He kept the Calico ready for use in his right hand, using his left hand to steady himself. He felt exposed, knowing that someone with a night vision scope and laser sight was out there in the dark, waiting and watching and that the bullet would hit before he even heard the crack of the rifle.
The roar of the waves crashing onto the rocks thundered in his ears.
Boomer kept his neck craned inland, watching the nearest dunes. He crabbed sideways behind Skibicki as they made their way around the tip of the point and started moving down the southwestern shore.
As Boomer hopped from one large rock to another, he slipped, falling into a large tidal pool. He kept his face up, desperate to keep the goggles from getting soaked and shorting out. He stood up in waist-deep water, and gained his footing, only to be knocked over as the next wave rushed in, and then sucked back out, dragging him with it.
He slammed the edge of the telescoping stock of the Calico between two rocks and grabbed hold with both hands to keep from being pulled out into the ocean.
Skibicki clambered up onto a tall rock to Boomer’s right and held out his left hand, holding on precariously with his right, his weapon hanging free on its sling.
“Come on!”
Boomer reached, but there was a two foot gap between their extended fingers. He was inundated up to his neck as the next wave roared in.
With a hiss, the water poured out, pulling him down to his knees. In the pause before the next wave came in, he unhooked the Calico and slapped the barrel into Skibicki’s hand. With the sergeant major giving a hard tug. Boomer got to his feet and climbed up onto the rock, escaping the wall of water that cascaded in.
Boomer was soaked to the skin but the goggles still functioned.
Skibicki moved inland about ten meters to avoid a repetition of the experience. They continued for twenty minutes, then Skibicki halted.
“The road’s right ahead.”
Boomer remembered that when they had come up the” road, it had cut close in to the west shore, leaving no space for them to maneuver between the ocean and the steep cliffs.
They sat still for ten minutes, searching the darkness with their goggles, waiting for any sign that the unseen sniper was aware of this choke point The thunder of the surf continued unabated and there was no movement in the dunes to the left, where the sniper would have a clear field of fire up the road.
“I’ll go first,” Skibicki said.
“Cover me until I get about twenty-five meters down the road. Then I’ll return the favor.”
Boomer scooted up to the edge of the road on his stomach, then snuggled the butt of the Calico into his shoulder.
The red dot from his laser sight showed clearly in his goggles, allowing him to easily aim it. He picked the center of mass of the largest dune.
“Go.”
Skibicki leapt to his feet and sprinted onto the dirt road, immediately turning right. Boomer caught the flash of the rifle firing, a hair before the sound of the rounds going off reached him. He fired on automatic, directly at the muzzle flash of the sniper. The Calico worked just as Skibicki had promised, the muzzle staying smooth and level, the empty brass flowing out of the bottom ejection port.
Boomer was rewarded with the muzzle flash of the sniper’s weapon abruptly going up, then silence.
“Skibicki!” he yelled.
“I’m all right,” the sergeant major called back from his prone position on the far side of the road, where he was nudged up against the cliff face.
“Son of a bitch missed me.”
“Think there’s more than one?” Boomer asked, sweeping the muzzle of his weapon along the dune.
“I got the one that shot at you.”
“I don’t want to wait around and find out,” Skibicki replied.
“I’ll cover you. Move!”
Boomer didn’t need to be told twice. He got to his feet and ran, feeling the skin on his back contract and his shoulder hunch in anticipation of a bullet slamming into him. He was almost abreast of Skibicki when he heard the sound of firing to his rear. He dove right, rolling off the edge of the road and slamming into the wet rocks, feeling the jagged edge of one leave its painful imprint on his right side.
Skibicki returned fire with a long stutter of rounds from his silenced weapon.
“You OK?”
Boomer wedged himself between two rocks and sucked in a painful breath.
He felt along his side and winced as his fingers touched.
“I think I busted a rib.”
“If you’re breathing you’re OK,” Skibicki returned.
“I hit the second one. Let’s book.”
“I’ll cover,” Boomer said as he edged up and peered over the edge of the road.
Skibicki didn’t bother answering. He got to his feet and ran down the road, disappearing where it bent inland, the cliffs covering him.
“Set!” he yelled.
Boomer jumped to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain that jabbed into his side. He joined the sergeant major and leaned over, trying to draw rapid shallow breaths.
“Fuck, that hurts.”
“Pain is weakness leaving the body,” Skibicki said, peering carefully around the rock face to see if they were being followed.
“Let’s make like a duck and get the flock out of here.”
They started out at a steady jog and Boomer stoically bore the pain.
They reached Skibicki’s jeep and stowed the weapons under the seats.
Boomer leaned back in the passenger seat, bending slightly to the right. Skibicki started the car up and they headed down the highway.
As overhead lamps flashed by. Boomer tenderly opened his shirt. The skin was broken and blood was slowly oozing from a jagged tear in his chest. He felt through the blood and torn skin.
“It’s cracked,” he announced.
“First aid kit’s in the back,” Skibicki said, checking his rear-view mirror.
“Stop the bleeding, and I’ll put a wrap on it once we get a chance to slow down.”
“What about the cops?” Boomer asked.
Skibicki snorted.
“Fuck the cops. We’re in deep shit here and I don’t think we’re on the side with the bigger firepower.
If this Line exists, you can bet your ass they’re wired in deep at all levels of bureaucracy. We call the cops and tell them we just shot some people out at Kaena Point, and all we’re doing is turning on a searchlight and pointing it at ourselves and we’ve already done that twice. Three times and they’ll lock us up.”
“Where are you going?” Boomer asked, tearing off a piece of tape to put some gauze over his wound.
“Maggie’s,” Skibicki replied.
“I’ll drop you off there.
You’ll be safe. I’ve got some checking to do on other things.”
“Like what?” Boomer asked.
“Listen,” Skibicki said.
“Whoever these guys are who just parachuted in, they had security here on the beach and that security damn near wasted our ass. The shit’s starting to hit the fan, and I’m going to go around on shit watch.
Seeing where it hits. I know people all over this island and I want to find out what they know. Particularly about the President’s visit.”
Skibicki taped his watch.
“It’s two December.
We only got five days to get to the bottom of this.”
CHAPTER 13
As Trace sped north. Secret Service agent Mike Stewart drove across Memorial Bridge to Fort Myer, the military caretaker post for the nation’s capital. Bordering Arlington National Cemetery and home to the 3rd Infantry — the Old Guard — Fort Myer also was home for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, within short commuting distance of the Pentagon.
Stewart was thirty-three, relatively new to the Secret Service, having joined five years ago after a six-year stint in the Army. He was tall, slightly over six foot and solidly built, projecting the type of physical image the Secret Service wanted surrounding the President. His crew cut was sprinkled with premature gray. Although he enjoyed his job, the constant stress wore through at times.