Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) (15 page)

“It should be.” Tanner looked back over at Samantha. She looked a little pale too. “Everything’s good, right Sam?”

“Oh sure,” she said, eyeing the blood. “Everything’s just peachy.”

Chapter 9  

Buckey fell face first onto the coarse metal grating covering the power plant’s walkway. He immediately rolled over and crab-walked backward until his shoulder blades pressed tightly against the bunker wall. His heart pounded, and something warm slowly spread across his groin. At first he thought he had wet himself, but when he reached down, he felt a steady stream of blood pulsing between his fingers. It wasn’t strong enough to be the femoral artery, but it wasn’t a minor flesh wound either.

He looked up at the open vent directly above his head. It seemed unlikely that whoever had shot at him would be small enough to follow. If they were, they would be in for a little more than a haircut when they poked their head through.

“Hey!” he called. “You out there?”

After a moment, a voice echoed through the hole. It was remarkably calm for someone who had just gunned down two men in cold blood.

“I’m here.”

“You got me in the leg. Just thought you’d want to know. Credit where credit is due and all that jazz.”

“Your troubles are only beginning, believe me.”

Buckey snickered. “I think you’ve got that part wrong, mister.”

“We’ll see.”

“Mind if I ask your name? I’ve never been shot before, and I kind of want to know who did it.”

“Deputy Marshal Mason Raines.”

That surprised him. “What’s a marshal doing mixed up in all this?”

“Right now, I’m doing what I do best, standing in the way of evil men.”

“Evil’s what you make of it, Marshal. Believe me, on a sunny afternoon, it goes down as smoothly as a cold glass of lemonade.”

There was no reply.

“Well, I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got doors to open and people to kill. You understand the drill.”

Again, there was no answer.

“All right then. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Count on it.”

Without taking his back from the wall, Buckey slid sideways along the metal walkway. When he was safely clear of the open vent, he slowly got to his feet. He had abandoned his rifle in the tunnel once the shooting had started, but he was by no means defenseless. He reached down and placed his hand on the smooth wooden handle of a Sayoc-Winkler RnD Hawk. The tomahawk was his single most prized possession, taken from the body of a fellow soldier who had reportedly once worked with master bladesmith, Daniel Winkler. The head offered a razor-sharp blade on one end and a tapered point on the other. Weighing in at only one and a half pounds, it was as easy to wield as it was to throw. The Hawk was a primitive, no-nonsense weapon, but in Buckey’s hands, it would absolutely sing.

He turned his attention to the space around him. It was essentially an attic above the bunker’s power plant. That much he knew from the briefing. There wasn’t much to see besides the vent fans, a staircase leading down, and an assortment of electrical conduits that distributed power to the rest of the bunker.

He moved to the small spiral staircase and peered over the railing.

Electrical panels and breaker boxes filled the space below. Not having a firearm forced an additional level of caution, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. When sneaking around an enemy’s camp, Buckey had always believed it best to move like a cat burglar in search of priceless jewels.

Ignoring the pain in his leg, he descended the stairs with three quick hops. The main level hummed with the chatter of electricity flowing through switches and fuses, but it was as empty of inhabitants as the small landing above. Another set of stairs led to the bunker’s lower level. The three 675-kilowatt Fairbanks Morris diesel generators could be heard groaning like the incessant snore of a sleeping dragon. Fortunately, the West Tunnel’s blast door lay on the first floor.

Blood continued to drip down Buckey’s leg, seeping in and around his boot to leave a bright red trail wherever he passed. Not good, but manageable given the brief mission. Getting to the West Tunnel Entrance required exiting the power plant, traveling along a short corridor, passing through two more sets of doors, and then navigating the four-hundred-and-thirty-three-foot long tunnel. That last part would be tricky because he would have to run the length of the tunnel and get the door open before anyone spotted him. Still, four hundred feet could be done in under twenty seconds, even with a leaky leg. The whole power plant to West Tunnel excursion should take less than two minutes. As for the leg, he could get it tended to once the door was open.

The mission always had to come first.

Lieutenant Bell, Corporal Rodriguez, and Private Cobb lay on their bellies, peeking up over the lip of a sand trap as two CH-47F Chinooks descended onto the closest fairway. The huge rotors beat the air, pressing the tall grass flat as the helicopters slowly settled. As soon as their wheels touched down, the rear doors lowered, and dozens of soldiers streamed out.

All three cadets instinctively ducked their heads. Even hiding at nearly two hundred yards away, it took them a full minute to build the courage to look back up.

“What’s the marshal expect us to do with that?” Cobb said, watching as the soldiers set up a perimeter around the helicopters. “It’s not like we’re going to win in a shootout. Look at them. There must be fifty of them.”

