Turks. Her own Gastarbeiter squad followed in her footsteps, lugging her pack. Some of her Turks stopped to strip dead guards of weapons and ammo, helmets and body armor.

"Their boots!" Ilse shouted in German—the Turks' sandals were pathetic and it was dead of winter outside. "Take their hoots!" A spent round ricocheted past her head, then another. She bent lower and charged. She came to the wrecked turnstile; she vaulted over twisted titanium bars. It was raining. What? The sprinklers had gone off. She dashed through a waterfall, a ruptured overhead pipe.

She glanced back. Three of her Turks had weapons. She waved for them to fan out, to build a base of fire. For all their zeal, their combat skills were rusty; she didn't want one firing into her back.

"Six, Three," came over her headphones. "Truck interlock jammed as ordered. Mechanism fused with thermite grenades. We'll wreck the service elevator next." Ilse heard and felt a heavy blast. "Elevator destroyed."

"Three, Six. Casualties?" Ilse caught a glimpse of Clayton, firing on the run. He dropped a guard. Another fired at Ilse, hit one of her Turks. She dropped the other guard. A Gastarbeiter grabbed the fallen Turk's rifle.

"Achtung, achtung," came over the public address. "All staff proceed to safety areas. This is not an exercise."

"Five, Four," Jeffrey's voice called Ilse. "What was that?"

"The staff's taking cover!"

"Where?" Jeffrey shouted.

"Ten," Ilse yelled. "Where?"

"The dorm and the wind tunnel area," Salih said. "They're armored." Ilse relayed—Salih, now squad leader Ten, lacked a helmet radio; Ilse's number was Five.

"Three, Six," Clayton called. "Repeat: casualties?"

"Six, Three," Montgomery answered. "SEAL Seven is dead. We lost fifteen Turks. Rear secure. Beginning retrograde movement."

"Copy. What's your body count so far?"

"Ten enemy dead. All naval infantry. Eight's squad is sweeping the level beneath us now, blocking the stairways with cluster minelets to isolate the level under that."

"Three, Six. Copy."

"Six, Nine." Nine was also now on the level below, beneath the rest of Clayton's platoon. Nine led another squad of Turks—Ilse had seen them assaulting down a stairwell.

"Nine, Six. Go."

"They keep changing the encryption keys, to lock out captured radios. More naval infantry are mustering outside. I heard something about a freight train coming, with Army helo gunship escort."

"Nine, Six. Copy," Clayton said. "We're heading for the wind tunnel. Keep pace under us! Work with Eight's squad to cover your flank. Break break. Four, Six—status?"

"Taking heavy fire," Jeffrey said. "When's that freight train due?"

"Four, Nine. They said about four zero minutes." "Six, Four. Reset your bomb, four zero minutes." "What? You said seven five!"

"That's a direct order, Shaj."

"I'm in charge of the mission. We'll never get out of here in forty minutes!"

"Six, Four. With the ROEs, I rule."

Ilse heard Clayton hesitate. "Four, Six. Roger that, aye, aye. Break break. Nine, Six, you copy?"

"Six, Nine. Affirmative. I'll reset the bomb." Nine knew the antitamper disarm code.

"Four, Six. Status?"

"We're taking heavy fire near the air duct," Jeffrey said. "Unable to advance."

"Fall back," Clayton said. "When Three Platoon links up, assault the duct again."

"Copy."

"Six Platoon," Clayton said, "squads Five and Ten, to the second level now! Follow me!" Jeffrey spun and fired and spun and ran. He tried to make every shot count, trying to slow down the German pursuit. He was the leader of Four Platoon, and Four Platoon was retreating. Something slammed Jeffrey's flak vest from behind but didn't penetrate, and he dropped to the floor and crawled. Jeffrey fired over his shoulder, then crawled more. A Turk, too slow, had his back stitched. He thumped hard to the concrete; his head bounced, then lay still.

Everywhere the sprinklers poured. This is like houseto-house combat in a monsoon. Rifle reports echoed harshly in the corridors and stairwells, making it hard to tell who was where. The Turks with German weapons made it worse.

At least the heavy sprinkler flow held down the smoke and cordite fumes, and suppressed the dust from shattered plaster and concrete. But it couldn't soften the broken glass from smashed fluorescent bulbs—Jeffrey's arms and legs bled. He had no choice: The enemy fire was too intense to duckwalk now.