Line of Sight

  Suddenly, heavy footfalls stomped and crashed. Aida was running away.

  Jack charged for the kitchen.

  Three gunshots blasted through the door as he reached it, forcing him back.

  He counted three, then kicked the door open. He charged in, gun up, ready to fire.

  Nobody there.

  Just an old farm table with a few stacks of bundled euros on it, left behind in a rush.

  Feet thundered down a flight of stairs on his right. An open door, leading to a stairwell.

  He dashed to the open door, stopped. Cool, musty air rose up from the dank basement below. He ducked his head around the corner, pulled it back—

  Three more shots rang out from the bottom of the stairs. Jack felt the overpressure brush against his face like an invisible hand. The rounds crashed into the wall to his left. He reached his hand around the corner and fired off three shots down into the dark, expecting to hit nothing.

  He didn’t. But they did the job. Reconnaissance by fire. Nobody fired back.

  Five shots left in his eight-shot magazine.

  He dropped down low and took another quick look. Nothing. Not even a sound.

  He held his pistol in front of him as he descended, pointing down toward the bottom of the stairs. The musty smell grew. The stairs were still lit by the light from behind him. He was a backlit target here.

  Jack moved quickly, sighting his weapon into the muddy black of the rest of the basement where Aida was. He wished he had night-vision goggles or a high-powered tactical flashlight.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs, the foundation wall just a few feet in front of him.

  He could barely make out another wall on his right, six feet away. He dashed over to it.

  No, not a wall, exactly. More like shelving. In the dim light, he saw cases of American MREs, folded Bundeswehr camouflage uniforms, canned food, bottled water.

  Jack felt his way along the shelf wall, listening intently. He heard nothing but the far distant music, and felt a faint, cool breath of earthy air brushing against his skin.

  He reached the end of the shelving wall and found a doorway. He knelt down.

  Aida was on the other side, her pistol pointed at the opening, ready to blow his head off.

  From his crouching position, he reached his pistol around the corner and fired his last five shots, emptying the mag. His ears ached from the explosions stabbing his unprotected eardrums like ice picks.

  The slide of the empty pistol locked open. Jack pulled the weapon back around, dropped the empty mag, slammed home his last full one, and racked the slide shut, chambering a round in just under two seconds. He’d done it enough times in training with his eyes closed and Clark firing a pistol next to his face that it was as natural a movement as breathing.

  He listened again through his ringing ears.

  Nothing.

  She was either dead or one cool customer.

  He didn’t really care which.

  Alive was good, because she would have valuable intel.

  But dead would feel a helluva lot better.

  Jack turned the corner with his weapon up, ready to shoot.

  She was gone.

  66

  Aida was gone, all right.

  Right down the damn hole in the ground. A square steel trapdoor lay open. The cool air that brushed against him earlier was now almost a breeze. It smelled like wet dirt and wood. A tunnel. Lit from down below.

  There was a wooden ladder, but Jack skipped it and made the five-and-half-foot drop, his gun at high ready. He thumped onto the hard-packed dirt, his boots nearly stepping on another packet of money that must have fallen out of whatever Aida was lugging around. He crouched to avoid the low timber ceiling and the naked bulb hanging by a wire just above his head. The walls were lumber, too. It reminded him of the Tunnel of Hope near the airport that Aida had shown him before.

  He was glad for the lightbulb over his head. He hated the idea of running down here in the dark. Three shots rang out from the black void ahead. Wood splintered by Jack’s head.

  He swore bitterly.

  Idiot!

  The damn light only made him an easy target.

  He smashed the bulb with his pistol before leaping for the dirt. He heard dull footfalls far up ahead.

  Jack jumped to his feet and charged forward, still crouching to keep from knocking himself out on the timbered ceiling. There was no more light in the tunnel, and the crunching glass beneath his feet told him that Aida had been smashing bulbs as she ran. He’d HALO’d out of airplanes on moonless nights without batting an eye, but somehow running down here was a lot more frightening. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was about to slam facefirst into something running full speed in the dark.

