“That’s pretty fucked up,” Mad Dog said. He shook his head. “I don’t buy it. No way did those camel-fuckers get the drop on them. Not with the tech they were using.”
“Tech can fail. Maybe they walked past an iron deposit, something that fritzed their fancy augmented reality system. And don’t forget who they were going after. Maybe Doctor Tox cooked up some kind of nerve agent. Or perfected her monster juice. That’s probably why Phantom wants to seal the cave. And why he doesn’t want us to attempt to recover the bodies.”
Mad Dog considered this and then swore softly. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what do we do?”
“You say that like we have a choice.” Hood sighed. “I’ll verify with the JOC, but I already know what they’re going to say.”
“Jeff, we can’t just leave them in there. You don’t even know for certain that they’re dead. If they’re alive and we blow the entrance, then we’re the ones that killed them.”
“It’s not our call, Dale.”
“Isn’t it?”
Hood frowned. He knew exactly what his friend meant with that statement. Internal loyalty was one of the key drivers of success in the special operations community, and implicit in that was the knowledge that, no matter what happened, your brothers would move heaven and earth to bring you home. The Monster Squad might not have been part of the Unit, but they were still family.
Mad Dog was right. If there was a chance that even one of them was still alive, then collapsing the cave entrance wasn’t an option. And if they were all dead, then they deserved to have their remains returned to their loved ones.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s dig out the pro-masks. I guess we’re going in.”
ALTHOUGH THEY HAD all spent endless hours training for operations in CBRN — Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear — environments, none of Hood’s team had ever had cause to don their gas masks in a real-world combat scenario. Hood hated wearing his protective mask. It was hot and constricting — a regular face sauna. Breathing in one was a chore. It severely limited peripheral vision, and using them with NVGs was very nearly an exercise in futility. But the possibility of what might be waiting for them inside the cave was reason enough to stifle such complaints.
The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the Monster Squad had fallen victim to a chemical attack. Not only did it seem the likeliest explanation for how a handful of poorly equipped insurgents could have overwhelmed a better-armed, better-trained force of spec ops shooters, it also provided a plausible reason for Phantom’s refusal to even consider recovering the bodies. The remains were probably contaminated with whatever nerve agent Doctor Tox had cooked up, and too hot to justify risking more lives. Hood understood that kind of caution; in Phantom’s place, he might have given the same order.
Even now, as they moved beyond the mouth of the cave, getting their first look at what lay beyond the scallop-shaped opening they had been staring at for the past two days, Hood questioned his decision. The masks would only provide protection against inhalation agents, and even then, they were not one hundred percent reliable. Since there had been little chance of encountering CBRN threats, they hadn’t bothered to bring along their MOPP suits, so if the toxic agent could penetrate clothing and skin, they were fucked. But that was a chance they were all willing to take. He hadn’t ordered his men into the cave; they had all volunteered.
Before going in, Rollie had broken out their M256A1 Chemical Agent Detector Kit and deployed a sampler-detector to check for the presence of airborne nerve agents. After observing the test papers for several minutes, he’d raised one gloved thumb, and their journey into the underworld began.
The subterranean darkness was absolute. The cool rock gave off no infrared radiation, and with a complete absence of ambient light for the NVGs to amplify, they were forced to switch on the built-in IR emitters. Though invisible to the unaided eye, the little lights blazed like tiny suns in the NVGs’ display, lighting the way ahead, albeit in sickly green monochrome.
A narrow opening at the back of the larger recess led into a passage just wide enough for them to move single file, with Rollie taking point, followed by Mad Dog and Hood, with Bender bringing up the six. Hood would have preferred to take the lead, but Mad Dog had vetoed that idea, as was his prerogative. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, because after about fifty meters, the winding passage broadened to allow them to walk two abreast.
The new passage, which sloped downward gradually, was too straight and uniform to be the work of natural forces. Hood recalled stories of the CIA spending millions to dig tunnels in the mountains for Mujahedeen fighters to use as a staging area for their insurgent war against the Soviet Union, and wondered if that explained the origin of this tunnel. If so, perhaps there was more to it than simply a remote mountain refuge for weary extremists.
They moved ahead slowly, silently, scanning for trip wires and pressure plates, searching for any trace of human activity. It took five minutes to traverse a distance of less than a hundred meters. That was where they encountered a four-way junction.
Hood peered down each of the passages, looking for any sign, any hint to indicate which direction the others had gone, but the passages were virtually identical. He turned to Mad Dog, shrugging — a gesture that asked, What’s your gut tell you?
Mad Dog gave each of the adjoining tunnels a long hard look, then shook his head. He leaned in close to Hood as if to whisper something, then drew back, probably realizing that it would be all but impossible with the mask on.
Hood switched on his MBITR — he’d left it off until they were inside, just in case Phantom was somehow able to monitor them using the radios — and tried to transmit a whispered message, but after a few seconds with no response, Mad Dog shook his head again. Even though they were only a few steps apart, the signal wasn’t getting through. Something in the cave was interfering with the radio.
Hood swore quietly into his mask, frustrated. They would have to rely on hand signals to communicate. He pointed to the right passage, then to Bender, signaling him to post and provide rear security, but even as he was doing so, Mad Dog removed his helmet, along with the NVGs mounted to it, then ripped off his pro-mask.
“Shit!” Hood whispered, raising his hands in a frantic but tardy protest.
Mad Dog’s face was sheened with perspiration. His naked eyes were spots of bright green staring blindly into the darkness, but he was grinning.
“What the hell, Dale?” Hood rasped in a stage whisper.
Mad Dog ignored him for a moment, turning away to face each of the passages in turn, alternately sniffing the air and listening with a hand cupped to his ear. When he was done, he turned back to Hood, leaning in close.
“Trust me on this,” Mad Dog whispered, his voice now easily heard. “We need to use all our senses in here.”
“It’s not safe,” Hood said, fighting the urge to shout it. “Put your mask back on.”
“If I get a whiff of anything hinky, I’ll mask up right away. And if I start doing the kicking chicken, you can always stick me.”
In addition to pro-masks, each man carried a nerve agent antidote kit, with two autoinjectors containing atropine and pralidoxime chloride. The two drugs, used in concert, had proven effective against most nerve agents, but as with everything else in military operations, there were no guarantees.
But Mad Dog was also correct about the need to use all their senses in this benighted environment. He gave a resigned sigh. “All right, but at least wear your fucking headgear.”
Mad Dog stuffed his mask back into its carrier, then donned his helmet again though he left his GPNVG-18s tilted up, away from his face. Hood watched as he sniffed the air again.