Point of Crisis (32 page)

He’d read about these modular armor designs a few years ago, when they were widely fielded by the U.S. military at entry points to most outposts and bases in Afghanistan. Afghan National Police units based in remote areas had begun to install larger versions at police stations to serve as “safe rooms” during frequent Taliban raids. Impervious to heavy-caliber bullets and bomb fragments, occupants could safely fire on attackers and call for reinforcements, which was exactly why this morning’s plan required both guards to step out from inside the bunker.

He drove between two rows of concrete Jersey barriers and dimmed the cruiser’s headlights as they pulled up to the sentry post. Light penetrated the car’s windows, casting serious doubt on their charade. McCulver wore a freshly pressed York County sheriff’s uniform, but stepping out of the car wasn’t an option for him. The uniform hung on his meager frame like a scarecrow; the bullet-resistant vest worn underneath doing little to improve the situation. A shadow moved behind one of the ballistic glass windows set high in the enclosure.

This isn’t going to work.

“Change of plans,” he whispered to the passenger next to him. “We talk our way through and stop just past the checkpoint. Make up some excuse to draw the second sentry out.”

The stone-faced former inmate slowly shook his head. “Eli’s orders were clear. No improvising.”

“Eli isn’t here. If we don’t take them down at the same time, one of them will radio ahead.”

“You let me worry about that,” he said, adjusting his grip on the suppressed pistol tucked between his right thigh and the door.

When the bright light started to fill the cabin, McCulver stole a closer glance at his passenger and nearly stopped the vehicle.
A stain several shades darker than the hunter green uniform shirt covered most of Karl Pratt’s left shoulder, an anomaly somehow overlooked when they distributed the dead sheriffs’ gear by flashlight at the staging area. The blemish continued past the yellow patch sewn into the upper sleeve, covering half of the York County emblem with a crusty maroon film.

“Jesus, Karl,” he hissed. “You look like you dressed a deer in that uniform.”

Karl glanced at his shoulder patch as the sentry approached. “Change of plans,” he said, raising his handheld radio. “Shooter, this is Raider Lead. Fire at the sentry next to our car. Fire now.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” said McCulver, putting the cruiser into park.

“Saving the operation,” said Pratt, tossing the radio on the dashboard.

The ranger’s body language didn’t change when Pratt stepped out of the car. He kept his rifle aimed at the ground in a patrol ready position.

Maybe this will work.

Despite McCulver’s initial reservations, the police cruiser and uniforms got them close enough without drawing suspicion.

“Deputy, please wait inside the vehicle while I clear you with dispatch,” he said, removing one of his hands to activate his radio.

A sharp crack spun the soldier flat against the guard post wall. Pratt was already in motion, sprinting in front of the car with his pistol aimed across the hood. A second bullet hit the sentry, knocking him to the ground and spraying a bright red line across the police cruiser’s windshield. Bullets clanked off the thick armor as Pratt disappeared behind the guard post, relentlessly firing his suppressed pistol at an unseen target.

Through the thick glass windows imbedded high in the armored wall next to the car, successive flashes illuminated the sentry station’s interior, followed by muffled gunshots. The night fell silent for several moments until a single flash and muted crack inside the guard post temporarily jolted McCulver out of his fear-induced stupor. He fumbled for the door handle, spilling onto the asphalt next to the downed sentry.

The wounded soldier reacted to his arrival by clawing at the Motorola attached to his tactical vest. Lurching forward, McCulver ripped the radio free before the sentry could send a warning. Karl Pratt poked his head around the corner of the guard post.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, stepping into view. “Start the attack. No way this went unnoticed.”

“Did you get the other sentry?”

“What do you think?”

McCulver grabbed the radio Pratt had left on the dashboard, settling into the driver’s seat. Two sharp reports caused him to duck and reach for the compact pistol hidden in the door panel. Groping for the door, he peeked over the dashboard. Pratt’s pistol was aimed downward at the sentry—slide locked backward.

“All Raider units, this is Raider Lead. Commence your attack runs. I say again. Commence your attack runs.”

Pratt ran up to his door. “Are you going to move the car?”

“Douse the lights,” McCulver said, shifting the car into drive.

