Authors: Jon Land
Day of the Delphi (21 page)
“Company,” Sal told Blaine as the headlights gleamed their way.
McCracken slowed their car to a halt after spotting a jeep turned sideways across the narrow road. In typical guard-style procedure, one of its occupants approached in the spill of a blinding floodlight while the other hung back by the vehicle. Both were dressed in army uniforms.
“Just two,” Belamo confirmed, a .44 magnum that looked as big as one of his stubby arms eased into his lap.
McCracken had the SIG-Sauer Belamo had replaced for him in hand as well. The approaching soldier reached his open window and Blaine gave him the best innocent look he could manage.
“We’re lost,” he said.
The soldier held his M16 forward but not leveled. “You have entered a restricted government compound. I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“Just tell me how to get back on Route 70,” Blaine said,
stretching his unfolded map toward the window, virtually filling it.
stretching his unfolded map toward the window, virtually filling it.
“—vacate the area immediately upon penalty of seizure and arrest.”
To punctuate his order, the soldier poked the barrel of his M16 against the map. The paper collapsed as Blaine grabbed the barrel and yanked the soldier forward. Before the man could respond, Blaine’s SIG split one of the map’s folds and jammed into his ribs.
“Take your finger off the trigger.”
The soldier hesitated, even though his barrel had been tilted harmlessly toward the backseat. He stole a quick glance at his partner back at the jeep, thought about firing a burst to warn him.
“Do it and both of you die,” McCracken cautioned.
His eyes gestured sideways to make sure the soldier noticed Sal Belamo steadying his .44 magnum against the dashboard in line with the soldier standing back at the jeep.
“Do what I tell you,” Blaine continued, “and you both live.”
The soldier pulled his hand from the trigger.
“Now tell your friend to come over here. Tell him to hurry.”
The waitress in the Carrizozo diner had told Wareagle that the complex in the desert seemed to disappear at night. Accordingly, Johnny had waited until after dark to make his approach, following the directions she had provided through White Sands. He was proceeding on the assumption that Traggeo was part of some outlaw plot whose leaders were taking great pains to keep undetected, a plot the killer had tried to enlist the man called Badger from Tyson Gash’s 911 Brigade in as well. Security precautions, then, were certain to be in place around the installation falsely thought to have been abandoned prior to completion.
Well after dusk Johnny had left his rented truck on the side of the road three miles from the spot on his map the
waitress had marked for him in White Sands. He left the hood up and tied a white handkerchief to the radio antenna to indicate a simple breakdown to any patrol. He also made sure to leave a clear trail moving in a direction opposite from his true destination, so a patrol would have no reason to believe he was heading for the complex.
waitress had marked for him in White Sands. He left the hood up and tied a white handkerchief to the radio antenna to indicate a simple breakdown to any patrol. He also made sure to leave a clear trail moving in a direction opposite from his true destination, so a patrol would have no reason to believe he was heading for the complex.
This done, he doubled back off the road and headed deeper into White Sands. With the darkness and the sagebrush acting together as a veil, Johnny almost missed the complex altogether. Only the high steel fence surrounding it finally alerted him. Gazing through it from less than four hundred yards away, Wareagle could barely make out the shape of the huge building housed within.
Not only was the complex painted the exact color of the surrounding desert, but its exterior seemed to have the same rough texture as the sand. An unfinished grainy quality ensured that both the light and the darkness would strike the building the same way they struck the land surrounding it.
It looked, well, like a massive sandcastle chiseled out of the desert plain itself.
From this angle, all Johnny could see was a four-story structure that stretched nearly two hundred yards from east to west, built pyramid-style with each level protruding out from the one above it. What little the night gave up indicated that comparable wings extended south from either end. That meant the complex was either U-shaped or a square, a courtyard enclosed by its walls. Without binoculars, Johnny could tell little else for sure. And yet the way the whole compound was laid out made him question whether this was the training center he had expected at all.
Indeed, it looked more like a prison.
Had Traggeo simply left the cells of one for the cells of another? No. No spotlight scanned the spacious grounds. A pair of watchtowers were unmanned. A small complement of armed men patrolled the desert turf within the fence, but that was all. Other than the departure of a patrol jeep through the complex’s entrance an hour into his vigil, there
was no other activity to indicate this facility was even operational.
was no other activity to indicate this facility was even operational.
Whatever had gone on here seemed to be long over. Conversely, it might be a building still waiting to be used; a building now empty but poised to fill a future role. Either way, the token security force on the premises must have been stationed here to protect whatever secrets the complex held, among which Johnny hoped would be Traggeo’s present whereabouts.