  He must have covered two hundred feet in his low, crouching run before Aida’s pistol roared and flashed at the dark end of the tunnel, its sharp retort muffled by the wood and dirt. Splintering timber cracked nearby and Jack dropped to the ground again, firing three shots back in the direction of the flashes.

  Five shots left.

  He heard Aida curse in the distance, and the sound of feet shuffling through the dirt. Jack listened again, and aimed his pistol in the direction of the sound. He fired three more rounds.

  Only two left now.

  But his last three shots had lit up the tunnel near where he was lying. He caught sight of a small alcove just a few feet up ahead on his right—a storage area, he guessed.

  He belly-crawled as fast as he could to the alcove and rolled into it, bumping into what felt like more wood shelving. His ringing ears quieted enough that he could hear the music more clearly now, still muffled at the far end of the tunnel. Melodic male voices were singing a cappella in, what, Arabic? He couldn’t be sure. The voices were joyous, upbeat, powerful. What did they call that kind of music? Nasheed, Jack remembered. Islamic hymns.

  The kind of stuff that jihadis sang before going into battle.

  It wasn’t so loud that he couldn’t hear Aida swearing and tramping ahead, though.

  Where was she going?

  She was running toward the music.

  Jack rolled out of the alcove again and stayed on his belly, aiming his pistol forward with muscle memory, since he couldn’t actually see anything. It was so dark he couldn’t be sure his eyes were actually open except by blinking. He was hoping Aida would fire at him again and he could use her flash as a target now that he was ready for it, but none was coming.

  If she reached that other trapdoor, she might get help. Or worse. He couldn’t let her do that.

  He had to assume that the miners would dig the tunnel as straight as possible to avoid wasting their energy, and if there was another trapdoor on the other side of the tunnel, that’s what Aida would be moving toward. And that door would be straight ahead, too. All he had to do was to aim straight down the center of the tunnel, halfway between the floor and the ceiling. Two shots of .45-caliber lead in the square of her back would put her down easily. Drop her before she could reach the ladder.

  Jack sighted the pistol in the blinding dark, hoping he was aiming dead center. He started to squeeze the trigger.

  He stopped.

  Aida would know that his only hope of hitting her in the dark would be to shoot dead center.

  Jack angled his pistol left, toward what he imagined was the far-left corner, and fired twice. He pointed right and fired again. His pistol locked open after just one shot.

  Out of ammo.

  He listened. All he could hear was the muffled music.

  And gurgling.

  He dropped his empty weapon, jumped up, and scurried forward in a low crouch, weaving just a little in case she was aiming in the dark, too, but in the cramped space he had little hope of dodging anything like a bullet, especially as he got closer to the sound.


  He reached for his phone just as he heard feet kicking hard in the dirt in front of him. He dove for the ground. The kicking and gurgling sounds suddenly stopped. Jack held his breath. He listened again in the smothering dark. Only the distant, muted music.

  He crawled forward on his elbows until his left hand hit something and he recoiled, freezing in place. He listened again. Nothing. He reached his left hand out. Felt around. Touched hard rubber. He flinched back. Waited. Reached out again. It was the sole of a shoe. He pulled up his phone and touched the flashlight feature.

  His eyes ached from the bright light. He shined it at the shoe. It was Aida’s foot, all right, attached to her corpse. A half-open duffel lay by her side, along with several stacks of cash scattered on the dirt floor. He moved closer. Her body lay against the left tunnel wall, her throat torn open by a .45-caliber slug, which practically decapitated her.

  The bulb in the phone formed catchlights in her lifeless blue eyes.

  He checked the time on his iWatch.

  It was 10:08 a.m.

  Seven minutes to launch.

