deep breath, trying to suck in as much oxygen as he could, and dug frantically at the dirt in front of him. Every bit he removed was immediately replaced by more dirt falling from overhead.
For just a moment, his oxygen-starved brain entertained the possibility of digging straight up, burrowing his way to the surface instead of trying to clear the passageway. But the tunnel was fifteen feet deep here, and one part of his mind knew it was hopeless.
One last violent cataclysm of sound and the remainder of the tunnel caved in. Crushing weight pressed in on him from all sides. It crept into his nostrils and mouth, forcing its way down into his lungs, hard and gritty against his open eyes, devouring him. He tried to scream, but there was nowhere for the air in his lungs to go, not with the dirt pressing in on him. He struggled, still hoping, still believing that he could make his way through it, until the last bit of life faded from his body.
“I am in pursuit of the lead vehicle. He’s made it to the junction and is turning left.” Suddenly, a barrage of gunfire echoed around the mountains, coming to them both over the radio and through the air. “They’ve got automatic weapons!” a man shouted. “Taking fire — we’re hit, we’re hit!” The circuit went dead.
Subsequent reports came in from the other pursuit units. It was the same story in each confrontation. Tombstone’s troops were massively underpowered when confronting the firepower of the militia. The rounds fired by the militia smashed their engine blocks, immediately immobilizing the pursuit vehicles. Had the helicopters been there, they might have been able to stand back and track the vehicles by infrared, but the danger would have been significant.
“Come on!” Tombstone shouted, heading for his vehicle. “They’re not getting away!”
He hopped into the driver’s seat and fired the vehicle up. His second in command plopped himself into the passenger seat, drawing his side arm as he did. “This is not a good idea. A very not-good idea.”
“You’d let them get away?” Tombstone asked, disbelievingly.
Greenfield grunted. “Listen, you heard what happened. They’ve got armor-piercing rounds. Even assuming we can get past the wreckage on the road, what makes you think you’re so invulnerable? This isn’t an aircraft you’re driving, Magruder. It’s a ground vehicle — a tough one, one built for trouble, but no match for rounds designed to take out a tank.”
Tombstone slammed the vehicle into gear and pulled away, tires kicking out dirt. He pulled onto the road and accelerated, heading toward the junction.
Greenfield tried again. “This is a mountain road, not airspace. You can’t maneuver, not with the drop-off on either side. You looked at the map. You know what the terrain looks like. It’s no go, Admiral. It’s a suicide mission, and one that won’t hurt them one little bit.”
Tombstone slammed on the brakes. “So what do you recommend?”
“We get law enforcement involved in it now. They’ve committed crimes — they’re clearly in our jurisdiction. We have evidence — hard evidence — that they are in possession of stolen ammunition from the reserve center. With that, it’s not going to be a problem to find probable cause for a search warrant.”
“A search warrant — lot of good that will do. We get a fancy piece of paper with a judge’s signature on it. Meanwhile, they’re out there with those weapons and ammunition, and by the time we can catch up with them, it’s going to be distributed out to every little group of crackpots in every part of the country. That’s what you recommend?”
Greenfield’s voice was hard. “Welcome to the world of domestic law enforcement, Admiral.”
The truck nosed down hard as the ground sank away beneath it. Mertz shifted into low gear and stomped down on the accelerator. After a heart-wrenching moment, the truck grabbed traction and jerked itself out of the ditch.
“Keep going!” Jackson shouted. “We’re almost out of here!”
Mertz shifted to a higher gear and jammed the accelerator down, achieving a suicidal speed. The road before them seemed to be moving as it was caught in the bouncing headlights from the truck. Mertz hung on to the steering wheel grimly while the violent motion of the truck threatened to throw him across the cab.
Had they gotten out? Or had they still been in the tunnel when it caved in. Jackson felt his world spiraling out of control. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way — it wasn’t!
“Team Leader, this is Viking 709, over.” The laconic voice coming in over the secure portable gear gave every impression that the pilot hooked up with retired admirals wading through brush every day.
Tombstone took the mike. “Roger, 709, Team Leader. Interrogative your position?”
“About five miles out, sir, angels five. You ought to be hearing us about now.”
“Copy five miles — and your weapons load-out?” Tombstone asked.
“Guns, flares — that’s all we have. Team Leader, our skipper just told us to get airborne and chop to your control. Any chance you can fill us in on what we’re doing here?”
“Roger, sure can, Viking. Apologies for the mystery, but we were on an open circuit.”
“And now we’re not.” The pilot’s voice left little doubt in anyone’s mind that he wanted to be filled in and
Okay, okay. This little pup was an aircraft commander who’d launched on his skipper’s orders, but deserved some more information before he started shooting. Fair enough. He probably didn’t even know it was Tombstone.
Tombstone sketched in the situation for the pilot, wondering for a split second whether or not it was possible that this young man was somehow involved in one of the militias. He pushed aside the thought — at some point, you had to start trusting somebody, and it might as well be now.
“Okay, so I’m looking for a deuce-and-a-half,” the pilot acknowledged. “I’ve flown enough ground support to do that. You got someone who knows the lingo?”
“More than one,” Tombstone said. He passed the mike to Greenfield. “As a former Marine, this ought to be right up your alley.”
A new noise caught Jackson’s attention. “Aircraft. We’re okay as long as were under the trees, but as soon as we—”
Suddenly, a large chunk of the road in front of them exploded. It threw up a solid wall of dirt and rocks and shattered trees that momentarily hung suspended in front of them, then fell to the ground.
Mertz swerved hard to the right, trying to avoid it. A tree loomed up in front of the truck and he screamed, hauling the truck back onto the road again. The engine screamed, over-revved, freewheeling, with the tires no longer in contact with the ground. For one long moment, they were airborne. Jackson felt his stomach lurch up into his throat.
They hit the ground with a bone-shattering jolt, landing on the right two tires. The truck hung there for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to remain in that position, then rolled over several times before pitching up against the tree. The engine died, evidently abused beyond its limits.
Silence, broken only by the sound of branches snapping as the truck settled to the ground. Jackson Carter lost consciousness.
He came to a few moments later, and then tried to figure out what happened. He knew where he was, what he was doing, but exactly how they had gone from careening down the road to lying on their side wasn’t clear. He looked over at his companion, still seat-belted in. “Mertz?”
There was no reply. Carter turned toward him, stifling a groan as strained back and neck muscles protested vigorously. The other man was lying against his shoulder harness, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. The left side of his head was smashed. He was not breathing. Still, Carter reached out and felt for a pulse. There was
