Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

He touched his throat microphone. “Coastie. Can you read me?”

“Barely,” came her huffing reply. “We’re on hands and knees, but the opening to a corridor is just ahead. Mohammad says it will take us under the river. No opposition so far.”

“Eighteen minutes.”

“We’ll be there,” she said and then lowered her voice. “Kyle? He is starting to growl.”

Swanson walked to the exit hatch of the gun bunker, suppressing his natural sniper instincts and training. On any ordinary mission, stealth and hiding were the keys to success, so he would have remained invisible. This time, he not only had to expose his own position but also initiate a running gunfight. That meant sending an invitation that could not be ignored.

The usual laminated map on the door revealed the layout for this section. Elevators were at one end of the main corridor, and the broad main staircase at the other, about a hundred meters away. Five hallways branched off at irregular distances, and each terminated at a set of steel spiral stairs. At first he had worried that he might be cornered like a rat in a trap, but in reality, his situation was much better. The ten spirals, two elevators, and main stairway connecting each level were all designed to ensure easy movement of men and materiel within the bridge, to resupply and help shift forces during a battle against a force attacking from outside. The whole thing was built to keep people out, not to keep someone inside. From Kyle’s perspective, that system presented the defending force with a significant problem, for they could not possibly cover all of the choke points. Time to go hunting.

He slowly opened the gun pit exit and peered into the hallway. It was empty, so he stepped outside and kicked down the doorstop to hold it open when he left. Swanson moved like a shadow to the far corridor beside the main stairs and into the intersecting hall, where he backed into a doorway. The frame was only about seven inches deep, but it also was the only available cover, so he wedged in tight, happy that he was only five foot nine and slim instead of six foot plus and bulky. Anyone rushing down the main hall from either the elevator or the staircase would run right past his hiding place.

His muscles were rigid, so he commanded his body to relax, and the heart rate immediately obeyed; he breathed steadily, his eyes cleared to razor sharpness, and both the world and time began to slow down, as they always did before he let all hell break loose.

He removed the remote control detonator from his pack, clicked off the safety, and pressed the button. In an instant, the brick of C-4 he had placed in the ammunition storage room at the lower entrance to the tunnels exploded with a booming, furious crash that challenged the thick rock. The walls channeled the concussion along like a flood of water surging through giant pipes, and only two floors above, Swanson pulled his head down into his shoulders and braced in the door frame as his entire world twisted and groaned. That should get their attention, he thought. Secondary explosions cooked off and added to the bedlam.

The heavy stone was part of an entire mountain range and soon ate the blast effects. The lights that had blinked off sparkled back to life, and only a mist of dirt seeped from the ceiling. Swanson stepped into the empty main hallway and laid down a long and loud burst of automatic fire that rippled and ricocheted, and the bullets tore at doors and walls, pocked the elevator, and smashed the lights. The doorway to the gun pit remained yawning open, and he put a few rounds in there for good measure before ducking back into his narrow hide and reloading. He looked at his watch: seventeen minutes before pickup.

BETH LEDFORD AND MOHAMMAD al-Attas were thrown off their feet when the explosion shook the mountain. They were halfway through the big tunnel beneath the river, and she momentarily wondered if the blast might crack a seam that would drown them beneath tons of churning water.

“Get up! Get up!” she screamed at the engineer, who was still on his knees, dazed and shaking his head. A small cut had been torn in his scalp, and blood flowed on his cheek. Beth grabbed his sleeve and hauled him up from the floor.

There wasn’t much to this guy, she thought. No muscle tone, uncoordinated, and weird eyes that spelled geek. She yelled, “Now run. Run like your life depends on it.”

Al-Attas shambled forward, smelling the dank surroundings as his mind processed some formulas about pressure limits. He was pleased that the structure had held so well against the force of the unexpected explosion, just as he designed it to do. There had been no serious damage. The chief engineer smiled at the woman. He got another hard push and moved a bit faster.

“I didn’t say jog. I said run. ” This dude was slowing things down. “We’ve got to reach the other end of the tunnel and then get topside. If we miss the extraction bird, we’re dead, because it won’t wait. Come on. Just follow me. You can do it.” Her boots beat a steady tempo on the cold stone floor.

The engineer was breathing harder, panting. Running felt good. It made him remember being outside and free, trotting lazily around in the darkness, and feeling cool wind on his body. The tunnel took on the appearance of a big hole to him, which it was, and he imagined a wolf chasing a rabbit, closing steadily.

Beth slowed at the end of the tunnel and stopped at the bottom of the metal staircase. When she turned to check on the engineer, his fist came flying at her face, so unexpected and fast that she did not have time to block it. The impact was followed by a terrible yowl, and then the engineer leaped and knocked her flat. She rolled her head away from the blow, moving with the punch to dissipate its force, although the knuckles smashed her left cheek hard enough to make her see stars. While she spun downward, a second blow smacked the top of her head; then the tackle put her down totally. Her rifle was still firmly attached to her harness, but she felt the attacker’s hands grasping for the knife on her belt, and the man’s hot breath on her face.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted. With his hands going for the knife, he had no way to block her palm strike at his nose, and she punched in hard. The nose broke, and al-Attas’s head flew back, leaving the neck unprotected for her to drive three stiff fingers into the trachea.

The wild-eyed man deflated like a balloon. He grabbed his throat with both hands, gagging to try to get air, and rolled away. Beth turned around on the floor, kneed him in the groin, then clocked him on the temple with the butt of her rifle. Mohammad Al-Attas was down and out, blood pouring from his nose.

Ledford got to her feet and lifted her fingers to check her face. She tasted blood and felt the pulsing ache by her eye. Nothing serious. She kicked him in the ribs, and he emitted a long groan that indicated he wasn’t totally unconscious. “I really want to shoot your sorry ass, but you apparently are a valuable target,” she said and secured his wrists with plastic flex-cuffs. Unbuckling his belt, she tightened it into a noose around his neck so she could pull him along on a leash, then cut away the top button on his jeans and slit the waistband. “You can use your hands to hold up your pants. Come on.” She yanked the leash and hauled him upstairs.

THE EXPLOSION FAR BELOWGROUND had spent its force by the time the concussion wave reached the main roadway topside, where it had hardly made the rocks grumble. Ayman al-Masri figured it was just the opening of the battle against the Zionist raiders and continued to study the maps of the complex that he had spread on a table. A tinny voice on his radio broke into his thoughts, and one of his bodyguards who had broken into the infirmary stronghold reported, “Gunshots on the third level, directly above us.” Gunfire was different than the explosion; someone had to be present to pull a trigger. He decided to tighten the hunt by surging everyone into the one area where he knew the enemy was located.