DJ scrambled to keep his feet under him and barely slid into the next intersection as bullets ripped through the air just behind him as he ran.
He crabwalked back to the wall and pressed himself against the cold stone, his breath coming in quick pants. He did a quick assessment and concluded that he didn’t have any extra holes in his body then slowly slid up the wall.
He stepped around the corner and sprayed the corridor with half a magazine before slipping back to safety. He watched as the ground near the intersection erupted again. When the bullets stopped, he assumed they were reloading and risked popping his head around the corner.
The men were just emerging from the darkened part of the tunnel and DJ smiled to himself, his hand sliding up his vest to grab the trigger of the transmitter to detonate the dynamite.
He paused, his eyes going wide as he quickly patted down the vest. “What the…” He felt his stomach drop as he realized that the trigger was gone.
“Fuck me.”
41
Near Quitman, TX
Bridger stood across from the convex mirror mounted high on the wall. He could see the silhouettes of men as they milled near the bottom of the stairs, speaking amongst themselves. He caught the static of a radio and keyed his own coms. “Slippy, hit the jammer.”
“You’ll lose our coms, too. You sure you want to do that?”
Bridger continued to stare at the reflection and nodded. “Do it.”
“See you on the other side,” Gregg’s voice sounded defeated.
Bridger heard the slight squelch in his earpiece and noticed that the outline of men seemed to become more animated.
He felt the earth tremble under his boots and knew that somebody had tripped one of the boobytraps. A few moments later, another reverberated through the rock and he nodded to himself. “Let’s get this shit-show started.”
He gripped his carbine tighter and had prepared to spin around the corner when the closest charge went off, compressing the air inside the tunnel, and he knew it was time to engage.
He spun around the corner and began placing the red dot of his EOTech on each of the silhouettes, squeezing the trigger and sending a suppressed round down range. He knew that he’d dropped at least three of the men before the others began to return fire.
He quickly ducked back into the other tunnel and listened carefully for the excited voices to grow closer behind the cacophony of gunfire. He squeezed the foam earplugs into a cone and shoved them into his ear canals just as the men tripped the first explosive.
The concussive wave that washed down the tunnel was stronger than he anticipated, and he found himself assaulted by shrapnel of rock and sand.
The smell of spent C4 washed over him as the M18 claymore pelted the men with steel shot, shredding protective clothing, puncturing flesh, and splintering bone.
The wave of screams that echoed through the tunnel brought back memories he’d rather not deal with, and he quickly filed them away with all of the other monstrous atrocities he had committed in his life. It had become too easy to justify killing. It was especially easy when they were trying to kill you, but he’d rationalize that later.
He spun back around the corner and sprayed .308 rounds down the tunnel. When the magazine was empty, he quickly dropped it and jammed another in its place, charging the weapon.
He took off at a quick trot, putting as much distance as possible between himself and where the survivors would eventually emerge. He noted the secondary charge of dynamite and pulled the transmitter from his BDU pants.
He slowed as he neared the adjoining tunnel and stood near the corner, waiting to hear the men approach. He brought the carbine up and peered down the corridor. “I should have used brighter bulbs,” he muttered.
He caught movement in the shadows and opened fire, not really caring if he hit anyone. He only needed to enrage them enough to bring them closer to the next blast zone.
The shadows scattered, returning fire. Bridger ducked back around the corner and waited, doing his best to time the detonation correctly.
He held his breath, straining his ears to hear past the foam inserts, listening for their approach. He glanced to the ground, hoping for a sign that they were closing the distance.
He was just about to bounce his head out and gage how close they were when something landed in the soft dirt of the tunnel beside him. He glanced down and it took his mind only a fraction of a second to recognize the two stick bundle of TNT he had partially buried along the wall of the tunnel.
The red LED attached to the blasting caps flashed, indicating it was armed and he glanced at the transmitter in his hand. When the dirt around the explosive began to dance, he knew they were shooting at it and he dove away from the charge, praying he could put as much distance between himself and the blast as possible.
He didn’t feel the concussion that threw him into the wall.
Langley Virginia
Director Jameson paced the aisle of the viewing area as the techs worked feverishly to locate the right satellite and angle the camera properly.
His head snapped around as the large screen overheard popped on and the camera zoomed in on North Texas. “Let’s hurry this up, shall we?”
“Working as fast as we can, sir.”
“Can you use infrared? Show me heat signatures?”
“With this bird, yes sir. We just have to verify the coordinates, first.”
Jameson ground his teeth as the camera slowly zoomed in, panned to the side slightly, then zoomed in again. “TODAY, please.”
“Sir, we’re limited to the physical capabilities of the camera,” the technician deadpanned.
He breathed a sigh of relief as the blast area that was once Bridger’s home came into view. “That’s it! That’s where we need to be. Zoom in!”
The technician ignored his exuberant yells and made the proper adjustments. “Going to