  * * *

  —

  At 10:08 a.m. local time, the first Tomahawk arrived at its last GPS waypoint, five miles due west of the Sarajevo airport terminal. It slowed its speed by half. This latest cruise missile variant was capable of loitering over a battlefield like a regular aircraft, and able to retarget via its two-way satellite control and GPS targeting systems.

  Not having the luxuries of either knowing the target location in advance or having the time to wait to launch, President Ryan decided to put two Tomahawks in loitering mode over an unpopulated area near Sarajevo. He hoped to God that Jack and the rest of The Campus could locate the BM-21 Grad launcher before 10:15 local.

  In the event the target couldn’t be acquired, the Tomahawks would be redirected back out to the Adriatic Sea and their explosive payloads detonated harmlessly. Croatian and Bosnian air traffic control were notified about the Tomahawks’ unannounced “training mission” and their flight paths just before launch, as were their respective governments. Ryan believed it was always better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially in a crisis situation.

  Given the flight time to and from the final waypoint, it was estimated each Tomahawk had approximately seventy-two minutes of loitering time.

  Far more time than was left.

  67

  He fished around in Aida’s pockets and found her cell phone and took it, then snagged up her pistol to replace his own.

  His boots squished in the oozing gore near her head in the narrow passage as he sprinted away in a crouch to the other end of the tunnel.

  A hundred feet before he reached the ladder he heard Gavin’s desperate voice crackling in his Bluetooth.

  “Jack! I . . . reach . . . can’t . . . signal . . . launcher!”

  “Say again.” Jack was near the ladder now.

  “I can’t find the drone signal! I don’t know where the launcher is!”

  “I might.”

  “Where?”

  “How much time before launch?”

  “Just under seven minutes. We have two Tomahawks on station, ready to go. We just don’t have a target.”

  “Tomahawks can use GPS coordinates for targeting, right?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Can you link my phone GPS to the Tomahawks?”

  “Huh. Maybe. I don’t see why not. It will take a few minutes.”

  “We don’t have a few minutes.”

  “I’ll call you when they’re linked.”

  Jack stood at the ladder, nearly breathless. The metal trapdoor was shut. He climbed up the five and a half feet and stood at the top of the ladder and listened for a moment. The muffled jihadi nasheed music he had heard earlier now thundered above the steel plate.

  He pushed gently on the trapdoor, just enough to get a view. The music roared in his ears now. Big truck tires were in front of him, and beyond them the steel walls of a metal building erected on a slab of reinforced concrete. The shed’s front and rear doors were slid open. He also saw a spool of cable. At the end of the cable, hanging down from the side of the truck for easy access, was a box with covered safety switches.

  A manual launch trigger? Jack wondered.

  Jack checked his watch. Six minutes to go.

  He looked to his right and saw a big man in camouflage standing outside the building entrance, his broad back to Jack. He was holding an electronic device in his hands, supported by a shoulder rig, his head bouncing to the nasheed.

  Jack glanced up at the forty-box rocket launcher on the back of the truck, angled ominously toward the sky. Above the launcher, the camouflage netting that served as the roof was rolling back. Jack shifted his gaze. He saw a smaller man in a camouflage uniform standing in the far corner, turning a hand crank.

  “Gerry, are you there?” Jack whispered.

  “Yes, Jack. Go ahead.”

  “I see the truck.”

  Gavin crackled on his earpiece. “Jack, the Tomahawk is now targeted on your phone GPS.”

  “Jack,” the President said. “Leave your phone there and get the hell out. That Tomahawk will be there in ninety seconds. Clear as far away as you can.”

  “Roger that—”

  Bullets suddenly spanged against the metal trapdoor and slammed into the floor, stinging Jack’s skin with jagged shards of concrete.

  Jack flung the trapdoor wide open as he aimed Aida’s pistol at the man in the corner, firing off two rounds even before he drew a bead. The first shot punched the man in the gut, the second through the heart. He thudded onto the floor on the far side of the truck, cracking his skull, but he was already dead.

