Ian Slater: Choke Point

Sweat pouring off him, Choir Williams prodded Mao with the barrel of his HK, he, Freeman, and Aussie wearing full battle packs, not knowing what they might need if there was another sub lair, or what Freeman had begun calling a “branch plant” of the terrorists. They were close to the coast.

Aussie Lewis could hear the surf ahead. “We must be damn near the cave!” he said, looking over at Freeman.

The general heard him but refused to comment. Instead, he beckoned Mao with a gesture. “You led me on a wild goose chase, comrade,” he said. “This tunnel’s leading to the cave we already found. I told you what I’d do to Mommy, eh? Didn’t I?”

“I only know the cave tunnel,” said Mao. “We bring — we brought food to the cave. That is all. I swear. You kill my mother — you kill me — I can tell you no more. I only know this tunnel.”

Freeman believed him, and saw that Choir, red-faced with exertion, also believed him. He thrust his gloved finger hard in the direction of a thick treeline that Aussie felt certain marked the high cliff’s edge. “There’s a—” he began, and had to stop for breath, which made him more irritated. “—a goddamn sub nearby. I know it.”

“Permission, sir?” said Choir, a rarely used formality in the team.

“Go on,” the general said.

“There is a sub nearby, sir,” said Choir. “It’s at the bottom of the bay. We sank it.”

Below them, the damp of the tunnel was penetrating David Brentwood’s uniform, his perspiration chilled now that he’d stopped. Ahead in the quick sweep of his flashlight he saw a wall of rubble blocking the tunnel, no doubt the effects of the hydrofoil sapper unit’s demolition of the cave. Suddenly, David was revisited by the ghosts of panic, of losing his squad in Afghanistan, in another cave. And now he’d just shot a woman to death. And where had the other two terrorists gone? A side chamber? Behind him? He started back then stopped, heart thumping again. How many had died in the tunnels? Sealed off. The air was fetid in the darkness, and he could smell the disgusting odor of decomposing bodies, probably buried in the demolition of the cave.

Then, through his infrared goggles, David saw a smudge of heat leaking from the rubble. A moment later he saw a sudden white blossom, then a thwack! punched him off his feet. He was being fired at — two of them. The first bullet struck his vest low left, the second cracking above him as he lay flat on his back, IR goggles knocked askew, as he returned fire in the direction of the flash. There were no ricochets, which confirmed his marksmanship, his double-tap rounds obviously having passed through what he now realized must be a narrow cleft between the demolition rubble and the left side wall of the tunnel, his initial panic evicted by the sheer concentration required if he had any hope of getting out alive.

Above him the SpecFor team and Mao had heard the faint, muffled shots. Choir noticed that Mao was smiling, and jabbed him with his HK. “Better not let the general see that, laddie.”

But Mao, the tunnel “mule,” as the load bearers were called in Vietnam, was grinning because he’d detected movement high in a tall cedar atop the cliff’s edge. The Americans were in for a surprise, and this time, unlike in the Humvee, Mao knew he could keep himself out of the line of fire.

In response to Choir’s warning, Mao nodded as if apologizing for a lapse in judgment, and waited anxiously for the party to move on. He selected a solid-looking log ten feet off to his right, a fir that would protect him from the Americans’ return fire if any of the three infidels were lucky enough to survive the sniper’s fire. The waiter resented the name “Mao”—he was no Communist, but a true believer, and now he prayed to Allah, blessed be His name, that the marksman’s aim would be sure.

“There must be at least two of them down there,” said Freeman. “That’s the way I read it. Dammit, I sent David down there thinking there was another—” He paused, then said, “I guess you guys were right. No second sub. We’re almost at the cliff’s edge above the cave.” He shoved the silent receiver into his vest pocket and moved forward.

The sniper’s first shot rang out, Freeman’s Fritz helmet literally spinning about his head as he fell. The second shot penetrated Aussie’s vest and left rib cage. The third shot never came, Choir’s 9mm parabellum cutting into the tall cedar, a clump of its branches breaking, plummeting down from what had been the sniper’s position. The figure fell, then abruptly jerked to a stop, the sniper’s safety line coming to its end, the body, arms out, dangling like an inverted cross. Choir then walked angrily over to the big fir log behind which Mao was cowering, his mud-caked face twitching, and clipped a full magazine into his HK. “You saw him up there, didn’t you, laddie?” he said. “You didn’t warn us.”

“No, no!” Mao pleaded, rolling over onto his back like a beaten dog, his hands still cuffed beneath him, pushing him closer into the protection of the log. “No, please—”

“We’ll make sure,” said Choir. Seeing Freeman with his bullet-scarred Fritz back on, the general stripping Aussie of his Kevlar vest and administering first aid, Choir raised his HK to his shoulder.

“No!” Mao screamed. “No, please, sir! I tell you about other cave! Okay? Other cave right nearby, around headland behind cliff vines. Yes, yes. I swear!”

Choir called out, “General, there’s another cave on this cliff face.” The Welsh American looked down at Mao. “How far around from the falls?” he asked sharply.

“Two, three hundred yards maybe from other cave. West — yes, west of other cave. Tunnel here going to chicken bone.”

“Chicken bone?”

“Finish him off!” yelled Aussie, more to mask his pain than to offer advice. “Give him a full fucking — oh, shit!”

“Don’t be a baby,” Freeman admonished, plunging in a vial of morphine. “This isn’t an inoculation.” It was an open team secret that the tough Australian had fainted when he’d gotten his two-in-one smallpox and cholera shot before Iraq.

“Finish him off, Choir!” repeated Aussie.

“I’ll finish him,” said Choir.

“Chicken bone—” Mao was frantic, licking his lips, rushing to explain. “Tunnel here!” He was pointing down. “Tunnel goes into—” He rolled over onto his stomach and made a Y shape with his arms and hands. “Chicken—”

“You mean the tunnel divides into two?” said Choir. “Two tunnels?”

“Yes, yes!” said Mao, his voice muffled by the mud and grass growing by the log.

With that, Choir raised his 9mm submachine gun and fired a long burst into the cedar tree, the hanging body jerking violently, emitting a scream. It sounded like a woman.

“Told you the whore was faking it,” said Aussie. “Would’ve dropped a grenade on us if we’d — Jesus, General! That hurt!”

Eyes closed, Mao awoke from his nightmare, first in utter surprise, then in delirious relief. “Thank you, thank you, sir. Thank you. I take you to cliff ledge near cave.”

“There a sub in the cave?” asked Choir.

“I never been in cave. Only know about ledge. I take you—”

“Shut your mouth!” It was Freeman, his baritone sounding extraordinarily stentorian. “And listen to me, you slimeball. You’re going to put on Aussie’s Fritz — his helmet — and his uniform and you’re going to lead us quietly through this grass and timber up to the cliff’s edge. And very quietly you’re going to be the first one down. As well as wearing Aussie’s helmet, you’re going to have duct tape around your mouth, and so goddamned tight, laddie , that if you try to take it off, you’ll fall from the rope right down to the fucking cliff.”