24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (21 page)

Silence fell. A short-lived silence that was quickly broken by a ragged series of shots from below.
Sanchez squeezed off a quick burst at a figure breaking cover on the west ridge but missed. The figure ducked down behind a rockpile that was a bit higher up.

Bailey looked Jack in the face, then Armstrong. He said, “Like I said before we went in the tunnel, I’m expendable. More now than ever. These are the cold, hard facts so don’t argue. Leave me with an extra pistol and some clips. If any of those bastards make it this far, I’ll give them a warm welcome.

“Don’t delay. The longer you wait the less your chances get.”

He was right and they knew it. Armstrong said, “It might already be too late if they’ve got people on the hilltop. They might be there if the shooter who got Holtz and the dynamiter are two different people.”

Jack said, “We’ll just have to risk it. Otherwise they will get some shooters up there for sure and have us caught in a high- low crossfire that’ll kill any chance of a breakout.”

Frith said, “This being pinned down works both ways. They’ve got us holed up here but Sanchez and I did the same thing to them. None of this bunch has been able to circle around to the east. I tagged the one who tried.”

Sanchez said, “There’s plenty of cover we can use on the ledges. Woodpiles, fallen rocks, tumble-down shacks, all kinds of crap.”

Jack said, “Best use it while we can, before they do.”

It was decided. All that remained were the tactics. Jack and Armstrong took quick turns scanning the slope, noting strong points and weak links. A stack of old timbers stood on the ledge a stone’s throw east of the tunnel mouth. The next stepped tier below this ledge featured a
rusted ore bucket, a steel-wheeled hopper the size of a compact car. It lay on its side on the west side of the terrace.

A quick plan of assault was made, finalized.
Jack and Sanchez would make for the ore car, Armstrong and Frith for the timber stack. Jack and Sanchez had M–4s; Frith had the M–16, and Armstrong armed herself with a second pistol, Frith’s sidearm, in addition to the one she was carrying. The thinking was that the M–16’s capacity for shooting at long range and close quarters would compensate for the lesser firepower of the pistols. Bailey had his own pistol and Sanchez’s. He and Armstrong equipped themselves with pocketfuls of spare clips.

Jack said, “Something else we’ve got working for us. They think all they’ve got to buck is two guns, Frith and Sanchez. They don’t know about Anne and me.
That gives us an element of surprise plus added firepower.”

Frith said, “When do we go?”

“After their next burst of covering fire.
I’ll go first.”

Armstrong and Frith dragged Bailey to the cover of the east side of the tunnel mouth near the entrance. Bailey’s face was dead white where it showed between the soot and grime streaking his face. He grinned through gritted teeth, gave them the thumbs- up sign.

Frith and Sanchez loosed a few rounds down the slope to stir up the opposition. The enemy returned fire in earnest, burning off another sizzling fusillade. Shooters popped up from behind rocks and out of ditches to sling lead at the tunnel, betraying their location by doing so. They had advanced a lot higher uphill; the nearest were only two ledges below. A pair scaling the west ridge were nearly level with the ledge below the tunnel.

Some laid down covering fire while others worked their way farther up toward their objective. The shooting fell off once the climbers took cover.

Jack readied to make his move. The bomb blast and the tortuous trek back from the shaft had taken their toll on him, but his innate vitality and peak physical condition had helped restore some of his energies. So did the prospect of immediate action.

Frith and Sanchez opened fire, Frith selecting the nearest shooters on the eastern half of the slope, Sanchez focusing on the pair on the west ridge. Their targets had already gone to cover and there was next to no chance of hitting them. The purpose of shooting at them was to keep them pinned down so they couldn’t fire at Jack when he made his breakout.

Frith said, “Go!”

Jack jumped out of the hole in the barrier, bent almost double as he angled west across the ledge with the M–4 in his hands. His appearance took the enemy by surprise. He reached the point on the ledge above the ore cart on the next terrace down before somebody took a shot at him. It missed.

