Crush Depth

When Jeffrey and Ilse got back to the others, Clayton and Montgomery and some of their men were standing or sitting and eating rations, and chatting with Harrison and Constable Henga. The SEALs were posing as rear-area security troops, sent along by the U.S. Navy with Ilse and Jeffrey and Harrison, who were supposed to be SOSUS maintenance workers. That was the cover story Henga fed to curious islanders who’d asked, and it would lull enemy recon sensors too.

Ilse entered her tent, to establish the voice link with Sydney using her portable console. Jeffrey left her alone so she could cool off.

Jeffrey stood there catching his breath, winded from climbing and walking in rough terrain. I’ve been so busy with all the duties as Challenger’s captain plus Wilson’s operations officer, I neglected my need for exercise. I’m really out of shape. Jeffrey idly took a closer look at the rock outcropping that held the equipment bunker for the local satellite ground station. The rock was volcanic, old, weathered, but strong and hard. The parts Jeffrey could see from where he stood were rough matte black, with veins of dark gray. The outcropping formed a big hump jutting out of the soil. The portion that held the bunker showed fresh marks from blasting and jackhammers, presumably done by U.S. Navy Seabees or New Zealand military engineers.

Jeffrey heard a strange crack as a hot angry bee rushed past his ear. One of the enlisted SEALs caved in on himself and fell forward. There was another crack and someone plucked Jeffrey’s sleeve. He turned in confusion since nobody was next to him. Montgomery came running at Jeffrey as fast as he could.

“Wha—”

“Sniper!” Montgomery bellowed as he knocked Jeffrey off his feet.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Jeffrey lay on his back, bewildered, staring at the sky, in mental shock as his heart pounded. Around him he sensed a disordered swirl of frantic motion and raised voices. Montgomery was already some distance away. Everyone was scrambling for cover and grabbing their weapons. Jeffrey’s former SEAL training came back from his younger days. He rolled onto his stomach and belly-crawled to a better position. Where’s the sniper? And who the hell is shooting at us?

There was a bang in the distance, and a tearing sound.

“Incoming!” Clayton shouted. Everyone squashed flat.

Jeffrey caressed the damp soil with urgent intimacy, and tried to become one with the moss. The initial surprise of it all was wearing off, and now stark terror sank in. Jeffrey badly wished he had a helmet. A glowing ball was tearing toward him low over the ground, leaving a trail of dirty smoke. The rocket slammed into Ilse’s tent and exploded inside. The canvas billowed outward and ripped, riddled with white-hot shrapnel. The tent burst into flame at once. It collapsed, roaring and crackling.

Ilse glanced from around the rock outcropping; she’d had the sense to abandon the tent at the first sign of trouble. The tent burned merrily, fanned by the wind — and that ended their only link with Challenger. There was no way to sound a warning, no way to call quickly for help.

Jeffrey fought hard to regain mental balance. They had to respond to this sudden emergency with speed and focused violence, or they’d be overwhelmed and defeated both individually and as a group — defeated emotionally and then physically. Jeffrey’s mind registered scattered rifle shots from the enlisted SEALs. He could tell they were uncoordinated, shooting wild, to try to suppress the enemy fire. But who was the enemy?

Jeffrey heard Shajo Clayton’s voice, tough and commanding amid the din. The SEAL lieutenant was calling orders to his team, to stop wasting ammo and organize a meaningful hasty defense. Jeffrey drew comfort from Clayton’s leadership as Clayton rallied and prodded his men. Jeffrey’s own combat instincts clicked in more and more, and some of his fear began to give way to excitement and rising purposefulness. The key was not to stay passive, but do something useful immediately. Yet tactically, in this situation, Clayton was in charge.

Clayton crawled up next to Jeffrey. His closeness made Jeffrey feel better. Jeffrey felt less lost and alone, no longer quite so isolated as everyone else near him sought concealment or dug themselves in.

Both men gained scant cover using a small dip in the ground. Clayton showed Jeffrey a grin. The two had been here several times before, this special, taxing, mystical place where courageous people braved death together with righteousness on their side.

Another bullet crazed the soil, too near Jeffrey’s head. Clayton and Jeffrey were forced to move apart. Their separation made Jeffrey feel more anxious. He forced himself to get a grip.

“They’re after you, Captain. They know you’re senior.”

“Yeah, but who’s they?”

Gunther Van Gelder lay in the bushes beside Commander Bauer. Bauer studied their objective with his binoculars.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Bauer whispered. “They haven’t broken and run.”

“Maybe they’re too scared to move.”

Bauer made hand signals for his sniper to fire again.

“I got targets,” Chief Montgomery shouted. “Two groups, three or four men each, heading right and left! They’re trying to outflank us!”

“Hold your fire,” Clayton ordered. “They might be friendly troops!”

“Constable,” Jeffrey yelled. “Are they yours? Some kind of mix-up?”

“No!” Henga yelled back. “Nobody dresses like that.”

“Like what?” Jeffrey couldn’t get a clear view. He was pinned down as the enemy sniper learned the feel of the wind — his shots were closer and closer.

“Black body stockings,” Henga yelled.

“Kampfschwimmer,” Jeffrey said. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then the SEALs visibly braced themselves. Clayton licked his lips, as if he welcomed this one-on-one contest of champion teams. Jeffrey thought fast. “They’re after the bunker.”

“Return fire!” Clayton ordered. “Weapons free!”

The SEALs resumed firing the time-worn M-16s they’d brought with them, part of their disguise as rear-area troops. The outflanking Kampfschwimmer went to ground. M-16s crackled and spent brass flew as each SEAL took carefully aimed shots. They needed to make every round count: they hadn’t brought heavy weapons, or much of an ammo supply.

The flanking Kampfschwimmer fired back. Their rifles made a deeper booming noise than the M-16s. Jeffrey knew those telltale reports from the old days: AK-47s, also aged, but lethal. Their bullets were much heavier than the ones from an M-16. Both Kampfschwimmer flanking teams advanced, using fire and movement skillfully. Jeffrey felt the pressure mount as the enemy pincers advanced.

Clayton raised his head, just long enough to squeeze off a round. Burnt powder went up Jeffrey’s nose and stirred his adrenaline more, but he was unarmed and they were in serious danger of being surrounded. Jeffrey began to choke on thin but acrid smoke — the fire in Ilse’s tent had spread and the second tent was burning.

“There’s a radio in my truck!” Henga yelled.

Harrison was the only one close enough to stand a chance of reaching Henga’s Land Rover alive. He broke cover without hesitation, and dashed behind the truck. The German sniper loosed a round that smashed the windshield to bits. Jeffrey judged the sniper had changed his firing position. He’s good.

Jeffrey saw the Land Rover’s far-side door swing open. Jeffrey knew that if Harrison failed, they might all be killed or captured where they lay. A sniper round pierced the sheet-metal side of the driver’s door.

“Tom!” Jeffrey shouted in concern.

“I’m okay!” Harrison shouted.