Chasteen felt his adrenaline surge. All of the preparation was manifesting itself today. First, the three successful attacks, and now he had received an intruder alert. And this was only the beginning.
He walked slowly along the worn AstroTurf, ducking to avoid the low crossbeams in the shaft. He looked at a series of television screens, all displaying footage of the attacks. Scrolling news bars shouted from beneath the talking heads: al Qaeda suspected in attacks… Terror strikes U.S. again… U.S. unprepared for attacks… More than 500 confirmed dead in Metroliner crash… Casualties unknown in Minneapolis and Charlotte… Thousands believed dead.
Two radio operators sat at a small console, monitoring radio transmissions and recording significant events into small laptop computers that fed into large-screen displays the size of big-screen televisions in sports bars.
The interior of the shaft reminded Chasteen of a high school locker room, both in size and smell. With only one ventilation shaft, air circulation was meager at best. He took a deep breath of the stale air and studied the map hanging on the wall. The U.S. map had red stars covering large cities and key chokepoints where specific actions were to take place this week. He noticed the radio operator had placed three green stars on the map. Green was good. It was a go.
He took another deep breath, and the stale air made him think again of the ventilation shaft. Why did they only have one shaft? And why was it tucked around a corner, out of the normal path of the air circulation? Surely they could cut another hole in here.
With that thought, he decided to walk outside to check on the guard and get some fresh air.
Boudreaux low-crawled, sliding only a few inches at a time to the top of the hill. Checking his global positioning system, he found that the grid coordinate registered within plus or minus five meters of his third objective.
Sliding his hand forward, he felt metal protruding from the ground. He was concerned it could be a mine, but knew it was probably something less dangerous. He let his fingertips dance gingerly on the protrusion while he slowly turned his head to view the device. With his free hand, he refocused the monocle on his night-vision goggles. What he found was the outline of a metal leg of some type. It appeared to be a base leg, holding something up. He followed the leg upward and saw twigs and leaves covering a round, metal object.
Boudreaux slowly moved his hand and found the other two base legs, then traced his hand around a metal dish. It was a satellite dish, he knew that much.
He was in the right place.
He found the wires connected to the dish and followed them, continuing to low-crawl as he did so. Suddenly the wires dived down through some sort of hole. His goggles detected light skidding up at him. He closed his goggle eye and noticed that the light was barely discernible, noticeable only through the lens of his night-vision device.
Boudreaux removed his knife from its sheath and probed downward, following the path of the wires. His knife struck something that gave, then resisted. He felt it with his hand and determined it was a screen of some type, loosely installed. Removing his Leatherman from its pouch, he opened the pliers function and secured the screen, pulling upward slowly. It gave, and soon he had lifted the screen away from the hole.
His hand retraced the wires and now struck what felt like cloth loosely secured, perhaps to block light. He removed his night-vision goggles, allowing a minute for his right eye to regain its night vision. Once again, he used the pliers to pinch a small piece of the cloth near a corner. He slowly removed the fabric and laid it next to the wire mesh. A dim light, just bright enough for him to see that the tunnel led into a larger area, shone through the hole.
What he saw was a two-foot square cut into the ground that gave way to a larger earthen tunnel. He carefully lowered his body into the hole, feeling secure once his feet found purchase on the firm bottom. He gave himself a minute to adjust to the new sounds around him. There was only one direction to go, so he stepped carefully that way.
His M4 at the ready, Boudreaux turned a corner and saw two men wearing headsets. One man had his head buried in what looked like a notepad, writing something. The other man was staring at one of several televisions lining a wooden shelf directly above them.
To his left, Boudreaux noticed a slight movement produced by a third person. He was dressed in camouflaged fatigues and was holding a pistol. Boudreaux raised his M4 and fired a single shot into his skull.
With mild amusement, Boudreaux noticed how quickly and quietly the man slumped to the floor. He immediately aimed his weapon at the two headset-clad men, one of whom was turning toward the slight noise created by the interior guard. Wasting no time, Boudreaux double-tapped the turning man, then with robotic precision eliminated the remaining target.
That’s all they were to him: targets. Rampert had drilled into him time and time again that the enemy was not a living human being but a target, just like the wood and paper targets he practiced with in the Fort Bragg shoot house. See. Shoot. Move. He did so with machine-like accuracy.
He did a quick survey of the area, taking in data such as the five television stations on various news and weather channels, a row of communications equipment, maps of the United States with large red and green stars dotted on certain cities, and a chart. The chart was white poster board with the word Predator written at the top, followed by 18/18 and Fong Hou. A listing of city names ran down the left side. Realizing he did not have much time, Boudreaux pulled a small radio out of a pouch on his belt. He typed in a code and then a digital message:
Target No. 3. 3 EKIA. 5 SATCOMS. 5 TV. News/weather. Chart — Predator 18/18. Fong Hou. EOM.
His message indicated that at the third objective location he had killed in action (KIA) three enemy personnel. Also, he had found five means of satellite communications, five televisions that were indicating news and weather, and a chart bearing the words he had typed.
He had no idea what Fong Hou could mean.
After typing EOM, meaning “end of message,” Boudreaux scanned the city names, mentally trying to log most, if not all. Then he saw one name than made him stop: Charlottesville, Virginia.
His eyes lifted slowly to the map next to the chart. He saw several stars spotted around Virginia, but one star was distinctly separate from the others. This star was larger and seemed to have been traced many times over, almost obsessively. He walked slowly toward the map, staring at the dot with an inexplicable awe, transfixed. Almost catatonic, oblivious to any danger around him, he nearly pressed his nose to the oversized map tacked onto the support beams.
Represented on the map, the state of Virginia was a large triangular shape about the size of a mailbox. He could see cities, roads, and relief features indicated on the map. He saw the star next to the city of Charlottesville, and then his eyes followed Route 29 north to a small town called Ruckersville. He traced, intuitively, a road to the west to a small town called Stanardsville, which had been highlighted with a yellow felt-tip pen several times.
About the time he heard a noise coming from his left, Boudreaux noticed the word kill written next to the circle.
Then it all came back to him.
CHAPTER 22
The sound of a door opening in the dark alcove across the musty mineshaft did not give him time to contemplate the fact that he had suddenly realized his name was not Boudreaux.