“You forget that we have the advantage of surprise,” said Bell.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Rodriguez said, spitting sand from his mouth, “but surprise isn’t going to mean donkey doo against that kind of force.”

“We also know where they’re headed.”

“Donkey doo comment still applies.”

“If we can’t win in a fight, what can we do?” asked Cobb.

Bell thought for a moment. “We can tie some of them up out here. That way the number who go in will be fewer.”

“All right, but how?”

“Simple. We’ll give them something to worry about.”

Rodriguez cut his eyes toward her.

“I’m assuming you have something in mind?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

“We’re going to start by taking out one of their helicopters.”

General Hood, Morant, and three dozen Black Dogs walked in a staggered column up the sloping driveway. Stables and a corral sat off to their left, and the huge West Tunnel blast door lay at the top of the small hill.

“Shouldn’t we have heard from—” Hood was interrupted by the sound of their radios squawking.

“Buckey here, over.”

Morant raised the handheld unit to his mouth.

“Go ahead.”

“Encountered resistance at the air vent. Two men down. Comm link may have been compromised, over.”

Morant’s jaw tightened. Two men dead even before they had entered the bunker was not part of the plan. Neither was having their newfangled ultrawideband radio system compromised.

“Can you identify the enemy?”

“He’s a deputy marshal by the name of Raines, over.”

“Are you saying that your team was taken out by one man?”

“He came up from behind us. Didn’t give us much of a chance.”

“Roger that. Were you at least able to enter the bunker?”

“I’m in, but I’ll need a medic, over.”

“Understood. Can you make your way to the West Tunnel Entrance?”

“Don’t worry. One way or another, I’ll get the door open.”

“Roger. Standing by.”

Morant reattached the radio to his MOLLE vest and turned to Hood.

“Any idea who we’re dealing with?”

He shrugged. “A loyal diehard, maybe.”

Morant turned slowly in place, studying their surroundings. A thick copse of trees lay off to the right, and the stables sat to the left.

He nodded to a small cluster of his men.

“You three check the stables. After that, flush the trees to make sure we don’t have eyes on us.”

Without saying a word, the men ducked out of formation and raced away.

Buckey inched his way up to the door and listened. The incessant drone of power equipment in the room behind him made it impossible to hear much of anything. Either there was someone on the other side, or there wasn’t. Only one way to find out.

He swung the door open and rushed through, his Hawk up and ready. It was an empty hallway, perhaps twenty feet long and with a door at the opposite end.

So far, so good.

He crossed the hallway, leaving behind a streak of bright red blood on the floor. If things went as planned, his would be the only blood spilled in the bunker. The sarin would introduce drooling, vomiting, and diarrhea, but blood, at least, should be kept to a minimum. It might not be much, but in his profession, one learned to be thankful for the small things.

Once again, he placed his ear against the door, and once again the power plant robbed him of any insight into who – or what – might be on the other side.

“Through the door, turn right, run, spin the knob, and push,” he said, mentally playing out each action.

Buckey shoved the door open, but before he could take a single step, he found himself standing face to face with an elderly Chinese man. To be fair, Buckey had no idea whether he was Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, or some other Southeast Asian national, nor he figured did it really matter. The man was short and slight, like most Asian men he had ever met were, and he wore a white doctor’s coat with the word “Tran” embroidered on the front. Buckey’s reaction to anything that surprised him was to strike first and offer apologies later. It had served him well a hundred times before, and he wasn’t about to start making exceptions now.

He swung the Hawk up from hip level, the pointed tip catching the elderly man under his left armpit. The doctor screamed and tried to turn and run, but the tomahawk had driven so deep into the meaty tissue that he found himself unable to dislodge the metal point. Buckey stepped forward and slipped his thick forearm around the man’s neck. He pulled the doctor back toward him, ripping the Hawk free. Before Tran could offer even the slightest resistance, Buckey brought the weapon up and slid the blade across his throat. Warm blood spilled out, raining down in a thick sheet onto his white coat.

Tran’s legs gave way, but Buckey held him in place for a few seconds to be sure he was dead. Once the blood stopped pulsing, he dragged the body back into the small corridor and dropped it to the floor. So much for his being the only blood spilled. Oh well, the best laid plans were usually the first to go to shit.

Buckey glanced back out into the hallway. It was clear, for the moment at least. He rushed forward, passing through the final door. A long lifeless tunnel lay before him, illuminated only by the faint glow of the occasional overhead lamp. The heavy vault door lay more than a football field away, beckoning to him like the impenetrable gate to Oz’s Emerald City.

“Go time.”

Buckey ran, pumping the Hawk in his right hand like a relay baton. He focused on absolutely nothing but the door. If someone came into the tunnel, they could try to drop him from behind, but hitting a man running at full tilt wasn’t an easy task. Besides, Buckey figured he could take a couple of shots in the back, if it came to that.