Others recovered their wits and began popping away. Shots cracked, rounds whizzing through empty air around Jack to bury themselves in the hillside.

The slope to the terrace below declined at about a thirty- degree angle. Jack jumped off the ledge feet-first, throwing himself over the side. He slid down the hillside like a runner sliding into home base in a race to keep from being tagged out. It was a long slide. He set off a mini- landslide of falling rocks and dirt during the descent.

The ore cart lay on its side with its open hopper facing the slope. It was orange- brown with rust but the sides of the hopper were several inches thick and its base was about twelve inches thick, not including the undercarriage with its trucks and sets of grooved wheels.

One of the duo on the west ridge was so provoked by Jack’s ploy that he rose up from behind a rock to point a rifle at him to line up a shot.
Sanchez had been waiting for just such an opportunity and squeezed off a three-round burst, chopping the rifle-man before he could fire.

Jack’s feet hit the ledge below and then he went into a roll, a shoulder roll that took him across the terrace toward the shelter of the ore car. Lines of lead zigzagged the slope behind
him, kicking up dust and cutting down small bushes and scraggly dwarf trees growing out of the hillside.

He scrambled into the hopper, thinking for an instant that it was the kind of shady retreat that a rattlesnake might prefer. If that was the case it would be too bad for the rattlers. He rolled to a halt, his shoulder slamming into the now-vertical bottom of the hopper. Happily the car was unoccupied by any other life form than himself.

Jack pulled in his feet and hands, curling up inside the hopper so that no part of him was showing. The ore car vibrated with a metallic clangor as slugs began smashing into its underside. Wheels, trucks, and undercarriage proved a formidable shield, the rounds flattening themselves into lead smears against the cart.

Shooting from below burst out with renewed intensity but a different target. Jack knew that that meant that Anne Armstrong was making her break. She was lightly armed and would be relying on the covering fire laid down by Jack, Frith, and Sanchez.

Sanchez had the surviving shooter on the west ridge covered so Jack didn’t have to overly concern himself with that direction. He peeked around the east side of the ore car seeking targets. A shooter on the next ledge down huddled behind a stone wall three feet high, all that remained of a long-gone building. He had a machine pistol in each hand and was streaming lead at Armstrong as she dashed for the timber stack. A regular Two Gun Kid, thought Jack. Two Guns was pretty well covered and Jack’s chances of scoring on him were slim.

A rifleman came into view much farther down near the bottom of the slope, springing up from behind a rock slab, exposing himself from the waist up. Jack triggered a short burst at him.
The downhill angle was tricky and Jack’s rounds passed harmlessly over the rifleman’s head.
It threw a scare into him and he ducked down out of sight behind the slab before Jack could correct his aim for a second try. But it stopped him from shooting at Armstrong for the moment.

Two Guns seemed to take that as a personal affront and turned his attention toward Jack. He squatted behind the woodpile, gun hands resting on top of it as he turned to squirt bursts of lead at Jack, alternating between one machine pistol and the other. He had maximum firepower and minimum accuracy. The rounds flattened themselves against the ore car, sounding like someone was tap-dancing against it.

Two Guns’s change of position put him in Jack’s line of fire. His head was raised above the woodpile so he could see what he was shooting at. Jack squeezed off a triple burst that blew apart the other’s skull above the eyebrows.

Armstrong staggered, breaking stride. Had she been hit? She stumbled forward, falling behind the timber stack, dropping out of sight.

How many of the enemy were left? Frith had estimated ten to start with. He and Sanchez had each bagged one before Jack and the others emerged from the tunnel. Frith had since tagged another at the bottom of the hill, Sanchez had gotten one of the duo on the west ridge, and Jack had just neutralized Two Guns.