Johnny had begun to turn his attention to gaining entry to the complex when a blast erupted from the direction where the jeep had sped several minutes before. He could see an orange glow indicative of a fiery explosion in the flat distance. All at once, the complex came alive. A piercing siren went off and men scrambled in all directions under a sudden wash of light. Two more jeeps tore out of the complex’s entrance, backed up by a truck packed with troops. Both jeeps were equipped with .50-caliber machine guns.
The thick spread of light gave Johnny his first clear look at the complex and what he would have to cross to reach it. His eyes catalogued the terrain, potential obstacles, and places of concealment en route to the fence enclosing the perimeter.
Using the fortunate distraction to his own advantage, Johnny started forward into the night and began his approach.
“Right on time,” said Sal Belamo, his binoculars lingering on the explosion while Blaine followed the progress of the convoy out of Sandcastle One toward the origin of the blast.
Sal had wired the explosive charge to the jeep to ensure a bright display in the desert dark. Both he and McCracken had learned long ago that nothing aided an unwarranted entry to a secured base better than a distraction which lured security personnel away from it. As it turned out, Sandcastle One was another two miles from the spot where the jeep
had confronted them. After stowing the two guards a safe distance from the coming explosion, they drove most of that distance with lights off and then sprinted the last stretch. They took up a position within the cover of a rock formation four hundred yards in front of Sandcastle One just two minutes before the timer charge was set to go off. The night gave up virtually nothing until the explosion brought the expected flurry of men and vehicles out the main gate through the spill of lights. The last of the vehicles had barely passed out of sight of the gate when McCracken abandoned his binoculars and grasped the pack.
had confronted them. After stowing the two guards a safe distance from the coming explosion, they drove most of that distance with lights off and then sprinted the last stretch. They took up a position within the cover of a rock formation four hundred yards in front of Sandcastle One just two minutes before the timer charge was set to go off. The night gave up virtually nothing until the explosion brought the expected flurry of men and vehicles out the main gate through the spill of lights. The last of the vehicles had barely passed out of sight of the gate when McCracken abandoned his binoculars and grasped the pack.
“Let’s go,” he told Belamo.
Inside Sandcastle One, the hair that was not his own bounced raggedly atop Traggeo’s head as he hurried along the corridor leading out of Cellblock B. Though muffled by the building’s double concrete construction, the explosion from beyond had been easily recognizable to one familiar with the sound.
He was almost to the control center when the siren began to wail.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck!”
He tore the hair of the kid he’d killed in the motel from his head and flung it against a wall. Pieces of glue and the kid’s rotted scalp stuck to his flesh and left it a patchwork of dark, grimy splotches. He hadn’t had time to chemically treat this scalp properly and was looking forward to the replacement that would be his very soon. Of course, he wouldn’t wear the woman’s full locks. He would style and fashion them into the braids of his people—a headdress and trophy at the same time.
The first scalp Traggeo had worn had been the straw-colored hair belonging to the Indian who had tracked him to
Miravo. How that Indian had managed the feat Traggeo would never know. Nor did he know exactly the nature of the operation he had been a part of since his release from prison had been arranged. He had managed to recruit several other members of Salvage Company to join him, careful to leave himself the only officer among them. He held the rank of platoon staff sergeant the day he scalped three Vietcong collaborators to set an example. Such news traveled fast through the Delta villages. All he wanted to do was make a point.
Miravo. How that Indian had managed the feat Traggeo would never know. Nor did he know exactly the nature of the operation he had been a part of since his release from prison had been arranged. He had managed to recruit several other members of Salvage Company to join him, careful to leave himself the only officer among them. He held the rank of platoon staff sergeant the day he scalped three Vietcong collaborators to set an example. Such news traveled fast through the Delta villages. All he wanted to do was make a point.
The blessing of it all was that Salvage Company had allowed him to explore and come to grips with his true nature. The regular army was all protocol and regulations. Salvage Company just got things done. Brutally. Efficiently. Much to Traggeo’s liking.
He knew no Indian blood flowed through his veins; it was a spiritual thing. He could feel the spirit of a great warrior reborn inside him, guiding him on. He saw the warrior in a dream vision and took on his likeness, fashioned his very appearance after what the vision had shown him.
But it wasn’t enough. The warrior in his dream vision could not achieve the greatness he longed for so long as another stood in the way:
Johnny Wareagle.
The huge true-blood who had shared the war with Traggeo was more myth than man. A legend Traggeo knew he would have to overcome if he was to achieve what the warrior of his vision prescribed for him. The wearing of his victims’ scalps was intended as a means to swallow their energy, absorb their auras into his own, so that he would be up to the task when the day came for him to meet Wareagle.