  Jack scrambled out of the hole and toward the big man up front, who was lunging for a rifle propped against the wall near him. Jack aimed his pistol at the man’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Misfire.

  He racked another round. The gun locked open. The misfire was the last cartridge.

  Empty.

  Jack swore and sprinted hard at the larger man, swinging the pistol in his hand like a hammer at the man’s skull, but the big Chechen lieutenant raised his rifle with two hands like a blocking guard and blunted Jack’s blow. A stinger of pain shot up Jack’s arms and his useless pistol clattered to the concrete.

  The nasheed roared in Jack’s ears. He could barely hear his dad’s voice shouting, “Jack! Get out of there, now!”

  Jack grabbed the Chechen’s rifle with both hands, pumping his legs as hard as he could to drive the bigger man hard against the steel wall.

  The Chechen laughed, flashing wide teeth beneath his hairless upper lip. He thrust his massive skull like a cannonball at Jack’s face.

  Jack whipped his head to one side, avoiding the head strike, then whipped his head back to crack against the side of the Chechen’s face. But Jack’s strike was too weak and did nothing except shoot a bolt of pain through his own skull.

  As if on cue, they both launched a series of hard, nasty kicks against each other, still wrestling with the gun between them. Jack’s shins screamed with pain with every blow he got and every one he gave.

  Jack twisted his arms right to throw the bigger man off balance, but he barely budged. The Chechen countered by thrusting the butt of the gun with his left hand toward Jack’s gut. Jack countered him by pulling the butt hard toward him, using the man’s own strength and momentum against him. Jack twisted sideways as he pulled, finally throwing the larger man off balance and toward the hard floor.

  As the Chechen fell he fought his instinct to catch himself with his hands, and instead held on to the rifle for dear life. His greater weight pulled Jack down with him, and the two hit the concrete at the same time. The Chechen crashed onto his back and Jack fell on top of him, still clutching the rifle, as the music screamed in their ears.


  Jack thrust a knee into the Chechen’s groin. Dzhabrailov grunted in agony but still managed to twist the rifle hard enough to pop Jack in the jaw with the stock. The sharp crack of pain loosened Jack’s grip for a second, but not enough to give way.

  Exhausted, both men kept trying to use the gun as a bludgeon against each other while throwing knees and head butts, but the strikes were weaker and weaker. After another failed swipe, the bigger, stronger Chechen changed tactics and began pushing with his legs and rolling his shoulders to drag Jack slowly back toward the manual launcher, just a few feet away.

  “Jack! Sixty seconds! Run!” his father shouted.

  Over the din of the nasheed music Jack felt more than heard the thundering beat of helicopter blades in the air. So did Dzhabrailov. The Chechen kicked and rolled harder, inching inexorably closer to the manual launcher.

  Jack tried to drag his boots against the concrete and pull back with his arms, but the larger man was too strong. He had to change gears.

  Jack lunged to his feet to try to use his legs to leverage the rifle out of the man’s powerful hands. Jack couldn’t stand up straight, and in his low crouch he was off balance.

  The wily Chechen took advantage of it.

  He shoved his boot into Jack’s gut and lifted him up with it as he pulled the rifle down to his broad chest with a berserker shout, levering Jack up in the air and over the Chechen’s head in a classic judo tomoe nage.

  Jack held on to the rifle, crashing hard on his back on the concrete, which knocked his breath out, stunning him.

  The Chechen had the tactical advantage now. He let go of the rifle, rolled over, and leaped to his feet. The Chechen’s left foot stomped on the rifle, crushing Jack’s knuckles against the floor. Dzhabrailov planted his heavy right boot square into Jack’s chest to launch himself over Jack. He stretched out his long arms to grab the launcher dangling just beyond Jack’s boots.

  Jack saw what he was doing and snagged the man’s foot and ankle with his aching hands. The Chechen fell hard, and short of the launcher, crashing between Jack’s legs, screaming with rage.