That made five. Frith’s estimate might have been off because Jack thought that there were more than five shooters still in play, maybe six or even seven.
It was hard to tell for sure because they moved around a lot while rarely showing themselves for more than a brief blur of motion and a burst of gunfire.

Say six s
hooters remained. Six versus fi
ve CTU members. Thr
ee of the CTU team had heavy fi
re-power, the other two had pistols. Pistols were for close quarters combat, n
ot much good in this kind of fire fight
. Jack was a crack marksman with a handgun but he knew their limitations in such an encounter. There was also doubt whether Bailey would be effective at any range. He’d looked weak, shaky, on the verge of passi
ng out. The bomb blast had infl
icted serious damage on him, maybe internal injuries, maybe a concussion, maybe both. He needed medical attention as soon as possible.

Jack didn’t know if Anne Armstrong had been tagged or not. There was no sign of her behind the timber stack but then there wouldn’t be whether she’d been hit or not. The smart way to play it was to keep the foe guessing until the optimal moment for intervention.

Three CTU shooters versus six, maybe seven of the enemy. Not bad odds. Jack meant to do what he could to improve them.

Now Sanchez showed himself at the west side of the tunnel mouth. He immediately ducked back in, taking cover. The attackers opened fire, shooting at where he’d been. Jack scanned the landscape. He thought there were seven shooters left.

The shooting stopped almost as soon as it started as the foe realized that Sanchez’s ploy had only been a feint, a ruse to draw their fire to force them to reveal their position. A knot of two or three of them were clustered on the ledge below Jack’s, behind a massive old boiler that nestled in a collapsed framework of thick-beamed trestles and cross braces. The cylindrical boiler lay on its side.
It was fifteen feet long and six feet wide.
It and its shattered frame provided plenty of cover.

Sanchez’s move had exposed their presence but failed to lure them out from behind their cover. But the gambit was a double- feint. Frith ducked out of the eastern side of the tunnel a few beats after the shooting stopped. He ran for the timber stack.

Pistol fire cracked from behind the stack.
Arm-strong had made it and was still in the game, firing steadily to help cover Frith.
A succession of shots popped as she emptied one magazine, almost immediately following it up with another volley from her other pistol.

Gunfire blazed from three places around the boiler, tearing up the hillside, trying to intercept Frith before he reached cover. That was the heaviest concentration of firepower. Triggermen opened up from three other separate spots on the slope.

A seventh man was on the west ridge. He took advantage of Sanchez’s momentary absence to step out from behind his rock and train his weapon on the back of the running Frith.

Jack was ready for him. His burst cut the other down before he could fire. The shooter staggered backward, bumped into a boulder, and pitched forward headfirst. He looked like he was taking a bow. He kept on going, rolling and tumbling down the ridge. The ridge was steeper than the Silvertop bluff and he picked up a fair amount of speed on
his way down, arms and legs fl
ailing until he hit an outcropping and bounced off, falling straight down to land in a heap at the foot of the ridge. He was motionless after that.

One down, six to go. Jack withdrew into the ore car’s protective shell an instant before drawing heavy fire from the attackers. The ore car shuddered, raining a shower of rusty flakes down on Jack. But it held, impervious and bulletproof.

The crack of an M–16 told him that Frith had reached the timber stack and was responding in kind. Bullets spanged against the boiler and splintered timbers, quelling the onslaught from the three gunmen sheltering behind it.
Armstrong’s pistol chimed in, cracking away as she fired.

Sanchez’s M–4 barked, adding its voice to the chorus.
The other three shooters spread out among the rockfalls east of the boiler returned fire.

Sanchez would be making his move next. His firepower joined to Jack’s would make a potent and lethal anchor for the western half of the planned crossfire. Frith’s M–16 backed by Armstrong’s pistols would supply the eastern component. Together they could begin clearing the slope of the rest of the enemy.

Shouting sounded from below. Jack couldn’t make out what it was but it sounded like someone giving orders to the others, perhaps to unleash a counter-strike of their own.