Ian Slater: Choke Point

David Brentwood, who was determined to redeem himself for what had happened in Afghanistan, his bootlaces tied so tightly his feet were throbbing, knew that any temptation to rush, to get it over with, had to be restrained by common sense. The terrorists, if they hadn’t already fled, would be waiting for him. In that case, perhaps he should wait in turn, until Freeman and company made their move and he heard them. He could smell paper smoke, which, together with the fetid air of the tunnel, was partially depriving his brain of oxygen. But should he make a dash for the exit, which couldn’t be far away? The terrorists would be watching the seaward side of the lair as well, not just the tunnel exit. He had assumed that the roar he was now hearing was that of the falls the team had spoken of where they had attacked the sub, but, disorientated in the tunnel as to precisely what direction he was heading, he couldn’t be sure. And everything was becoming fuzzy with the lack of oxygen. He thought he heard movement ahead, or was it behind him? He stopped again and knelt down, almost tipping off balance because of the oxygen depletion and the lack of sensation in his right arm. He reached out with his left hand and duct-taped the 7-flashlight to the end of the thick, three-foot-long root.

Where in hell was Douglas Freeman? More to the point, Marte wondered, what was he looking for? She’d heard by now of his mythical second sub, but it might be simply rumor. “There’s a thousand bucks in it, Sheriff,” she told the well-fed lawman.

Wally got up from his desk and hitched his pants. Lord, she was a looker. No spring chicken, but experienced, like you could get right to it. “CNN tryin’ to bribe me, Ms. Price? That’s serious.”

“Oh heavens, no,” said Marte, smiling, touching his arm, tossing her head back, the sheen of her hair caught in the sheriff’s green desk lamp. “It’s Walter, isn’t it?”

“Most folks call me Wally.”

“Wally?” she said, as if right there and then nothing else was important to her. “Wally — yes, I like that. Most nicknames — well, to be frank, I don’t like them. But Wally . It’s friendly sounding, isn’t it?”

He knew what she was doing. Did she think that coming from New York, she could pull a fast one? Think he was some kind of rain-forest hillbilly?

“I just think,” continued Marte, “that you folks in law enforcement have done a marvelous job up here — the rescue work, people leaving in droves, and all that. I’d simply like to make a contribution to your benevolent fund. As one grateful American to another. I’m sure there are police officers’ families in need?”

Wally nodded. “I knew some of those deputies on duty at Birch Bay.”

She remembered the attack against the oil refinery. “General Freeman knows me,” she said suddenly.

“They’ve headed out on 112—road to Callam Bay.” He showed her where it was on the station’s wall map of the Olympic Peninsula. “Cameraman going with you?”

“You rather he wouldn’t?”

“No, no, I mean I think you need a man along.”

“Really?” A feminist edge there, he saw.

“I mean — ah, you know — one of you drive, the other one navigate sort of thing. Very deserted out there. I’d lend you a deputy, but with all the townsfolk returning—”

“Look, Wally, there might be other media people arriving here, now the Petrel ’s in port.”

“Uh-huh,” said Wally, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not sure where General Freeman is. Could’ve gone east back to the 104, down to Hood Canal. Bangor Base. Imagine Admiral Jensen’ll have a few questions to answer. Bit late with those hydrofoils. ’Sides, I think most reporters’ll want to get first dibs at interviewing the Petrel ’s crew. Helluva thing they did.”

Marte was careful not to crack a smile as she began writing her check, her pen slowing, however, when she realized the sheriff might be right. The Petrel ’s crew would be a huge story. And if all Freeman wound up with was simply a bunch of leftover terrorists in the bush? Still, she’d learned that Freeman had a kind of sixth sense about things military.

“Whoa!” said the sheriff. “I can’t take a check, ma’am.” He was astounded by her naiveté. “I mean, ah, cash’d probably be better.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Where’s the nearest ATM?”

“Man, there’s been a run on them. I don’t think—”

“I’ve only got four hundred in cash. I’ll need that for a cab. Can you trust me?”

“Hell, sure I can trust you.”

“Soon as I get back.” She gave him a smile.

Lordy, he could have sworn she licked her lips. Walter gave her a wave.

“We on?” asked the cameraman, his tone utterly devoid of enthusiasm.

“There’s no second sub,” he added wearily. “I’ll bet you there’s no second sub.”

Marte Price told the cab driver to go faster, worried that the car a half mile in front was Fox or possibly England’s Independent Television Network. “Those Brits have been all over us like measles since Iraq,” she told her cameraman. “I swear they got the nod into our market because they went in after Saddam Insane with us and the Aussies.”

The cameraman shrugged disinterestedly.

Marte wanted the cabbie to catch up and overtake the vehicle ahead, her fold-up binoculars out of her bag. “It’s another cab !” she blurted, a realization that convinced the CNN veteran that it was media up ahead. Rental cars were seldom used by the media because the paperwork and Homeland Defense “Purpose of Rental” security form took too much time to fill out.

Salvini had spotted the car way back, and saw it closing fast now. Terrorists? he wondered. He called Aussie Lewis.

Aussie wasn’t surprised to feel the sudden vibration in his tunic pocket, the morphine Freeman had administered having temporarily banished the pain, putting his brain in reverie. “Where the fuck are you, Brooklyn?”

“In this cab with Grandma,” Sal replied. “Listen, I’ve got a bogey up my ass. Looks like another cab. No one else is supposed to be out here. The boss told Sheriff—”

“Yeah, well,” cut in Aussie lethargically, his laid-back tone annoying Sal.

“Could be a hostile,” said Sal urgently.

“Okay,” Aussie answered pleasantly. “Pull a left — block the road. Show ’em your weapon.”

There was a pause.

“Well, that’s what I was gonna do. You okay, Aussie? You sound weird.”

“Took one in the rib cage. Not deep, though. Other guys takin’ care o’ business.”

Aussie definitely sounded high. “Got a GPS loc for me?” asked Salvini. “I must have gone past the mile post you gave me.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Aussie accommodatingly. “Sure. Hang on, mate.”

“You on morph?”

“Oh, yeah,” Aussie’s voice said lazily. “On the morph.”

“Jesus! Call me back with your GPS.” Sal dropped the phone onto the cab’s passenger seat and braked hard, Mao’s mother yelling something at him in Vietnamese as he blocked the road and stepped out with the shotgun.

Marte’s cab slowed. “Keep going,” she told the driver. “There’s another hundred in it.”

“Lady, I don’t care if there’s another million in it, I’m stopping right now. That guy’s holdin’ a shotgun — all I got is my dick, an’ I plan on keepin’ it.”

“Stan,” Marte told her cameraman. “You drive.” She turned back to the cabbie. “You stay here.” She handed him two hundred, adding, “We shouldn’t be long. I’ll pay for any damages.”

The cabbie counted the money. It was more than he’d expected.