He pulled the cruiser through the opening and parked behind the armored enclosure. In the rearview mirror, he watched the checkpoint darken. Pratt’s shadowy figure emerged from the back door a few seconds later, sprinting for the car. McCulver climbed over the center console, twisting into the passenger seat. He reached between the seats and pulled a red plastic toolbox into his lap.

“You didn’t have to park fifty feet away,” said Pratt, crashing into the driver’s seat.

McCulver didn’t respond. Something was off with this guy. He didn’t like the mercurial shift from respectful to insolent when they arrived at the guard post. Eli would never tolerate shit like that. Not from a piece of shit like Pratt. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it right now. Pratt had demonstrated enough competence under pressure to buy him a second chance—or at least another five minutes.

***

Specialist Gabriel Martinez froze, straining to listen over the leaves rustling in the faint breeze. Nothing for several moments, then two barely audible cracks from the west. He turned his head in the direction of the airfield and processed the green image provided by his night-vision goggles. Nothing. He flipped the goggles upward and completed the same sweep with his rifle’s thermal scope. They were still alone as far as he could tell.

“You hear any of that?” he whispered to Staff Sergeant Mark Jensen, his patrol leader.

Jensen edged closer.

“Just the one sound.”

“Nothing out there?”

“Negative. I thought the relief team had arrived early,” said Martinez.

They were an hour away from completing a six-hour shift patrolling the 1,500-foot strip of forest bordering Route 109, along the eastern edge of the airfield. The woodlands lay just inside the airport’s security fence, representing a possible security risk from insurgent teams wishing to approach the airfield unseen.

“Wishful thinking. Suppressed weapon?”

“Hard to tell. Thought it came from the airfield.”

“The Marines have a shit ton of those suppressed HK rifles,” said Jensen.

“I haven’t seen them carry any on patrol,” replied Martinez.

“Call it in. We’ll make our way to the airfield.”

“Roger that, Staff Sergeant.”

***

Second Lieutenant Kyle Walker sat on a rusty folding chair inside the Seacoast Aviation hangar, watching the steam rise from the metal canteen cup perched on a WhisperLite camp stove. He’d pulled the mid-watch again, putting him in front of Bravo Company, 2
^nd
Ranger Battalion’s radios for eight hours, starting at twenty-two hundred hours. The eight-hour stretch was brutal, but he’d fall out of the rotation for the next twenty-four hours, giving him a chance to patrol with his platoon and catch up on rest. With five officers in the company, including the company commander, they had enough flexibility to meet the RRZ’s requirement to keep an officer and staff NCO on dispatch duty at all times.

“That water ain’t gonna boil any faster with you eyeballing it, sir.”

“How did I get stuck with you, First Sergeant?”

“Captain asked me to keep an eye on you,” said First Sergeant McMillan, glancing deeper into the hangar. “Speaking of the good captain…”

A muscular African-American man dressed in running gear emerged from the shadows, walking toward the tables of electronics gear pushed against the hangar wall.

“Morning, gents. I’m headed out for a quick run and some PT before the RRZ briefing. Brought this for you, First Sergeant,” Hines said, tossing the MRE at McMillan. “Briefing’s at 6:15.”

“I don’t like to eat on duty, sir. Sets a bad example for the more impressionable members of the company,” said McMillan, nodding at the lieutenant.

The radio squawked. “Rogue Watch, this is Rogue Three. Over.”

Walker glanced at his watch before answering. 5:12. Perimeter teams checked in at the bottom of the hour. This wasn’t a check-in.

“This is Rogue Watch. Over.”

“Interrogative. Did any other Rogue units report noise to our west?”

“Negative. What did you hear?”

“Distant crackling noise. Best guess is suppressed gunshots.”

The amplified words hung in the air for a moment.

“Tell them to stand by,” said Hines. “What’s Rogue Three’s location?”

“Stand by, Rogue Three. Out.”

Walker turned to the laptop on the table in front of him, forgetting about the boiling water on the concrete floor next to him. After a few mouse clicks, he had zoomed in on Rogue Three’s passive tracking beacon.

“Moving parallel to Route 109, less than one hundred feet from the western edge of their patrol zone.”

