Gallows Pole, page 27
Jesus, this guy’s good, Woodward thought as his hand closed over the stock of the machine gun. He tried to drag it to him, but a voice said, “Don’t.”
The man from the trees was standing over him, the M4 pointed at the center of his forehead. He was dressed in a black coverall, and masked. “You murdered one of my men,” the man said.
Woodward shook his head. “It was an accident,” he said. “Someone thought he was going for a weapon.”
There was a long pause, as if the man in black was considering whether to believe that. “You’re Woodward,” the man said.
Woodward nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out. I guess you’re the famous Colonel Bishop.”
The man ignored the question. “Were you in command?”
Woodward nodded again. “Yeah.”
“Sucks to be you, then.”
Woodward knew for certain then that he was going to die. “Colonel,” he said wearily, “It has sucked to be me for a long time.” He shook his head and looked away. He felt an enormous sadness that his life had come to this. “I was a good soldier once,” he said, almost to himself.
“Once,” the man in black said.
Woodward snatched up the weapon and tried to raise it. He felt a quick, terrible pain, then nothing.
***
Bishop stood over Woodward’s body for a moment. He’d avenged Lanier, many times over, but the fact gave him no sense of satisfaction. He walked over to where Lanier lay sprawled on the ground. An accident, Woodward had said. Bishop had seen enough of just that kind of screw-up to make the claim believable. The deaths left a taste like ashes in his mouth. He heard a rumbling sound and looked up. A large white van was pulling up on the road near the fence. He walked over to it. It was the B.O.T., but the front windows had been covered over with metal plating.
The passenger side door opened as he walked around. Calhoun was in the driver’s seat. Mounted atop the dashboard were a pair of video screens showing the road ahead and behind the B.O.T.
“Lanier?” Calhoun said.
Bishop shook his head. “We’ll come back for the body,” he said as he climbed aboard.
The door to the back opened and Felix stuck his head out.
“They know we’re here,” he said.
“Yeah,” Bishop said. “So we’d better get moving.”
“The plan’s blown,” Calhoun said.
“We’ll make a new one,” Bishop said.
“What are we going to do,” Felix said, “walk up to the front door and knock to be let in?”
“Yeah,” Bishop said. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
“So,” Campbell said. “They’re here.”
Bache was looking grim. “They’ve apparently taken out Woodward and his whole squad.”
Campbell seemed unperturbed. “I told you they were good.”
“Not that good,” Udovin said. “It seems as if Woodward’s people killed one of them.”
That got a reaction from Campbell. “Not Bishop, I hope.”
Bache shook her head. “We’re not sure.”
“Sir,” a voice came over the intercom, “someone’s at the front gate.”
Campbell turned towards it. “Report.”
“A truck, sir,” another voice responded. It was Dawes. “Some kind of large white van.”
Campbell leaned forward. He tapped in a command on his computer keyboard. The screen showed him the image on one of the surveillance cameras. The image was dark and muddy until he engaged the low-light setting. Then everything became sharp.
The van Dawes had described was parked a few feet away from where the spotlights illuminated the front gate. It was just sitting there. He couldn’t make out the face of the driver. Campbell tapped a few more keys and moved the mouse, and the camera zoomed in. “They’ve armored the front windows,” he observed. “And what’s that on the roof?”
There was something that looked like an octagonal turret sitting on the roof of the truck. There didn’t seem to be any weapons sticking out of it, though.
“Unknown,” Dawes said.
“Alert the others,” Campbell said.
“Already on it,” Dawes’ voice came over the speaker. “Want me to go check it out?” he said. “Have a word with them about trespass on private property?”
Heineman rushed into the room. “They’re here,” he said.
“So it seems,” Campbell replied calmly. “Is this vehicle what I think it is?”
Heineman looked. “That’s it.” He smiled grimly. “The Bag of Tricks.”
“Odd that they just parked their command and control van out in plain sight,” Campbell said.
“That’s not all it is,” Heineman said. “It’s a weapon in its own right. And it’s pointed at you.”
“You want me to check it out or not?” Dawes sounded impatient.
Campbell started to speak, but Heineman cut him off. “No,” he said. “Put some men in the front windows. If it comes any closer, open fire.”
“Sir?” Dawes sounded puzzled.
“Do as he says,” Campbell said. He quickly muted the intercom. “Sergeant,” he said. “I respect your knowledge of these men. But do I need to remind you that…”
“Watch,” Heineman said. “He’s sitting there for a reason. He’s trying to draw you out.”
Campbell grunted with irritation, but turned his attention back to the screen.
“Can you get a longer shot?” Heineman asked.
Campbell moved the mouse and clicked. The camera zoomed back. The van didn’t move.
“We’re in position,” a voice came through the intercom. “I say we put a couple of rounds in it,” someone else said. “Wake the motherfuckers…wait…ow…what the…”
“What’s happening?” Campbell said.
“Report,” Heineman barked.
