WAR: Intrusion (44 page)

Forget them. They don’t matter.

Walking over to the metal basin resting on a tall cart, Helen poured rubbing alcohol over her hands and watched it pool in the bottom of the basin. The scent reminded her that she was working now. As she dried her hands and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, her nervousness fled. Once Mrs. N’Dorah was similarly gloved up, Helen approached the rebel on the table. She carefully removed the blood-soaked bandages so she could fully examine his wounds. His facial injuries, including a broken nose, were consistent with a high-speed impact against a hard surface such as a windshield. He had several deep gashes and punctures on his arms, legs, and torso. But by far the most severe injury was the cut that had opened his abdomen and exposed his intestines.

Despite her fingers prodding him during the examination, the rebel didn’t respond. His skin was cool and his breathing was shallow and rapid. She could barely find his pulse. He’d lost a dangerous amount of blood. So much that his wounds were no longer bleeding freely. Yet Natchaba’s men had not provided her with bags of blood.

Without replacement fluids, the man’s prognosis was poor. Still, if she attempted to explain that to Natchaba, no doubt he’d see it as an attempt to renege on her promise. So she’d do the best she could and then it would be up to Natchaba’s men to keep the man alive.

She nodded to Mrs. N’Dorah and the two of them wiped off the worst of the blood and dirt from the man’s body and cut away his clothing. As Helen worked to remove his pants, her fingers brushed against a hard object in his pocket. Shifting so that her body blocked the view of Natchaba and his men, she sliced open the pocket from underneath. A Zippo lighter fell into her hand. Helen shoved it underneath the edge of the sheet, then dumped the ruined pants onto the floor of the stage.

She didn’t know if she’d have an opportunity to use the lighter, but the rubbing alcohol was flammable and a nice little pool of it was sitting in the basin not far away.

Afraid to get her hopes up, Helen nodded at Mrs. N’Dorah. They’d cut away enough of the man’s clothing to allow them to work. The rebels on the stage would likely object if they stripped him completely naked.

Helen prepared to begin work. It was lucky for the rebel that he was unconscious, because his comrades hadn’t provided any anesthesia. If he started writhing in pain, she didn’t think she’d be able to continue working, threat to Mrs. N'Dorah’s life or not.

Her emergency calm sustained her as they repacked the intestine into the abdominal cavity. But when she picked up the scalpel to cut away the damaged pieces of skin and muscle, panic squeezed her lungs. She struggled to breathe. As she stared at the scalpel poised over the man’s flesh, memories from the attack flooded her. She slammed her eyes shut, but that only made the images starker, so she wrenched them open.

You have to do this.

Yet as she began to make the first cut, her hand shook.

“Stay strong, doctor,” Mrs. N'Dorah murmured, softly enough that the others didn’t hear her.

Reminding herself that Mrs. N’Dorah’s life depended on this, Helen managed to fight back her panic and regain a degree of calm. Her hand trembled slightly as she sliced away the ragged, burned edges of the wound, but eventually the familiar rhythm put her into the detached, zen state she normally experienced during surgery. She worked slowly. Methodically. Not as hastily as she normally would if a life was on the line, but not dragging it out so long that she could be accused of failing to provide adequate care. Yet…at the same time, at the back of her mind, she was aware that all of her actions were just for show. The man was dying and none of the supplied equipment would be sufficient to keep him alive.

She wasn’t proud of the fact that this knowledge helped her move forward. But she couldn’t forget the screams of her colleagues or the way this man had laughed as he’d carved them up.

Her hand jerked and the scalpel skidded away from the wound. Acting as if she’d meant to do that, she let her hand keep moving until it rested on the table. Letting go of the scalpel, she nodded at the needle and thread. Mrs. N’Dorah strung the needle for her, and Helen began stitching the man up. Acutely aware of the scalpel resting on the table just in front of her pelvis, she told herself to be patient. She had to give the rebels time to forget that she’d placed the instrument there. So it wasn’t until she was bandaging one of the puncture wounds on his thigh that she felt safe nudging the scalpel underneath the sheet next to the lighter.

