Kilo-29 (Damned of the 2/19th, Book 15)

Part 21

Site Kilo-29
Military Area - Primary Hallways/Lower Levels
Winter, 1993
Day Two-Night

Gunshots rang out as Shads, Kincaid and Donaldson pulled their triggers. I'd kicked the figure square in the balls and it lifted up while my pistol cleared the holster.

And collapsed.

The arms went disjointed, the legs twisted weirdly, the torso folded over the groin, and the axe fell to the floor.

The head bounced into the hallway with us.

I put two shots into it without thinking, the head shattering.

"Fucking mannequins." Donaldson snarled.

"Holy shit." Meyers breathed. His hands were still empty, he was staring at the dismembered mannequin. "Holy shit."

"It must have been leaning against the doors." Kincaid said, breathing hard.

...in front of me stood a dark figure, dressed in a parka, with an extreme cold weather face mask across his face. His hands were hidden by trigger mittens, but the left one still held the bayonet tightly up next to his head. He was close enough that I could see every detail about him...

..His one good eye glared bloodshot rage at me as the knife came down...

I was panting, staring at the shattered head with the intact cold weather mask on it. I turned and looked at the uniform. Without thinking I stepped into the elevator and grabbed it's left sleeve, yanking it straight out.

The interlocked triangles of 3rd CosCom sat smugly in the circle. I glanced at the chest and my blood ran cold.

My name was on the breast, complete with first and middle initial.

"That looks like the tattoo on your shoulder." Shads said, moving up to look.

"Yeah." I mumbled, straightening up. I was sweating and shivering at the same time.

"You OK, Sergeant? You're shaking." Shads asked, putting his hand on my arm.

"Don't touch me." I snarled out of reflex, pulling my arm loose. I shook my head. "Sorry, I'm OK, Private."

Shads nodded, but backed up a step anyway.

"They think well enough to set boobytraps." Kincaid said, stepping next to me and tapping the broken mannequin with his toe. "This isn't the first trap we've found."

"No, this feels different." Donaldson said. I shot him a look and he shrugged. He grabbed the torso and flipped it, hiding the nametag that I knew he'd seen. "No bulletholes, someone wasn't killed while they were wearing this one."

"Help me pull the desks out." I said, stepping into the elevator. I grabbed the bottom edge of the top of the desk and lifted, relishing the bright pain from my injured ribs and shoulder. The pain was real, and I really needed real at that time.

It had been wearing my uniform. Not one of the ones I wore now, there was no reason to have my initials on the uniform when I wasn't stationed in the same unit as my brother. Plus, I hadn't worn that patch on my left shoulder since I'd left Germany, 2 years ago.

This was new.

And new was dangerous.

It was also old.

And I knew that it was dangerous.

We muscled two of the desks out of the elevator, flipped the other two on their sides so that one faced each set of doors, then crowded in. I looked at the buttons. In addition to the six numbered ones, it held two other buttons. One with a simple 'X' on it, the other labeled 'EL1'. The 'X' was the seventh button, so I hit that one and the elevator doors rumbled shut, squealing and groaning.

"Get behind the desks." I ordered, following my own advice. I unslung my rifle, reloaded the M-203 with a CS grenade, then loaded a magazine into the well, letting the charging handle slap home before tapping the forward assist.

The elevator shuddered at times as it slowly moved down. Kincaid kept watching the open access hatch in the ceiling. Donaldson faced the opposite way as me, his rifle over the edge of the desk, finger on the trigger. Shads was facing the same way as me, his expression slightly sad, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story.

Meyers kept glancing at Natchez, and I caught him once rolling his eyes and had to reign in the urge to smack his stupid ass.

The elevator slowed down and came to a stop.

..."Third floor, ladies evening wear." Nancy said, pressed tightly against the button panel, her helmet missing, wearing chocolate chips, her rifle held close to her body while she tensed to go around the corner...

I ignored her.

The doors groaned then shuddered open. The hallway beyond wasn't steel plate, not decor by US Army, but rather wood paneling, the lights soft and gentle from their recesses in the ceiling.

Across from us were three seals.

"Oh, fuck." Kincaid breathed.

Three seals that I recognized.

"What the fuck?" Donaldson said softly, turning around when his doors didn't open.

An FBI seal, only with "FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION-EVENT RECOVERY DET." on the bottom.

"That's not right." Meyers said, probably the most obvious thing he'd ever said.

A CIA seal, complete with "CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY-EVENT RECOVERY DET." on the top.

"This isn't good." Shads said quietly.

And an NSA seal with "NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY-EVENT RECOVERY DET."

"I think I know what those agents are here for." I said, feeling goosebumps erupt down my back. "And I think I know who they each work for."

"You think?" Donaldson asked. I was willing to excuse the sarcasm from him.

"Don't care, still gonna kill that bastard with the toothpicks." Kincaid said.

"We don't need to question them now." I said, standing up from behind the desk and stepping over it. "Let's get a move on, we've got a retrieval to get done."

"Yes, Sergeant." Kincaid and Donaldson said. I almost missed Shads voice. He was really quiet.

"Keep an eye out for a camera." I told them, looking in both directions.