“Wait one…” the voice said. “Some kind of interference….ah, SHIT…”
They could hear it then, through the microphones, a low bass rumble just on the edge of perception. The image began to jitter as if something was vibrating it.
“Ahhh….” the two men said in unison. “Owwwwww……”
“Fuck,” Heineman said. “Felix did it. He made the Growler.”
“The what?” Campbell said.
Heineman ignored him. He leaned forwards and shouted into the mike. “The speaker! The thing on top of the truck! Shoot it! Shoot it now!”
The only response was a low moan from one of the men. They could hear another one sobbing. “No, no, no…”
“Damn it,” Heineman said. He slammed his hand on the desk. “COVER YOUR GODDAMN EARS!” he yelled.
“What’s going on?” Campbell demanded.
“Growler,” Heineman said. “It’s an infrasound weapon. Very loud, but very low frequency. Causes the nervous system to go haywire. Felix was working on it when I left. I guess he got it right.”
“I’ve heard of it. But it’s not lethal.” As Campbell said the words, the van began to move. It lurched forward, striking the heavy wooden gate. The gate held for a moment, then collapsed inwards, splintering and going to pieces that were ground beneath the truck wheels.
“No,” Heineman said. “It’s not lethal. But see those men coming in that truck? They are.”
Another sound came through the speakers. It started as a shaky, discordant music, flutes and crude cymbals banging, like a Chinese band recorded by a cheap home cassette player. Then a strange quavering moan filled the room.
“They must have gotten someone’s headset,” Heineman said. “They’ve got the frequency…” he stopped when he saw Campbell’s face. The older man’s eyes were wide, the whites showing.
“What’s wrong?” Heineman said.
A high, childish voice came from the speakers, heavily echoed and reverberating eerily. Heineman couldn’t understand the words, but they weren’t English.
“Daddy,” Campbell whispered. “Daddy, come home with me.”
Heineman reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”
The contact seemed to snap Campbell out of his trance. He shook his head like a man waking up from a nightmare. “Turn that off,” he snapped.
Heineman reached out and killed the speakers. “What was that?”
Campbell took a deep breath. “Something I haven’t heard in a long time. Since Vietnam.”
“Sounds like something from a bad horror movie.”
“That was the idea. The people in psyops called it “The Ghost Tape’.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “It’s the sound of a man killed far from home and from the graves of his ancestors,” he went on. “Wandering, lost. Unable to find rest as his little girl calls to him.” He grimaced. “Dying far from home is a primal fear in the Vietnamese psyche. It made the VC crazy with despair. They would invariably open fire on the sound when they heard it, expose their positions. And then we’d locate and destroy them.”
“Looks like it was doing a number on you, too.”
Campbell nodded. “It brought back…uncomfortable memories.”
“Bishop knew it would,” Heineman said. “He’s trying to let you know he knows you. He knows where you’ve been. And he knows what’ll rattle you.”
“I’m fine,” Campbell said.
“Like hell. He’s fucking with your mind. It’s what he does. It’s what they all do.”
“Well,” Campbell said, “now that we know what he’s up to, it won’t work, will it?”
Heineman gritted his teeth. “I’ll go fetch our guests,” he said.
“Yes,” Campbell said. “Prepare Colonel Bishop’s test.” He turned to Bache. “Colonel Bache,” he said, “it’s time. Go fetch the child.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
When Dawes had felt the low, earthquake-like rumble and begun feeling the nausea and disorientation, he recognized immediately what the device on top of the van was. He’d seen early versions used on unruly crowds in Iraq. But judging from the wails and moans coming from the mercenary guards on the third floor, Dr. Felix had increased the range and effect by an order of magnitude.
“Clever, clever boy,” he muttered. He snatched up his favorite weapon, a British made L115A3 sniper rifle, and left the room where one of the guards lay on the floor, moaning in pain. Outside of the room, away from the windows, the effect wore off quickly. He ran down the long, narrow third-floor corridor and into the bedrooms at the end. The bedrooms on either side had windows that overlooked the flat roofs of the “new” wings on either side of the house. Dawes quickly clambered out of the windowsill and onto the roof. He crouched down in the shadow of the third story that rose above him and walked to the decorative railing at the edge of the roof. If he remembered correctly, the effect of the sonic weapon was less if one wasn’t directly in front. He could still feel it, but only as a buzzing through the soles of his boots. The big truck was picking up speed as it approached the house, driving straight through the flower bed in the center of the circle. It gleamed in the light of the spotlights on the front of the house.
“This is Dawes,” he said into his microphone. “I’m on the roof. I’ve got a clear shot.” He took aim at the speaker on top of the van. Then another thought occurred to him and he dropped his aim to shoot out the front tires.
***
“Roof. Ten O’clock. Rifleman,” Calhoun said.
Felix was hunched over the joystick, his eyes on the screens. “I see him.”
“Well?” Calhoun demanded.
“Give me a second.”
“He’s going for the tires,” Calhoun said. There was the thump of an impact from outside of the truck, and it began to list slightly to the left.