For now, though, there was a job to do, a task to perform. Traggeo took great pride in being trusted. He wanted to prove to those who had freed him to his destiny that they had chosen well, wanted to show himself to be worthy. Whoever had arranged his release from prison must have known of his work with Salvage Company. While those
years had helped hone his physical skill, though, this tour of duty would allow Traggeo to hone his spirit, fashion it in the image he desired.
years had helped hone his physical skill, though, this tour of duty would allow Traggeo to hone his spirit, fashion it in the image he desired.
He reached the control center and entered the proper combination into the keypad. The door slid open. He charged through it and moved straight for the chief of security.
“What’s going on?”
The security chief held one earpiece of his headset in place as he spoke. “We’ve lost contact with the patrol jeep.”
“The explosion, you fuck!”
“Our men are almost to the scene now.”
Traggeo reached over and grabbed the man by the shirt. A name tag that read CAROSI went flying. “You sent them
out?”
out?”
“I-I-I had to.”
“Damn it!”
Carosi’s headset had come half off and Traggeo could hear a garbled report coming out through the earpiece. The control center overlooked the front of the place known as Sandcastle One, and he could see the day-bright glow cast over the yard.
“Turn off the lights!” Traggeo ordered.
“But—”
Traggeo lifted Carosi up and slammed him against a wall composed entirely of darkened television monitors. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? We’re being set up. Turn off the fucking lights!”
Johnny Wareagle had reached the fence on the complex’s eastern side an instant before the lights snapped back off. His Gerber M-2 knife sliced through the steel links like putty, and he was inside within seconds. Before pressing on, he refastened the ruined portion of the fence as best he could to hide the fact that the base had been penetrated from anyone with the sense to look.
Turning back toward the darkened grounds, Johnny saw
the remains of the security force was beginning a careful sweep of the area. He recognized the black, awkward-looking devices strapped around their faces as AN/PVS-7 night-vision goggles. But the men weren’t looking for him.
the remains of the security force was beginning a careful sweep of the area. He recognized the black, awkward-looking devices strapped around their faces as AN/PVS-7 night-vision goggles. But the men weren’t looking for him.
They were looking for whoever had set off the explosion down the road. Another party, perhaps significant in number, was attempting to gain entry to the complex. Johnny had become so obsessed with catching Traggeo that until now he had totally failed to consider what sort of plot the killer might be involved in. Clearly it involved a force with sufficient resources to either construct or commandeer this facility. And this force’s enemies had arrived at the same time Johnny had, something he could make work in his favor.
Wareagle lay flat on the ground and began smoothing handfuls of the desert upon his flesh and clothes. When he once again started to move forward, his frame was indistinguishable from the ground itself. As the complex had melded into the desert, so had Johnny. He pulled himself on with his feet and elbows, lost amidst the sagebrush and tumbleweed, unseen even to those who looked directly at him.
Belamo and McCracken used wire cutters to get through the fence. The lights died again just after they were in, and Blaine reached over to stop Sal from pressing onward.
“Someone knows we’re here.”
“Huh?”
“That’s why they turned the lights back off.”
“First bright thing they’ve done, you ask me.”
“Absolutely. An assault team would use the light to pick off the guards one at a time. The dark keeps everything equal.”
“Or them ahead, they got that night-vision shit.”
“Right.”
“So what d’we do?”
“Change the rules.”
“Boss?”
“They were expecting an assault team, Sal. They weren’t expecting us.”
“I’ve called in our status,” Carosi was saying, the headset refastened over his ears. “Reinforcements are en route as a precaution but it’s going to take some time … . Sir?”
Traggeo didn’t even turn the man’s way. Instead he continued to strain his eyes out the window in Sandcastle One’s control center toward the grounds beyond. The glass had been treated to appear opaque on the other side, making it impossible for anyone below to notice him. The night gave up nothing besides the occasional shape of one of the guards shuffling about in search of intruders.
“It was the patrol jeep, all right,” Carosi resumed after accepting the report from the group that had reached the scene of the explosion.
This time Traggeo did turn his way. “Order the men back here.”
“We still have two missing, unaccounted for.”
“Either they’re dead or they might as well be. Order the men back. Fast.”
Carosi swallowed a thick gulp of air and again did as he was told.
Traggeo swung back to the window.
“Do your men on the grounds have walkie-talkies?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Ask them to report in. Ask all of them to report in.”
“Why?”
Traggeo’s eyes blazed cold fire. “Because I can’t see them anymore.”
