She swept the shaft with her flashlight, and discovered the outline of an access panel that appeared to be identical to the one she had originally climbed through. The voices seemed to be coming from the other side, though the screws holding this panel were nowhere to be seen. Fearful they could be removed only from the other side, she began probing the shaft’s surface with the pointed tip of the screwdriver, and in this manner uncovered a layer of stiff, rubberized insulation that she quickly pried free.
A familiar pattern of screw heads was soon exposed. She hesitated briefly before removing them, well aware that, other than Red’s cursory description earlier, she didn’t know which portion of the airplane this cover panel would open up to. And even if it turned out to be the Chairman’s stateroom, were the prisoners there with no sentries or any of the coup supporters present?
A woman’s voice could be heard once again from the other side of the panel, and Brittany took several deep breaths before deciding that the gamble was worth taking. Her hand was badly shaking as she raised the screwdriver to the head of the first screw. It took a concentrated effort to remove it, and as she went to work on the second screw, Nightwatch suddenly lost altitude, causing the entire shaft to suddenly pitch forward.
The screwdriver slipped from her grasp, and as it began dropping into the black void below, she blindly kicked her leg out and was just able to trap the tool between her thighs. She reached down to grab it, and no sooner did she secure it in her grasp than air turbulence caused the shaft to begin wildly vibrating.
All but forgetting about the immediate task at hand, she found herself hanging on for dear life.
By the time Nightwatch finally leveled out and found smooth air again, her nerves were all but shot. She fought the temptation to give up, and resolutely re gripped the screwdriver to get back to work. Except for one stripped screw that needed her every last bit of strength to budge, the rest of her effort went smoothly, and with a great sense of relief, she put the palms of her hands onto the center of the panel and pushed. It opened with a dull pop, and she could barely contain herself to see Red’s smiling face appear in the aperture.
“It’s about time. Commander. What took you so long?” said Red.
Clearing a safe lane for the unit was proving to be a nerveracking, time-consuming process, now that antipersonnel mines had been discovered buried alongside the trip-wire-activated booby traps. This was the first time Thomas had ever seen Army Sappers clear such a field, and he was impressed with their expertise, patience, and thoroughness.
A hand probe had uncovered the first Yugoslavian, pressure activated mine. Thomas was close by as the Sappers carefully extracted the cleverly constructed device, crafted out of molded plastic. Ted Callahan pointed out that this type of mine had no metal content, making it impervious to discovery by a magnetic mine detector. It could be neutralized only by hand, mine plow, or a line charge.
Seven similar mines had since been discovered buried in the track-laden footpath. Instead of digging them up, the Sappers marked them with Cyalume chemical light sticks or chemlites, as they were better known, their wrappers partially torn off in such a manner that only the advancing unit could see them.
Thomas was continuing to travel with the point Sapper unit, with much of their progress measured in mere inches. He had adapted well to his Night Vision Goggles, and was trying his best to ignore the ever-present mosquitoes and other biting pests.
“Special Agent Kellogg,” whispered Sergeant Reed from the head of the formation, “check this out.”
Thomas crawled forward and looked farther down the trail, in the direction that the Sapper instructor was pointing.
“Do you see those cylinder-shaped objects on the left side of the path, some ten yards ahead of us?” Reed questioned.
With the assistance of his NVGs, Thomas spotted what appeared to be a sizable grouping of thick, five-inch-long firecrackers scattered on the ground.
“Are they M80s?” he asked.
“They’re much more lethal than that,” replied Reed.
“Those devils are what we call toe poppers. They’re activated by pressure, and are designed to mutilate by blowing off a foot.”
Thomas made certain to give the toe poppers plenty of leeway when it came time to pass them by. He made it a point to hug the trail’s far right side, a decision that almost had tragic consequences.
“Special Agent, stop in your tracks!” ordered Sergeant Reed, who was now following him.
Thomas had to hear no more to freeze in mid-step. He carefully placed his foot back on what he thought to be solid ground, and the earth gave way, causing him to lose his balance and fall forward into some sort of newly exposed depression. He felt a firm hand grab his shoulder and yank him back on his feet. It was Sergeant Reed who proved to be his savior, and Thomas found himself staring down into a shallow pit filled with a wicked-looking group of very sharp stakes.
“Punji sticks,” said Reed with a grunt.
“And odds are they’re covered with excrement. Somebody out here certainly knows his business. Special Agent. And that means if the VP and his party passed over this trail without triggering any of these pitfalls, you can rest assured that the folks who set them are the ones leading their way.”
Dick Mariano anxiously paced back and forth like a caged animal.
The other occupants of the subterranean Operations Center were trying their best to give the ex-SEAL a wide berth, ever afraid of further aggravating his rotten mood, and triggering yet another invective-filled outburst.
“Damn it, Richy!” yelled Mariano to his green-faced associate, who was seated at a vacant communications console sorting through an MRE.
“How can you even think of chow at a fucking time like this?”
Richy held back his reply until pulling a miniature bottle of Tabasco sauce out of the plastic packet and downing its contents in a single gulp.
“I was only looking for a pick-me-up. Skipper,” he said, after licking his lips and tossing the packet aside.
“That Cajun rotgut’s gonna eat a hole right through that belly of yours, bro,” Mariano remarked, before venting his rage on the beard-stub bled BDUclad technician responsible for monitoring their SATCOM unit.
“Are you certain that the motherfucking receiver is even working. Chief? Surely we should have heard from that cocksucker Pierce by now.”
The technician somewhat nervously beckoned toward the series of green lights that lit his console, saying, “All systems are up and operational, sir. If you’d like, I can run another systems check.”
“Do it!” ordered Mariano, who looked at Richy and shook his head.
“Ain’t this the ultimate goat fuck? How much longer is that pencil-pushing government asshole going to keep us waiting?
His plane should have landed at Leonard Wood by now, and besides, don’t those flying palaces of theirs have phones in them?
Hell, here we are standing around at ground zero with our dicks in our hands, all primed to pass on the news he’s been waiting for all day, and that motherfucker has forgotten that we even exist. It’s just like fucking “Nam. Those self-important government pricks haven’t changed in the least, and if we didn’t need them for funding, we’d do better to eliminate them all and let the military run the show.”
“How ‘bout the prisoners. Skipper? I still say shoot them, and kick ass getting as far away from this place as possible before those warheads fly,” offered Richy.