“Don’t worry,” Bishop said. “We won’t need them.”
“I just bought those tires,” Calhoun griped.
“Okay,” Felix said. “Anubis on final approach.”
***
Dawes heard the buzzing of a tiny engine and looked up. “Bloody hell!” he yelped as he saw the drone coming out of the darkness directly towards him. He raised his rifle to shoot at the oncoming aircraft. It pulled straight up, as if offering its soft underbelly to the bullet.
Then it exploded in Dawes’ face.
***
The B.O.T. reached the top of the driveway and veered to the left, plowing across the lawn until it came to a stop against the wall of the house, directly beneath where the drone had exploded. The hatch in the top popped open and Bishop clambered out, followed by Felix. They ran to the front of the truck, each man holding a length of rope and a grappling hook. A second later, Calhoun’s head and shoulders appeared at the hatch. He hauled an M249 light machine gun up after him and set it on its bipod on the roof. He began scanning for targets as Felix and Bishop took their positions.
Bishop swung his grappling hook first. It went high, up and over the edge of the railing. He gave it a quick tug to confirm it was held fast. The other end of the rope passed through a complicated-looking device attached to a harness around Bishop’s waist. Whispering a quick prayer that the old woodwork hadn’t been allowed to rot, Bishop pressed a button on the device. The powerful rope ascender yanked him skyward at the rate of ten feet a second, bringing him so quickly to the roof that it looked as if he’d leaped there in a single bound. He detached the ascender and dropped it to the deck of the balcony in the same motion as he swung over the railing and dropped into a crouch, his silenced pistol at the ready. Felix crested the balcony right behind him.
Pieces of the exploded drone lay scattered about. A sickening smell of burnt hair and meat filled the air. Dawes lay on his back, groaning. Bishop reached him first and looked down. The man’s face looked like hamburger. One eye appeared to be gone. It seemed incredible that he was still alive, but he was moving, rocking from side to side and keening in agony. Felix got there a moment later. He drew his own pistol from his shoulder holster. Bishop stopped him with a hand on his arm and a shake of the head. Felix looked at him quizzically. Bishop jerked his head back towards the window that opened onto the roof. They could hear shouts of alarm from inside, drawing closer. Bishop held up one finger, then two. Felix nodded. It was a reminder of one of Bishop’s harder sayings: One to bury, two to carry. It meant that a wounded or maimed soldier tied up more men carrying him off the field and tending him than did a dead one. Bishop held up his hand, index finger extended, and made a rapid circle in the air.
Pick up the tempo.
***
“Heineman,” Campbell‘s voice came through the headset, “Dawes is down.”
Heineman yanked the door of the stable open. “What happened?”
“Some kind of drone. Except this one had a bomb on board.”
“Of course,” Heineman said. “Anubis.”
“Explain.”
Heineman bit the words off. “DARPA project. Weaponized micro-drones. Used for assassination.”
“It would have been good,” Campbell said, “if you’d have warned us about this.”
“I didn’t know Felix had access to them.”
“Assume from now on that he has his entire toy box to pick from,” Campbell snapped.
Heineman ignored the tone of voice. “Where’s Bishop?”
Campbell‘s voice was showing strain. “We don’t know.” There was a loud sound in the background and a babble of voices. “They’re coming in.” Campbell said. “Hurry.”
“Understood,” Heineman said. He reached the first stall door.
***
The bedrooms on the third floor had originally been servant’s quarters, and they were spartan, unadorned by the ornate woodwork that filled the more luxurious guest rooms on the second floor. The end bedrooms were a little larger than the tiny cubbyholes along the hallway and were usually reserved for the more senior house staff such as the butler and the cook. Still, Tallman and the other three men of his fire team filled the room.
Brent Tallman, formerly of the 101st Airborne division, now a “senior supervisory operative” with Calibre Security, was trying very hard not to freak out. He and his men had been told they’d be under the command of Woodward and Dawes, and they’d had time to become mightily impressed with both of them. Now Woodward and his entire team were dead, Dawes was wounded, and as far as Tallman knew, he and his squad were the last line of defense against the terrorists that Dayton had told them were after Campbell. And his guys were a sad and sorry-looking bunch, all of them pale and shaky, still trying to shake off the effects of whatever weird ray gun that big truck had had mounted on top of it.
What the fuck kind of terrorists are these guys? Tallman asked himself.
He’d dispersed half of his men to stand guard downstairs while he brought the others up here to try and get Dawes. Now he was second-guessing himself, wondering if dividing his tiny force was such a great idea.
The light from the hallway was the only illumination. “Close that door,” Tallman ordered. “We don’t want the light behind us.” One of his men hesitated, then complied. The room was plunged into darkness, which turned it from small to claustrophobic. The only furnishings were a single bed with an iron frame and a tall wardrobe in one corner. The window was open, but the shade was down, moving slightly in the weak breeze. Tallman reached out and gingerly raised the shade with the barrel of his assault rifle. He could hear a moan of pain from outside.