Now she just had to figure out how to get both items into the pocket of her lab coat. And hope that an opportunity came along for her to use them to escape.

With that slim hope in her heart, Helen continued to work. Every few minutes, Mrs. N’Dorah had to wipe the sweat from Helen’s forehead before it trickled into her eyes. But nothing could be done for the sweat rolling down her spine.

Finally, she neared the end of the surgery. Anticipation surged through her, lending her a bit of strength. It was time to act.

What if you fail? What if you and Mrs. N’Dorah are caught trying to escape?

Helen squared her shoulders. If they failed to escape and faced torture, then she’d attack Natchaba and attempt to kill him. She’d rather be shot by his guards than be tortured by them.

UNFORTUNATELY
, LACHLAN’S TARGET tunnel—the one that the stretcher bearers had used—was directly in Natchaba’s line of sight. Since it was also too well-lit for him to risk entering, Lachlan turned into a side tunnel that he estimated would eventually hook back up to his destination.

His shoulders brushed the walls as he walked. Once the ambient light from the cavern faded, he felt his way through the dark. After a dozen meters, the tunnel turned left and widened, allowing him to turn on the red LED light on his watch without fear of discovery.

After several minutes of walking, he hadn’t passed any interconnecting tunnels. Had he misjudged and this corridor didn’t intersect the main one?

Finally, the tunnel made a gentle right turn and broadened into a proper corridor. A few rough-hewn, wooden doors blocked the entrances to what turned out to be household storage areas. Marking the location on his mental map, he hurried on.

The map in his head said that he was heading at a slight diagonal away from the cavern and should soon meet the main tunnel. Instead, it twisted and turned until he almost didn’t know where he was in relationship to where he’d started. By now he’d been inside for over the allotted hour and a half. His team would be getting worried. At the two hour mark they’d give the signal to launch a full-out assault, regardless of the danger to Helen or Lachlan.

It would be best then, if Lachlan could open the door for his men.

He had a more immediate concern, though. How much longer would Helen be operating? Under normal circumstances, surgery could take hours, but that was with proper equipment. What he’d seen on that stage appeared to be little more than what was required for emergency, field-level treatment. Which meant he needed to find the control center, open the doors, and get back to Helen as soon as possible.

The passage turned right, then immediately left, then right again. Several meters ahead, it dead-ended into what he judged, from its size, to be the main corridor. Finally!

There was only one room between Lachlan and the main corridor. With the clock ticking in his head, Lachlan opened the door and turned on the overhead light. The room had plastered walls, a linoleum floor, and acoustic ceiling tiles. Metal shelving racks lined the walls, packed with boxes and bins of computer equipment. Lachlan’s hopes soared. But as he searched, he realized that this was simply the repository for spare, unwanted computer parts, cables, and other electronic detritus. There was no box of miniature explosives. No box of any new equipment at all.

Once again he bit back his disappointment. He shut off the light and exited. Then he continued on to the junction with the main corridor. Peering around the corner, he saw to his dismay that the ceiling had been fitted with electric lights. The lack of shadows meant there’d be no sneaking up on anyone. He didn’t dare shoot the lights out and draw attention to himself. And there’d been nothing in the computer junk room he could use to quietly break the lights.

Fifty meters to his right there was another T-junction. Across the intersecting passage a proper door had been fitted into the wall. The oversized window to the right of the door emitted the familiar blue glow of computer monitors.

A guard strode into view from the left branch of the intersection. He knocked on the door, opened it, then poked his head inside and said a few words. Lachlan wished for a silenced weapon. If he used this AK-47, the sound would echo and ricochet and bring every rebel in the place running. And his combat knife was not meant for throwing.

But he needed to get into that room.

Since he couldn’t sneak up on the rebel, he’d have to draw the man to him. Lachlan knocked the butt of his rifle against the wall, then moved back into his tunnel, scuffling his feet on the floor and scraping his rifle along the wall until he reached the computer gear room. He opened the door and waited in the doorway, wondering what was taking the guard so long. Had he called for help instead of investigating on his own?

