Chapter 42
the Complex...
Leaving the rocks, Derek and Yusuf slipped along the edges of the shadows. They covered the rough ground as quickly as possible, while keeping careful watch for trip wires. Derek could only pray that the place wasn't mined, nor so advanced as to be guarded by motion detectors.
They reached the tumbled down fence without difficulty, then paused to catch their breaths and make certain that all had remained quiet. With relief, the precept saw Hasmit and Masruq approach from the opposite direction. He had feared that Masruq might abandon them... go his own way or return home... but honor seemed to permeate the R'om people... and Derek thanked God for it.
With his pack slung over his shoulder and Yusuf in tow, he scurried across the flat, open ground to the building's wall. Once there, they were out of the tower's sight. Derek crept stealthily down the steps towards the sunken door. Behind him, Yusuf flattened himself against the wall. Hearing the youngster check the magazine of his AK-47, Derek reached back and removed Yusuf's hand from the trigger. He once more slipped his pistol away and drew his knife, then raised his finger to his mouth. "Shhhh...."
The young man nodded and nervously wet his lips. Derek offered him an encouraging smile, then closed his eyes for a second of silent prayer... that the door would be unlocked, unguarded, and freshly oiled. "Please, God... you owe me that much... surely." He touched the door and reached outward with his "Sight", but felt only the faint pulse of machinery. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, pushed against the steel, and dropped low as the door swung silently inward.
"Thank you, Lord," he murmured, releasing his held breath. There had been no squeak. They waited a moment, listening, then stepped quietly into a wet, dark corridor. Derek drew his flashlight from the side pocket of his pack and ran the bright beam along the featureless passage. He'd held the device, and its precious batteries, in reserve until now. At the end of the corridor was another steel door; an eerie light seeped from beneath.
Hasmit and Masruq joined them in the gloom. "Any trouble?" the precept asked quietly. Both men instinctively shook their heads.
Wishing he had his crossbow, Derek patted his coat pocket to make sure he had his spare ammunition clips, then handed his pack to Yusuf and motioned the boy to the rear. "Watch... back," he whispered and pointed towards the exterior door. Yusuf nodded his understanding and, as the group moved forward, kept a constant eye on their exit.
They quickly made their way to the other door. Hasmit stepped forward and laid his ear against the cool surface. "Bbbrrrr.... bbbrrrr... bbbrrrr," he mimicked, then pointed to his own mouth and shook his head.
"Machines... no voices...," Derek guessed. He nodded once, gestured the others to the side, then reached for the handle, and pushed. The door swung freely open. The small group stepped into a dimly lit storeroom. Wooden crates, metal ammunition boxes with Chinese lettering, drums of oil, and sacks of rice, with an incongruous "Product of California" prominently stamped, were stacked high... away from the damp floor.
Derek glanced around. The faint illumination was coming from emergency lighting. Interesting, he thought, listening to the hum of a distant generator. For some reason, the presence of the emergency lighting had surprised him.
Two doors led from the room. Again, both had been well oiled.... No squeaks. The first opened to a flight of steps, which lead upwards to a brightly lit corridor. From the second, they heard voices and smelled the aroma of cooked food.
Derek gestured for Hasmit to remain here... on guard.... The tracker looked towards the exit, up towards the light, then at the route his comrades would take. He held up three fingers and grinned. Derek clapped him on the shoulder and returned the smile. He'd understood the significance of the place... a three-way juncture. He then motioned for Yusuf and Masruq to follow him... towards the signs of life.
* * *
The three men edged along the corridor towards the sound of the voices. At a turn the precept stopped suddenly. "Back!" he hissed. "Camera!" He'd seen a security camera slowly panning back and forth... apparently covering this corridor and one that ran perpendicular to it.
What to do, he wondered. Not much else to do, he reasoned.... Get rid of the damned thing and pray that nobody was watching the monitor while he did it. This place was the backside of beyond.... Why should anyone expect trouble?