The wood paneling was smooth. There was artwork on the walls, not your standard AAFES prints that you'd find in the PX, but honest to God artwork complete with brass plaques denoting the painting's name, the artist's name, and the date. The lights showed me that there were several alcoves that I could see statues standing in. There was T intersection to my left and to the right it ended in a door with the NSA seal on it.

"There's one." Kincaid called out, pointing a little ways down the hallway. The light was red but I went and stood in front of it anyway, pulling out my notebook and writing in it. The camera was within reach, so I'd be able to show them the writing without jumping or hoping it had zoom capability.

"What are we waiting for?" Natchez asked.

"For whoever it is we're rescuing to focus in on us." I said, waiting. "I don't think they're here."

"But this is the 7th level." Wilkins said.

"Only from that elevator." I answered. "Whoever it is might have taken a different set, and might be on a different level, or there might be sublevels that you can only access from certain elevators."

"How big is this fucking place?" Meyers asked.

"Fucking big." Kincaid said. "I don't think they're here. If I was waiting on a rescue party, I'd be watching the camera by the elevator."

"I think you're right." I turned from the camera. "Back in the elevator, men."

"Maybe they're in the civilian side, Sergeant, that's where we saw the majority of fighting damage." Donaldson reminded me.

"Could they access the cameras here?" Kincaid asked, stepping into the elevator.

"I'm not sure. Probably not." I waited for Shads to get in then hit the "EL1" button. The doors didn't make as much racket and I saw grease ooze out of the tracks as the doors set into place.

Self-greasing mechanism. Clever.

If I remembered right, the next floor was only about 40 feet below the floor we'd just left.

The elevator kept going down, ignoring what I thought.

"Damn, this next level is far." Kincaid said, reaching up to rub his sutures then wincing as soon as he touched them.

...event recovery...

Finally the elevator slowed, causing us all to kneel and get ready. This time the doors that shuddered and screamed open were on the opposite side of the ones that had opened normally.

A seal I'd seen only in the older sites was waiting for us on the other side. You have to say one thing about the US Government, well, governments in general, when they own something, they want everyone to know it. They slap seals, stencils, labels, decals, patches, and paint all over it. It'll say like 5 million places that they own it.

My uniform said the US Government owned me. A patch on my shoulder would show they owned me. My rank showed they owned me. The US ARMY over my heart told everyone they owned me. My ID card said in like 3 places they owned me. My dogtags said I was their property, like a chain around my neck. In my dreams they still owned me, trapping me in the dark and the cold. Hell, I even had their ownership tattooed on my shoulder.

Across from us the seal was triangle with the American shield on it. Around it read "FEDERAL CIVIL DEFENSE ADMINISTRATION". Like the others, it wasn't simply painted onto the wall, this was a full seal, a carved thing then painted in bright colors.

On the left of it a placard said "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" with the threat of "live fire authorized" as well as jail time. On the right was a placard that warned us that we should be prepared to show ID at any time or be subject to immediate detention and "possible termination" at the leisure of the facility commander.

The air smelled slightly off, reminding me faintly of standing in a walk in refrigerator. It also reminded me of somewhere else.

...we killed each other in the dark and snow, in the War Fighter tunnels and in the barracks, our blood freezing to the floor and walls and spattering the snow where it had crept into the barracks, our war cries echoing through the dark tunnels and halls as we hunted and killed with knives, bayonets, rifles, pistols, grenades, and bare hands...

...the eight of us standing there, panting in the cold, outside the lower entrance, snow whipping around us. Shouldering our rifles, we started walking down the road and into the snow, toward main post...

...behind us the door to the War Fighter tunnels stood open silently, the lights from inside illuminating the blizzard, until the automatic mechanism slowly shut it, but by that time we were out of sight, walking through the snow towards Dead Man's curve, only six of us making it main post...

...Tandy taking two of us in the dark and cold of the road...

I shuddered involuntary before covering it by stepping into the hallway.

"Sergeant, camera." Kincaid said. I turned and looked in time to see it panning over to lock on me. I held up my notebook.

"WHICH WAY?"

The camera swiveled around to point down the right hand hallway.

Thank God, the elevator sat at a 5 point intersection. Someone had spraypainted over the labels for the lines on the floor.

"DO WE NEED TO TURN?"

No.

"IS THERE ANOTHER CAMERA BEFORE WE CHANGE DIRECTION?"

Yes.

"EXTRACTION ENROUTE"

Yes.

I pocketed my notebook and reached for my bottle of pills, only remembering after my hand was in my pocket that I'd dropped the bottle.

"Are you sure you can trust this person, Sergeant?" Meyers asked.

"If they jump, we'll kill 'em." Kincaid growled.

I needed to watch that boy.

"I don't leave men behind." I said, and started heading down the hallway.

"I knew he was going to say that." Shads said quietly. Donaldson and Kincaid chuckled.