McCracken and Sal Belamo had split up to deal with the immediate threat of the patrolling guards. While permitting sight even on the darkest of desert nights, the AN/PVS-7 night-vision goggles the guards wore came with severe limitations. For one thing, their bulk precluded rapid twists and
turns. For another they reduced peripheral vision to almost zero. These two limitations were easily taken advantage of by those who understood them.
turns. For another they reduced peripheral vision to almost zero. These two limitations were easily taken advantage of by those who understood them.
While trying to find a way to enter Sandcastle One, Blaine had come upon four guards wearing the goggles. All four had been easily and quietly subdued, no weapon required to incapacitate them. McCracken figured it would be different for the ones who crossed Sal Belamo’s path. The pug-nosed ex-boxer had learned his trade on the streets and continued to practice it in the same deadly manner. He had no trouble using a silenced semiautomatic in place of savvy, if it meant facilitating matters and saving a few seconds.
Instead Blaine was surprised to come upon a pair of guards hidden in the low brush of the grounds who were unconscious instead of dead. He might have suspected that Sal had finally discovered subtlety if it weren’t for the fact that Belamo, according to plan, should have been on the opposite side of the complex. McCracken shrugged the anomaly off and continued on as the headlights of the returning convoy burned through the last stretch of road back for Sandcastle One.
“I can’t raise any of the perimeter guards,” Carosi said dumbly after putting out the call yet again.
“Because they’re not there anymore, you fuck!” snapped Traggeo.
A red light began to flash on the main security console, accompanied by a chirping beep. The status monitor flashed two words in rhythm with the beeps:
UNWARRANTED ENTRY
“We have a penetration!”
“Where?”
“First-floor window. Southeast quadrant, sector one-one—”
“Where the fuck is that?”
Before Carosi could respond to Traggeo’s question, a second light and fresh chirping commenced. The status monitor’s message changed only slightly:
UNWARRANTED ENTRY
UNWARRANTED ENTRY
UNWARRANTED ENTRY
“Second penetration!” Carosi managed, almost in a gasp. “First-floor door. Northwest quadrant, sector—”
“Just tell me where, goddamnit!” Traggeo demanded.
Before the security chief could oblige, the lights of the convoy streamed toward the main gate.
“I want them deployed inside,” Traggeo ordered. “I want them to shoot anything that moves!”
The gate opened electronically and the first jeep had barely cleared it when the explosion sounded. The jeep’s carcass was hurled into the air in a burst of flames. It was flung backward and crashed into the second jeep immediately behind it. The personnel truck bringing up the rear swerved to avoid a deadly collision and was caught in a second explosion that twirled it about like a top and then tumbled it over. A third blast caught the fuel tanks of all three vehicles, the result being a massive fireball that lit the whole of Sandcastle One in its glow.
Because he was standing by the window, Traggeo’s skin was tinted orange. His expression had remained unchanged through the chaos that had scrambled the other occupants of the control center behind him. He could feel, could taste, every breath. The calm of battle had taken over. His thinking was clear.
Sandcastle One had been penetrated in two places by an undetermined number of men, who had also secured the perimeter. His primary task now was to contain the damage to the overall plan. There was nothing in Sandcastle One’s on-line systems that could give up any hint of what was coming. But there was a prisoner inside who could provide far more than merely a hint.
Traggeo knew what he had to do.
He moved to the control center’s door and pressed the proper code into the keypad. Nothing happened.
“It seals automatically when the complex is penetrated,” the security chief explained.
“Open it.”
Carosi swung back to his terminal. The door slid open with a hiss.
Johnny Wareagle was creeping along a first-floor corridor of the complex when the explosions sounded. Ordinarily he would have thought the other force that had shown up here was launching an all-out attack, but that didn’t feel like the case to him. His thoughts were jumbled, confused. He had come here strictly for Traggeo. This other force had obviously come for another reason altogether.
Blainey
…
…
Wareagle shook the feeling off as quickly as it slipped into his mind. A distraction was the last thing he needed now, much less one involving the man who had fought next to him so often that he could no longer enter into battle without expecting to see McCracken by his side. But tonight he was alone. No matter what the mystery force’s purpose or allegiance was, he was alone, his own purpose singular:
Traggeo.
Johnny turned a corner and walked directly into a blanket of darkness, forcing him to feel his way. The earlier corridors he had traversed had been lit by the dull glow of recessed ceiling lights. The walls and doors, the floor tile too, were off-white in color, not quite cream. Though there were no bars or visible locks, the suspicions Johnny’d had outside were confirmed: this place was a prison, its cells presently unoccupied but fully prepared to take on inmates.
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