Just when Lachlan was about to give up, he heard footsteps. Then whispering. Sod it, the guard had brought a friend. Lachlan adjusted his plan to account for two targets. When the first man reached Lachlan’s position, Lachlan slammed his rifle butt into the man’s temple. He grabbed the man by the arm before he fell and flung him into the second man. That bought Lachlan precious seconds. While the rebel struggled to free himself from his comrade, Lachlan grabbed him in a head lock.

“Is the bridge rigged with explosives?” Lachlan demanded.

The man struggled to talk, so Lachlan eased up a bit on the pressure.

“Y-yes.”

“Where is the triggering device? In the control room?”

“Y-yes.”

“Does Natchaba keep a backup trigger with him?”

“Y-yes.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Lachlan told the man before knocking him out. Dragging them both into the computer junk room, he took their keys and weapons—one decent semi-automatic pistol and another AK—searched to make certain they didn’t have radios or any other critical equipment, then bound them with computer cords and gagged them with their bandanas. By the time someone found them, it would be too late to sound the alarm.

Lachlan slipped a portable phone charger into his pocket. After checking that the coast was still clear, he darted into the brightly lit corridor and raced to the computer center, pistol in hand. A man sat at a console, his back to the window. Stupid of him. Lachlan positioned himself to the left of the door, then tossed the phone charger at the window.

The man inside shot at the window. As the glass shattered, Lachlan kicked open the door and fired inside. He had a split second to see the rebel’s hand slap a large red button on the console before the man slid out of his chair, dead.

Lachlan braced for the sound of klaxons, but nothing happened, although the alarm button was still depressed. Taking advantage of the quiet, Lachlan quickly scanned the images displayed on the monitors. From the interior shots, he saw that this intersecting corridor led left to the back door and right to a twisting maze of corridors that appeared to house offices. The exterior shots revealed that the area across the bridge was empty. If Lachlan hadn’t known his team was waiting on his signal, he’d have been worried.

Just as he was about to turn his attention to the console itself in hopes of finding the mechanism to open the front door, he saw the bridge explode. Not quite the signal he’d agreed upon with his team, but there was nothing he could about it now.

On the far right screen, the image showed that Helen appeared to be finishing up her surgery. Right, then. He was out of time.

Spotting a button that appeared to be for the main door, Lachlan pressed it. Then he shot up the console and monitors and ran from the room, heading down the main corridor toward the cavern.

No time for stealth now.

When he reached the bend before the main entrance, he dropped to his knees. A series of power cords ran along the floor of the corridor. He found the closest juncture and pulled the two cords apart. The lights in the cavern went dark. Then, wanting to cause as much chaos as possible, he took hold of the cord that led toward the main cavern and tugged hard.

He heard the loud clatter as the light stands crashed down. Men cried out in alarm.

Hang on, sweetheart. I’m coming.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“
I’M
DONE.” HELEN set aside the bandage roll, braced her hands on the side of the table, and hung her head.

Natchaba stepped forward and looked down at her patient.

“You should take him someplace quiet to heal. Someplace cool.” She placed the back of one hand against the injured man’s forehead. “In fact, he’s running a slight fever. It is best if you have someone drape him in cool, damp cloths. But not over his bandages.” Without lifting her gaze to Natchaba, she continued. “When he is awake, he will need water. Then broth with no meat and no rice. Just the liquid. He will not be able to handle solid food for several weeks.”

Natchaba didn’t comment. Instead, he waved for a couple of men to remove the patient. He spoke to them quietly, presumably giving them instructions on how to care for the man.

When the rebels stepped forward to lift the patient off the surgical table and place him back on the stretcher, Helen quickly slipped the hidden lighter and scalpel into her left sleeve. Then, fussing with the cuffs of her surgical gloves, she stepped back with her hands raised so that the items slid down to her elbow. Turning away from the table, she quickly shoved her hands into her pockets, let the items drop inside, then moved over to the basin and the rubbing alcohol. She rolled her gloves off so that she didn’t contaminate her skin, then tossed them onto the pile with the patient’s bloody clothing.