“Where’s Rogue Two?”

“Sweeping the woods adjacent to the RRZ Authority compound,” said Walker.

“Contact Rogue Two and the Outland Four,” Hines ordered. “I want to know if they can corroborate any of these sounds. First Sergeant, may I borrow your NVGs?”

The seasoned ranger handed the captain his helmet with NVGs attached while Walker contacted the units. Rogue Two had nothing to report. He grabbed the radio handset tuned to the outer perimeter checkpoints and transmitted.

“Outland Four, this is Rogue Watch. Over.”

No response.

“Outland Four, this is Rogue Watch. Over.”

He waited a few seconds before checking the radio set to make sure he was still transmitting on the Outland frequency. He tried one more time before calling out to Captain Hines, who stood in the middle of the open hangar door twenty feet away.

“No response from Outland Four.”

“I don’t see their security lights,” said Hines.

“I recommend we send QRF out to the checkpoint, sir,” said First Sergeant McMillan, standing with his rifle.

“Send QRF. Raise alert status to Red for all stations. Contact Patriot and pass the alert. Wake the troops, First Sergeant.”

***

Specialist Martinez held up a fist, stopping their progress.

“Vehicle. Up ahead,” he whispered.

“Let’s go,” said Jensen, sprinting past him.

They stopped at the edge of the woods and crouched, searching the open landscape next to the airfield for the source of the engine sounds.

“Two buses and several smaller vehicles headed toward the airport from Outland Four. Running dark,” said Jensen, turning his head east. “What the fuck happened to Outland’s lights?”

“They should be on. I’m calling this in,” said Martinez.

“Hold on. I see a police cruiser behind the buses.”

Martinez watched the darkened convoy speed toward the empty intersection ahead. The buses showed no signs of slowing.

Something’s way off.

“Staff Sergeant?” said Martinez.

“Send it as a SPOTREP,” said Jensen, disengaging his rifle’s safety.

Before Martinez could transmit, his earpiece activated.

“All Rogue and Outland units. Alert Level Red. Outland Four not responding to radio calls. Any unit with eyes on Outland Four—report immediately.”

“Rogue Watch, this is Rogue Three. SPOTREP. Fifteen vehicles headed west on Kennebunk Road. Outland Four is dark. Over.”

“Copy fifteen vehicles. Are you reporting them as confirmed hostile?” said Rogue Watch.

“Uh—wait one,” said Martinez, releasing the transmit button. “Staff Sergeant, what do you—”

“Confirmed hostile!” interrupted Jensen. “They’re ramming the fence!”

The lead bus slammed into the gate directly across from the intersection, snapping the padlocked chains and barreling through the fence like it didn’t exist. He thumbed the Motorola button as the second bus passed through the new opening, headed toward the runway.

“Confirmed hostile! I say again, confirmed hostile! They just breached the gate in front of the Kennebunk Road intersection.”

Chapter 33

EVENT +21 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Standing in the stairwell next to the folding doors, Matt Gibbs gripped the steel handrail and ducked when the front of his bus smashed into the fence. A quick jolt, followed by several halfhearted cheers, told him that McCulver had been right. The brute force produced by a fifteen-ton bus travelling at thirty-five miles per hour had snapped the gate like a twig, leaving a few spider cracks in the windshield.

“I can’t see the runway,” said the driver, slowing the bus.

Gibbs opened his eyes and peered through the windshield, quickly reaching the same conclusion. The shapeless black view ahead gave him no indication if they were on the dirt access road leading to the runway. Logic told him the runway was dead ahead, but he couldn’t afford to be wrong. Eli had stressed the importance of timing and speed on this operation, especially if they hoped to return alive. Any delay reaching the primary targets could doom them to failure, and failure was not an option—especially with Eli. He hated to give up the element of surprise, but he needed to be sure.

“Hit the lights for a second.”

“Don’t you have night vision?”

“Did you see me bring any on board? All of the night vision is in the cars. They need it to get to their targets.”

“We turn these lights on, they’ll see us coming.”

“We’re not driving the whole way with the lights. Just long enough to reach the runway. Hit the goddamn lights,” said Gibbs.