The walls were different. Where the rest of the facility had either steel plating, maybe some tile, or wood paneling, these hallways were bare concrete, a barreled ceiling with heavy support vaulting every ten paces or so. The concrete was in strips, with steel strips connecting each strip. It looked raw, unfinished, and I'd only seen it in a few places. I knew that inside each concrete strip was an inch thick steel rebar. The hallway wasn't straight, turning and curving, and it wasn't long before I lost reference toward north and south. It narrowed and widened at random times, but it didn't fit the pattern for defensive chokepoints like 2/19th's War Fighter tunnels. We passed hallways with the labels spraypainted over that vanished into the darkness to our left and right.

Only the lights in the tunnel we were in stayed lit.

Our boots thudded on the strips of concrete that made up the floor, but didn't echo, instead the corridor seemed to swallow up the sound. Several times we passed cameras, but they all pointed in the same direction.

"Sergeant." Kincaid said, his breath steaming in front of him.

"I see it." I told him. I hadn't noticed that it was getting colder until he'd spoke, and my breath plumed out in front of me.

Up ahead was a sharp corner, and a blood smear was across the floor, leading around the corner. The blood was old, dried and black, soaked into the concrete strips that made up the floor.

"Stay sharp, hold your fire until you confirm your targets." I advised them, unholstering my Glock. "Donaldson, Kincaid, you're with me, Shads, you have drag, the rest of you, you're center, watch our flanks."

"It's just walls." Meyers said.

"Look." Kincaid said, pointing with his rifle.

A vent was higher up on the curve of the rounded ceiling, the cover missing, just a dark space two feet high and three feet across. There was blood smear up the wall to the vent.

"Watch our flanks." I repeated, then moved toward the corner, Kincaid and Donaldson spreading out.

The hallway was wide enough we could stand two abreast with our arms stretched out and not touch each other or the walls.

There were bullet holes in the wall, with blood spatters near them. There was blood on the floor, a streak heading toward us, under our boots, and around the corner behind us.

Up ahead was another corner, with a wooden desk on its side. There were two of the small crossbow quarrels stuck in the wood.

...they killed each other, down here in the dark and cold...

"What the fuck happened?" Meyers asked, his voice hushed.

"Maintain noise discipline." I hissed, moving up and watching the floor. Getting closer to the table I saw it, on the gap to my left of the table. Holding my breath I moved up and glanced over the top of the table.

A goddamn M-16A2 mine sat on the other side of the table, the tripwire deployed and attached to the far wall. I could tell by the offset of the fuze that it was the A2 version. Someone had hammered a nail into the concrete and dusted the wire with concrete dust. To top it off, the fucking prongs had been bent slightly, putting pressure on them, meaning the goddamn thing would go off if you looked at it wrong. Another line, this one black, was two feet behind the dusted one, and was the one I'd seen.

Someone knew their shit.

"Get back." I hissed, waving at them. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead as I stared at it. I couldn't see any modifications to it, but I knew how to make the fucker pop if you so much as touched it, so that didn't mean shit.

"Go back around the corner, right now." I warned them.

"What?" Kincaid said softly. I could hear at least some of them following my instructions.

"Someone mined the fucking hallway." I warned them. "I'm going to cut the wire and pray that the fucker doesn't go off."

"I'm staying." Kincaid said.

"I need you and Donaldson back there, if something happens to me, it'll be up to the two of you to get those men home." I told him, holstering my pistol and pulling out my Leatherman.

"Roger that." Kincaid said. I heard him moving off, and could hear the others whispering, but I shut it out of my mind.

I hate dealing with mines. I had scars on my legs and my arm from them, once where we'd hit an old Nazi mine from WW-2 during night land-nav that had killed 2 of us and knocked me cold with a broken jaw, and another time from an unexploded MRLS bomblet that the truck in front of me in the convoy had hit, throwing shrapnel through the right hand windshield of the Gypsy Wagon.

People who called me unlucky didn't understand.

I was real lucky.

I took a deep breath, crouched down behind the table, wondering if I was inside the shrapnel arc, then leaned around to put the grips of my Leatherman on either side of the dusted wire. I closed my eyes, wrapped myself in the feel of Heather's arms, the warmth of the baby against my chest, the feel of her tiny heartbeat against my bare skin, the small baby noises she made, and the smell of Heather's hair, the taste of Heather's lips, and cut the wire.

Nothing happened.

My balls tightened up as I curled up into a ball, praying my Kevlar vest would protect my insides. My legs were under me, my arms in front of my chest with my hands covering the back of my neck. My ass and head was exposed, but it was the best I could do.

Three to eight seconds, that's how long the mine would wait before the deployment charge blew, throwing the main body of the mine about three to five feet into the air, where it would go off and spray the whole area with shrapnel.

My Father had scars on his cheeks where one had gone off almost in his face in Vietnam, he'd lived because both steel sleeves had rusted through and the mine had blew into pieces instead of blowing him into pieces. One of my brothers had been killed by one in the same war while on patrol in 1969, the same day I was born. Aunt Trudy had only one breast and had lost her left ear and eye thanks to one that had gone off in a cantina that she was in with a few other nurses, she'd lived, none of her friends did.

Ten seconds passed and nothing happened.

"It's clear." I called out, starting to relax.

That's when I heard the deployment charge go "POP!"

...sucker...

I had enough time to curl tighter, tight against the table.