Above him the SpecFor team and Mao had heard the faint, muffled shots. Choir noticed that Mao was smiling, and jabbed him with his HK. “Better not let the general see that, laddie.”
But Mao, the tunnel “mule,” as the load bearers were called in Vietnam, was grinning because he’d detected movement high in a tall cedar atop the cliff’s edge. The Americans were in for a surprise, and this time, unlike in the Humvee, Mao knew he could keep himself out of the line of fire.
In response to Choir’s warning, Mao nodded as if apologizing for a lapse in judgment, and waited anxiously for the party to move on. He selected a solid-looking log ten feet off to his right, a fir that would protect him from the Americans’ return fire if any of the three infidels were lucky enough to survive the sniper’s fire. The waiter resented the name “Mao”—he was no Communist, but a true believer, and now he prayed to Allah, blessed be His name, that the marksman’s aim would be sure.
“There must be at least two of them down there,” said Freeman. “That’s the way I read it. Dammit, I sent David down there thinking there was another—” He paused, then said, “I guess you guys were right. No second sub. We’re almost at the cliff’s edge above the cave.” He shoved the silent receiver into his vest pocket and moved forward.
The sniper’s first shot rang out, Freeman’s Fritz helmet literally spinning about his head as he fell. The second shot penetrated Aussie’s vest and left rib cage. The third shot never came, Choir’s 9mm parabellum cutting into the tall cedar, a clump of its branches breaking, plummeting down from what had been the sniper’s position. The figure fell, then abruptly jerked to a stop, the sniper’s safety line coming to its end, the body, arms out, dangling like an inverted cross. Choir then walked angrily over to the big fir log behind which Mao was cowering, his mud-caked face twitching, and clipped a full magazine into his HK. “You saw him up there, didn’t you, laddie?” he said. “You didn’t warn us.”
“No, no!” Mao pleaded, rolling over onto his back like a beaten dog, his hands still cuffed beneath him, pushing him closer into the protection of the log. “No, please—”
“We’ll make sure,” said Choir. Seeing Freeman with his bullet-scarred Fritz back on, the general stripping Aussie of his Kevlar vest and administering first aid, Choir raised his HK to his shoulder.
“No!” Mao screamed. “No, please, sir! I tell you about other cave! Okay? Other cave right nearby, around headland behind cliff vines. Yes, yes. I swear!”
Choir called out, “General, there’s another cave on this cliff face.” The Welsh American looked down at Mao. “How far around from the falls?” he asked sharply.
“Two, three hundred yards maybe from other cave. West — yes, west of other cave. Tunnel here going to chicken bone.”
“Chicken bone?”
“Finish him off!” yelled Aussie, more to mask his pain than to offer advice. “Give him a full fucking — oh, shit!”
“Don’t be a baby,” Freeman admonished, plunging in a vial of morphine. “This isn’t an inoculation.” It was an open team secret that the tough Australian had fainted when he’d gotten his two-in-one smallpox and cholera shot before Iraq.
“Finish him off, Choir!” repeated Aussie.
“I’ll finish him,” said Choir.
“Chicken bone—” Mao was frantic, licking his lips, rushing to explain. “Tunnel here!” He was pointing down. “Tunnel goes into—” He rolled over onto his stomach and made a Y shape with his arms and hands. “Chicken—”
“You mean the tunnel divides into two?” said Choir. “Two tunnels?”
“Yes, yes!” said Mao, his voice muffled by the mud and grass growing by the log.
With that, Choir raised his 9mm submachine gun and fired a long burst into the cedar tree, the hanging body jerking violently, emitting a scream. It sounded like a woman.
“Told you the whore was faking it,” said Aussie. “Would’ve dropped a grenade on us if we’d — Jesus, General! That hurt!”
Eyes closed, Mao awoke from his nightmare, first in utter surprise, then in delirious relief. “Thank you, thank you, sir. Thank you. I take you to cliff ledge near cave.”
“There a sub in the cave?” asked Choir.
“I never been in cave. Only know about ledge. I take you—”
“Shut your mouth!” It was Freeman, his baritone sounding extraordinarily stentorian. “And listen to me, you slimeball. You’re going to put on Aussie’s Fritz — his helmet — and his uniform and you’re going to lead us quietly through this grass and timber up to the cliff’s edge. And very quietly you’re going to be the first one down. As well as wearing Aussie’s helmet, you’re going to have duct tape around your mouth, and so goddamned tight, laddie, that if you try to take it off, you’ll fall from the rope right down to the fucking cliff.”
The general, though his line of sight was obscured by the wind-bent treeline along the cliff’s edge fifty yards away, was recalling the view of the falls and cliffs from the sea farther down the coast. “I’d say it’s about a hundred and fifty, two hundred feet down to the rocks,” he continued. “You take us right to this friggin’ ledge you’re talking about, and you make any noise—any fucking noise — and I’ll push you off myself! Then we’ll have Grandma join you, you traitorous son of a bitch. Go on, get up!” Freeman grabbed him by his collar. “We let you people come into this country and this is the way you repay us. Attacking America. By God, I ought to—” Freeman shoved him back, Mao falling and bashing his head against the fallen log, only the moss saving him from cracking his skull.
Choir helped him to his feet, color now flooding back into the man’s face.
“We forced to do this,” said Mao with unexpected passion. “Otherwise Li Kuan kill all our families in China, in Kazakhstan. Kill everyone.”
Freeman jabbed his finger hard into Mao’s chest. “You’re a terrorist. I’ll give you three minutes to get that gear on.” Freeman turned to Choir. “Cut him loose. I’ll rappel down the west side, you and Mao go down over there by that big arbutus.”
“Which one’s that?” asked Choir.
“Jesus Christ, man! The red bark — twenty paces.”
Freeman had a parting comment for Mao. “If my boy down there is dead — which I think he is — I’ll cut your fucking throat!”
It had been only seven minutes since the sniper’s fire, and about ten since the beeper had died, but to Choir it seemed no more than two or three seconds, everything having happened so fast. He was about to ask the general whether it wouldn’t be better to call Fort Lewis in now when Freeman turned to Aussie. “You up to calling Fort Lewis? Get their airborne cav over here.”
“No sweat,” answered Aussie, dragging himself over to a small copse of cypress for good cover, now having only his Kevlar vest to keep him warm, his load vest as well as his helmet having been given to Mao.
“Maybe we should wait for them, General?” said Choir.
“Hell, no! By that time these bastards’ll have burned all their codes and vanished. Then,” he indicated Mao, “all we’ll have is this bag of shit. The cav can mop up.”
Choir was tugged by conflicting emotions. Freeman, whatever else you might think of him, was “guts personified,” and in SpecOps command that was the ultimate accolade. But the point-blank shooting of the young woman in the café, who might have already succumbed to her massive chest wound, was clear evidence that Freeman would have no hesitation killing Mao’s aged mother as well. There was a line, even for Special Forces, that Choir knew you didn’t cross. He recalled the SAS Brit who gave up his and his team’s position rather than shoot a little Iraqi shepherd boy who’d wandered into their hide. Freeman had surely crossed the line with his behavior in the restaurant, and, as Choir readied the nylon line for his and Mao’s rappel from the cliff’s top to the ledge that led across the face of the vine-curtained cave, the Welsh American found himself adopting a fatherly, almost friendly, tone with the terrorist as he gagged him with the duct tape.