If he had to sum it up in a bumper sticker, “Life sucks, then you die” wouldn’t be a bad slogan for his life. Might as well go up in a ball of flame. If Davy makes the cover of TIME, James figures he’ll be good enough for a sidebar around page twenty.
He takes a deep breath, goes under again, opens his eyes and sees the key. Cautiously this time, he extends a hand and grabs it. He comes up, bursting out of the water, both arms raised above his head as if he’s just won an Olympic medal. He spits out a mouthful of water that tastes of slick metal. “Read my mind, Davy. I got the key into heaven!”
Or put another way, James thinks, the key out of hell.
Gabriel watches as two commandos cautiously approach the shredded body, the top half still hanging in the dangling rope. The carcass is bloody and torn like a side of beef, but his face is still recognizable. “It’s Daniel!” one commando shouts, shrinking back in horror, both at the thought he killed his comrade and at the fate that awaits them all.
There is a plunk-plunk as two fragmentation grenades land in the blown-out elevator. The two commandos are five meters away and turn to run. But it is too late. The grenades explode, and shrapnel tears through them. The echoes of the explosion reverberate off the underground rock shelf. Another two grenades land, but these hiss and release smoke instead of hot metal. Like a rock band, the Green Berets and Rangers will make an entrance through a smoky haze.
The soldiers begin their descent down the shaft, their ropes whistling in the harnesses. They open fire with their assault rifles even before touching down, but the return barrage cuts down the first five men. Other brave men follow. One is able to toss a grenade that bounces on the steel catwalk and rolls toward Gabriel’s feet. Jeptha, a young commando, dives onto it, and its explosion kills him instantly in a muffled roar. Gabriel’s men have donned gas masks and stand their ground. He turns to then, “For the glory of God! Die like men and live again as angels.”
The fire now is heavier from the Green Berets and Rangers. Using the debris as cover, several have leapt out of the blown elevator car. They return fire as more soldiers rappel down the shaft, futuristic warriors in their masks, harnesses and vests.
Fifty meters away, James rushes from the sump back toward the capsule. He hunches his shoulders and lowers his head, tortoise-like, as shells from the battle whiz past him and bury themselves in the walls. The air is thick with cordite and dust and he coughs, then winces at the deafening roar. James is just steps away from the open capsule door when a stray bullet from a soldier’s rifle catches him in the thigh. It is a clean, through-and-through shot, and it drops him to his knees. He gets up scrambles, half crawling, trying to reach the capsule. But he’s gotten turned around, and in the smoke and din from the gunfire, in the pain and shock from the wound, James is headed down the catwalk toward the battle. He looks up to see his compatriots dying as the soldiers pick them off, one-by-one. In moments, it will be over. He is disoriented, in pain, and nearly paralyzed with fear.
From somewhere, he hears his name called. Or is he imagining it? He cocks his head. There it is. Rachel’s scream, “James! James!” But so faint. He turns around, sees the light from the capsule’s open blast door. He scuttles toward it, fighting off the urge to look behind him. He has the sensation of being chased, being hunted. He staggers inside the capsule, and Rachel hits the button, closing the eight-ton door.
David leans far over the edge of the gantry, trying to get the angle. Jericho is still hidden on the far side of the nose cone. David fires off a burst, but it’s no good. If he can’t see Jericho, he can’t shoot him. “Stay where you are, sergeant!” he yells. “You’re going to get a helluva ride.”
Three bolts gone, one to go, Jericho thinks.
And time running out.
He wonders why they haven’t already launched. He knows he will be shot removing the last bolt, but wonders if he can still do it and pull out the computer before he dies.
Suddenly, Jericho swings out from behind the missile, one hand on the rope, the other hand pulling the stud driver from his tool belt. David is off balance at the gantry ledge. He raises the Uzi, but Jericho fires first with the stud driver from his tool belt. Whomp. A four-inch carbon steel nail strikes David in the abdomen.
David lurches forward, and his Uzi drops over the edge of the gantry, plunging into the water far below. Grimacing, he pulls the nail from his gut and jams it through his left palm. He glares derisively at Jack. Showing no pain. Watching the blood drip from his palm, then turning his hand over and studying the pool of blood that forms around the protruding point of the nail. “I forgive you, Jericho, for you know not what you do.”
“You’ve got a serious identity crisis, pal,” Jericho says, then swings to the front of the computer panel and goes back to work on the fourth and last bolt.
The remaining commandos fall back along the catwalk, making a last stand as they retreat to the launch control capsule. Half-a-dozen Green Berets advance, spraying 5.56 mm. fire from their lightweight Squad Automatic Weapons.
Gabriel screams at his men to fight back, and they do, even with those with multiple wounds. Gabriel is out of ammo for the assault rifle but still has a Mossberg shotgun, and the first soldier to get within twelve feet of him takes a full load in the chest.
Finally, a Ranger with a laser-sighted assault rifle lines up a pink dot squarely in the center of Gabriel’s chest. He tattoos Gabriel with four shots to the sternum and two more above the heart for good measure. Gabriel sinks to the catwalk, and the remaining commandos fight to their own deaths, except for one who puts the barrel of a rifle in his own mouth, strains to reach the trigger, then ends the pain forever.
The lieutenant with the mustache advances across the catwalk. His men are peppering the titanium blast door with small arms fire. They do no damage and run the risk of hitting themselves with ricochets. The cylindrical capsule is designed to withstand hits above ground from Russian SS-18 missiles. The idea never was to guard against terrorist takeovers, but the door is doing just fine. The lieutenant takes a quick look and signals his men to stop firing. “Okay, where the hell’s the plastique?”
Through his headset, David hears Rachel’s voice screaming. “James has been shot. Where are you David?”
“Did he get the key?”
“Yes, but the soldiers are… ” Her voice trails off, and though David cannot hear the sound of gunshots from outside the soundproof capsule, he can see the Special Forces in his mind’s eye. This vision, he knows, is real. He shoots a look at Jericho, who cannot loosen the last bolt.
“Launch!” David commands her. “Launch for a new Jerusalem.”
“Not with you in there, David! Please!”
“Heed my Word.”
She clicks off and David looks back at Jericho. Then he screams, “Praise the Lord,” dashes toward the edge of the gantry and leaps into space.
Two Rangers with expertise in demolitions are stacking wads of C-4 plastique against the blast door. When the stack is waist high, one of them lets out a whistle and says, “Might cause an earthquake, but don’t know if we can peel the top of that can.” He embeds a tiny antenna into the putty-like plastique and turns to the lieutenant. “Sir, you might not want to get up close and personal with this.”
The lieutenant agrees and motions his men to take cover. As they head down the ramp toward the tunnel, they notice the rising water coming from the silo.