When the lens swivelled away, he pulled Yusuf and Masruq around the corner. The three raced down the corridor and slipped beneath the device as it slowly swung back. Gesturing Masruq to his knees, Derek tucked his knife back into its sheath and clambered onto the man's broad back, while Yusuf offered a steadying hand. The writing on the bottom was Russian. He felt the mechanism with his fingers, but was at the wrong angle to see it. What could he use to jam it? Dammit!... Think!... He could simply yank the cable loose, but a blank screen might be immediately noticed and investigated. He searched his pockets... nothing. "Yusuf...," he whispered. "My pack." Inside he found Ian's Swiss Army knife. "Sorry, old boy," he murmured. "I'll get you a new one." He pried open the small blade, then waited until the camera swung towards the far wall. He jammed the knife into the mechanism and pulled down, snapping the metal.
There was no interruption in the conversation from the room; no sign they'd given away their presence. Carefully, they made their way towards the voices, the light. When they reached the half-open door, Masruq dropped to his stomach and crawled forward for a view inside. He held up three fingers. Then signed that one man was seated against the wall to their right. He mimicked a man typing. Although he had no idea what the man was doing, he hoped the crazy foreigner would understand. He then held up two fingers, drew a square in the air and pointed to the center. Eating, he mimed.
Derek nodded his understanding, held his finger to his lips, and drew his knife. Pointing to himself, he indicated that he would take the typist. The other two should take the eaters.
Momentarily, bracing himself against the opposite wall, the precept took a deep breath, signed a count of three for the others, then burst through the door. He scarcely saw the two men, who sat in the center of the room. They were for the Afghans.
The absolute surprise gave them all the advantage they needed. In two strides, Derek had his man. Grabbing him from behind, just as he turned his head, the precept dragged him backwards. The man's office chair rolled into Derek's legs instead of tipping over as he'd expected.... No matter... His knife had already swept across the exposed carotid artery. Blood sprayed against the wall. Knowing the man was already dead, he relaxed his hold and let him fall.
Spinning around, Derek was relieved to see that Masruq had killed his man quickly, cleanly, but Yusuf was struggling. He'd only wounded his man with the initial blow. The two were now locked together in flailing combat with the youngster unable to bring his weapon to bear. The man was shouting and Yusuf was in danger of having his own dagger turned against him.
"Help him!" Derek snapped at Masruq, who was closer, but stood watching the struggle.
The Afghan flipped his knife over, stepped confidently forward, and pulled the wounded man off Yusuf. Driving his knife downward, he slashed his victim from breast bone to abdomen, gutting him. Yusuf pulled his clothing from his opponent's convulsive grip and rolled to his feet. Masruq wiped his blade on the man's pants, then in R'om-vari berated the boy for his clumsiness.
"Jesus!" Derek hissed. The man wasn't dead. A man with that sort of wound could linger for hours, suffering. He stepped forward, stooped to grab the man's head, and twisted it savagely to one side. Hearing the vertebrae snap, he let go, then unsteadily, stiffly pushed himself to his feet.
"Go to Hasmit," he ordered Yusuf, pointing to the corridor, even as he cast an angry glare in Masruq's direction. "See if we've got company!"
The precept looked at the carnage in the room and felt sickness rise from the pit of his stomach. He met Masruq's dark eyes. A shrewd reappraisal was taking place. Now the Afghan knew he could, and would, if necessary, kill. He also saw that the man regretted his own actions... his failure to help the boy, his failure to kill his target, and his haranguing of the youngster. It was a dishonor to have his job finished by another.
For the first time, Derek paused to look around the room. It seemed to be an office, converted into living quarters or a break room. Maps and files were spread across the desk, where his man had been working on a laptop computer. A small table occupied the center of the room, while a cot squatted in one corner. Along the far wall was a sink, stained with rust, and an ancient, electric hot plate with a pot on each burner. "This'll keep," he told himself, as he unconsciously massaged his neck. "We've got other priorities."
Leaving the room, Derek picked up his pack, which still lay beside the door, and continued on with Masruq.... No more cameras were to be seen... thank God. Another large, steel door opened onto a broad, high area, dimly lit, full of heavy machinery and metal catwalks. Cables snaked across a damp floor. The air reverberated with the roar of three great turbines. From somewhere, there was the higher pitch of a generator's hum. This was the "business end" of the pumping station.
"Masruq... search...." Derek pointed into the room and drew circles in the air
with his finger. If anyone was in here, they would not have heard the dead man's
shouts. "I... down there." He nodded his head towards the final door.
