“This is Four. Go ahead. Over.”
“We’ve got you in sight. There’s a small knoll off to your right. The crash site is on the other side of that knoll. Over.”
“Roger.” The van pulled to a halt and the two men got out. They circled to the left of the knoll. As they crested the shoulder of it, they could see the wreckage about 200 meters ahead on the bottom side of the high ground there.
They dipped down as they continued and immediately struck swamp. They cursed as cold, mucky water seeped into their jungle boots and they had to beat their way through the thick, dead vegetation. The outlet for Bull Pond ran this way and meandered a bit, causing the swamp they were negotiating.
Back at the intersection of Bull Pond and Proctoria Road, the El Camino cruised to a halt. Harry could hear the helicopter ahead. He edged off under the thick cover of some pine trees and parked the car. He checked his map one last time, folded it and tucked it into the cargo pocket of his camouflage fatigue pants. Harry slipped on a combat vest bristling with killing tools and picked up the MP5. Keeping off the road, he began making his way to the west at a slow Jog.
He hit the swamp closer to Bull Pond than the two officers.
There the vegetation was thicker, but he had less trouble with it, slipping through the growth, rather than fighting it, years of hard-earned combat experience in a distant jungle coming back easily.
“Shit,” the captain in the lead muttered as he splashed through the creek in the center of the swamp and started up the other side. He drew his 9mm Beretta Model 92 and chambered a round, his partner doing likewise.
Overhead, Isaac’s concentration was focused on keeping his present position. Major Quincy was following the two officer’s progress through the swamp and relaying that information back to Building 600.
“What a fucking mess,” were the first words Trace heard. She watched the two men in fatigues come up out of the swamp, their boots layered in mud and their exposed skin covered with red scratches.
She didn’t say anything, her attention focused on the pistols in their hands, the rank on their collar and the large rings glittering on each man’s left hand. She felt her small reservoir of energy empty; the hope of rescue that had kept her going for over thirty hours snuffed out.
“Well, looks like you’ve got yourself in a pretty mess here,” the lead officer said as he leaned into the hole in the front windshield. The nametag on his uniform identified him as Karien. The second officer joined him — his nametag said Marks — and the two stared at her like she was an animal in the zoo.
“Hurt bad?” Karien asked with a grin.
Trace tried to speak, but her mouth was bone dry. She worked around a little saliva and tried again.
“My legs are pinned,” she rasped.
“Hmm, too bad,” Karien said. He looked around, taking in the attitude of the crashed helicopter and the wreckage.
“Seems like she should have at least broken her neck on impact, don’t you think?” he said to Marks.
“At the very least. Maybe some internal damage also,” Marks said as he clambered in the left cargo door and removed an emergency ax from its mooring on the left rear firewall. He climbed over the co-pilot’s seat and squatted down next to Trace.
“What did you take from the cemetery?”
“What are you talking about?” Trace said.
“What did you take from the cemetery?” Marks repeated.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trace said.
“I was doing a test flight and hit those wires and crashed.
I’ve been trapped here and—”
“You stole this helicopter from Target Hill Field after digging up something at Custer’s grave,” Marks said.
“What did you dig up?”
“I don’t know—” Trace finished the sentence with a scream as Marks slammed the blunt end of the ax into her ribcage. She tried to control her breathing with short gasps, as each breath caused the broken ribs to discharge mini explosions of pain.
“What did you take from the cemetery?” Marks continued, the ax poised.
“I didn’t take anything,” Trace gasped.
Marks pulled back the ax for another blow. The left side of his head disintegrated as two 9mm rounds ripped through it, and his body was flung into the back cargo compartment.
Karlen whirled, bringing his pistol up to bear.. He was still searching for a target as a line of 9mm subsonic rounds stitched a tight and neat pattern from his lower right stomach and up across his chest. The impact of the bullets slammed him against the Plexiglas in front of Trace, his blood forming a grotesque pattern as he slid down to ground, a look of surprise still on his face.
Trace watched, still trying to breath shallowly, as a large figure materialized out of the edge of the swamp like a ghost, his black skin glistening from the sweat of his efforts running here, after hearing the scream.
“You all right, missy?”
“Harry,” Trace whispered.
Harry came up, letting the MP5 hang on its sling. He took the ax out of Mark’s dead hand.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
Overhead Major Quincy was still stunned at the rapid death of his two comrades. Isaac turned the helicopter, putting some distance between themselves and the large black madman with the submachine gun.
Quincy finally reacted, keying the mike.
“Gray Six, this is Five. Over.”
“This is Six. Go ahead. Over.”
“They’re dead. Gray Four is dead. There’s some man down there, working in the wreckage. She’s still alive.
Over.”
There was a long pause.
“Keep them in sight. I’ll get help to you ASAP. Out.”
Harry ignored the helicopter. It was an unarmed OH-58, and there was no place close around to land. They could fly around up there all day and beat their meat as far as he was concerned. He figured he had about thirty minutes before they got someone new out here on the ground and whoever it was wouldn’t be as cocky as these two assholes had been.
He levered the ax handle between the edge of the seat just to the left of Trace’s leg and the panel. Leaning back he strained, watching the wood carefully, hoping the metal would move before the wood broke. With a slight noise, the panel moved a quarter of an inch. He heard Trace suck in her breath.
“Sorry, miss, but it’s going to hurt getting this off you.”
“Shit,” Trace said.
“Only hurts when I laugh.”
Harry smiled. Biceps bulging, he exerted pressure and now the panel moved back, until a good four inches of space appeared above her legs.
Harry did a quick primary medical survey of Trace, making sure that he wouldn’t do any permanent or fatal damage by moving her.
“We need the diary,” Trace said when he was done. She pointed out its hiding place and Harry tucked it into the back of his pants.
Tenderly, he scooped her up in his arms. Trying to be as smooth as possible her carried her out of the helicopter and headed back for his car, the helicopter buzzing overhead like an annoying mosquito.
Harry’s internal clock was working, judging reaction times versus road distances. It was going to be close.
“Can you take a bit more pain?” he asked.
“Do whatever it takes,” Trace replied.
Harry carefully shifted her to an over-the-shoulder carry, then he began to jog. Despite his best efforts, every footfall was agony to Trace, jarring the broken bones in her leg and ribcage. She squeezed her eyes closed and went into the suspended time mode she had learned as a plebe at West Point — you were somewhere you didn’t want to be, doing something you didn’t want to do, but sihce you had no choice, you learned to zone out from reality. Trace tried as best she could but she’d never experienced pain like this and was very grateful when Harry halted at the car and lowered her into the passenger seat. She wanted to lean over to ease the pain in her ribs, but Harry insisted on buckling the shoulder belt on her. He got in and briefly consulted the map.