< < + > >
A sound broke the silence. A sound different from the steady throb of machinery or Ginge's groans or his own raspy breathing. Nick, lying bound, on his stomach, struggled to turn and raise his head. His vision was limited.... One eye had swollen shut and was glued by dried blood. His nose had been broken... and maybe his cheek bone as well.
The sound had been the door. "Change of guard.... My turn now," he muttered to himself, as a tall figure entered the damp, stinking room. It wasn't that evil bastard, "Nelson"... too slim... shoulders weren't bullish enough... and for that he was grateful. Or did this one have a different speciality.... Maybe he was the thumb screw guy or practiced some unique method of torture. For a moment, he brought an icy draft with him... reason enough to be welcomed.
The SEAL inhaled the fresh air as deeply as he could. He knew his reserves were exhausted. Ginge had been ground into nothingness. He wondered now if he'd ever get the chance to meet the "head honcho". Perhaps he should hope for a quick death... painless or otherwise.... Soon.... Maybe this tall man would be his executioner. He had seen death handed out to so many others. Was it now his turn?... Finally?
The tall man stood over him, dragging Nick's vision upwards, past the worn boots and dirty, baggy trousers... up past a warm, sheepskin coat. A cap and woolen scarf shadowed his face. Only the man's height marked him out from the countless others....
...His height... and his eyes. Nick watched the man hunker down to his level. It was all in slow motion. He watched his hand reach out towards him... and flinched from a blow that never came.
"Nick... can you hear me?"
The young man's brain struggled to understand... to recognize.... Nick.... He was Nick... but he'd given them his name, rank, and serial number.
"Nick...." The outstretched hand gently touched his shoulder, helped him roll onto his side. That voice.... He knew that voice.... Recognition dawned... slowly.... It couldn't be.... This was some damned trick... either by those bastards... or his own mind. It couldn't be.
"Derek?..." His voice was barely a breath.
"Yes.... It's me.... Where are you hurt?"
"Derek," he whispered again, unable to believe what he was seeing, certain it was a cruel, feverish dream. "You came... for me?"
"Of course, I came for you.... How could I not?" The precept pulled his knife from his belt and cut the ropes that had bitten deeply into Nick's wrists. He then scooted down to release his ankles. He saw the mangled mess that were his friend's feet, then, through his torn pants, the angry, red flesh of Nick's thigh. "Shit," he muttered. Glancing up, he met the pain-filled eye. "How bad?"
"Bad... scald... boiling water... poured...," Nick replied with a cracking voice. "Jesus.... How?... How did you get here?... How many are with you?"
"Four friends... Afghans," Derek replied. "Well," he chuckled, "three and a half."
"Three?..." Nick's heart sank. "Derek... get outta here.... You can't help us.... If they take you... then we both die.... Please, go.... Just leave me a knife or a gun." He ground out the words through gritted teeth as he fought down his pain.
Derek snorted. "There's only one way I'm leaving.... That's with you.... I didn't come all this way to go home alone." He rummaged in his pack for the medical kit, then opened the small case that contained the assortment of medications he'd managed to bring. He found a morphette syringe, which contained a pre-measured dose of morphine. "Painkiller," he explained, as he shook the small, plastic vial, then stabbed its needle into Nick's left thigh.
Still hardly able to believe his eyes, Nick watched him work. Derek was alive... sane.... This was the man he remembered... the man who had come to mean more to him than his own father ever had.... He was here... for him. Nick struggled to push himself up. Derek slid beside him, put his arms around Nick's thin body... to support him.
Nick met his hazel eyes, saw the concern... the love... reflected in their depths. He tried to speak, but choked on his words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Derek and pulled him close. Struggling to contain his emotions, he swallowed hard, shut his eyes to stop the tears, and just held on.
Returning the hug, the precept allowed Nick to draw what he needed. He held tight to his "son" and felt his body tremble as he fought back tears. They remained locked in the embrace for a long minute, until Nick slowly released his hold.
"How the hell did you find me?" the younger man asked, his voice still thick with emotion.
"That'll keep," Derek replied. He looked over to where Ginge lay. "He with you?"
"Yup...." With his friend's help, Nick struggled to his feet. "Ginge... the
cavalry's here."
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