“No!” Clarissa replied. “Do you mean have I ever disclosed military secrets to anyone? I have not. Never.”
Her questioner seemed satisfied, and never once forayed back into that territory. In fact, he had no questions of any substance whatsoever thereafter. Her testimony concluded a few minutes later.
After four nights of walking on foot through the dark hills of northern Alabama and five days of lying under Hart’s remaining infrared shelters, the three civilians were totally exhausted. It had gone from mild, to brutally cold, and then back to mild again, making survival in the elements a challenge. But they had made relatively good time, and so at sunset Hart had asked whether they wanted to rest the night.
The answer had been unanimous shakes of their heads, and off they had marched.
It hadn’t been long until they had reached the Tennessee River, and Hart had consulted a special map. He hated having to rely upon it, because it was shared with other Special Forces operatives in the south. That meant the Chinese would have recovered it from the dead bodies of countless of his comrades. But the map was unlike any others. It showed secrets of the terrain that would have long since been expunged from ordinary maps.
They traced the twisting black river until they found the dark skeleton of the abandoned train trellis. The tracks and right of way for this section of railway had been abandoned in favor of a newer bridge several miles upstream. Amanda had pled in whispers for him not to leave them, but Hart positioned the three Lipscombs behind a cold, rocky ridge and crept forward to watch and listen.
All was still. He used binoculars — switching from light amplification to infrared — to scan the bridge and the banks on either side. This wasn’t the first river crossed in their trek, but it was the biggest. Hart’s special map of forgotten treasures had yielded this nugget: safe passage across an obstacle that would otherwise have been insurmountable. All the newer crossings — train and road bridges — were heavily guarded by Chinese troops. Their small group took the less traveled way.
Hart extracted a directional emissions monitor. When fully unfolded, it resembled a foot-wide fork of a directional roof-top antenna. He removed the lens caps from the infrared and magnetic detectors and powered the device up. Using the sights, he panned the monitor across the length of the span and its approaches on either side of the river. The tiny LED atop the pistol grip glowed green. The Chinese hadn’t installed any electronic monitoring devices on the trellis.
When Hart returned to the rocky outcropping, the Lipscombs were gone. He felt a rush of panic. The darkness around him was alive. Instinct took over and he got away from the spot.
He heard laughter. Male voices. He smelled wood smoke. His heart almost pounded out of his chest.
Hart headed for the sound of laughter. Images blossomed in his mind to explain the sounds. The thoughts left him in a cold, killing rage. They were all dead, the three Lipscombs and Hart. He would provide the symmetry by killing the Chinese.
The guards had made camp in a small hollow protected from the cold wind by steep, rocky walls and tall trees. They had added wood to their campfire until it blazed brightly and popped. A dozen Chinese soldiers sat in a semicircle around the fire laughing and smoking cigarettes. Two men sat on a log and groped Mrs. Lipscomb, who was held half-reclining between them. But most of the attention was on Amanda, who danced in the firelight.
Hart tried to make his mind perform the military calculations. He struggled to work the problem. He counted ten men. Ten. That was a full squad. They were all accounted for unless there were attached weapons crews. Would they give these infantrymen a machine gun or missile crew? Hart couldn’t see anything other than rifles that rested on the ground beside the soldiers. Why would they bulk up the infantry squad with crew-served weapons? The bridge was of no military usefulness. They were there to stop civilians from fleeing, not fight American soldiers.
And if there were any attached weapons crews, they would be at the campfire. They wouldn’t miss Amanda’s show. One soldier jabbed a bayonet mounted to his rifle at Jimmy. The boy’s mouth was covered by the hand of a Chinese soldier, who held him pinned on the ground in front of him with the heels of both boots, which were wrapped tightly around him. All eyes were on Amanda, who began to undo her blue jeans in a slow motion, musicless dance. She was sobbing and swaying in the light.
Hart could think no longer. His mind could manage no more logic. He selected his weapon. Close range, he thought. He pulled the machine pistol from where it had been tucked snugly on his pack and not used since the war began. He checked to make sure the thirty-round mag was seated, and the two others taped to it were full. He waited until Amanda stepped out of her blue jeans to the cheers of the Chinese soldiers and pulled the bolt back with a loud clack. He made his plan. The only trick was to ensure that, if it wasn’t going well, he saved his last rounds for Amanda.
He rose and walked upright down the hill straight toward the camp.
They weren’t smoking cigarettes, he realized halfway there. They were getting high. The soldier with the bayonet poked Jimmy with its sharp tip, and Amanda began to unbutton her flannel shirt on the freezing night. The two men molesting her mother had her clothes half removed.
When Hart got to the edge of the clearing, several soldiers saw him. Their cheery grins had only a moment to fade.
His 9 mm Heckler & Koch roared as he walked right into the camp. Some men were mowed off the logs on which they sat. Others threw themselves backward in an attempt to save their lives. With all his might, Hart held the weapon steady and fired from right to left. The men nearest him were riddled with bullets. The man with the bayonet was struck squarely in the back, and the man holding Jimmy was hit in the chest. Hart couldn’t tell if he’d hit everyone between Jimmy and Mrs. Lipscomb, but no one reached for the rifles, which lay propped on the log. Just in time, Amanda dashed away from the sheets of Hart’s fire, which raked across the two bolt upright men groping her diving mother.
The straight stack magazine was empty. Hart flipped it over and seated a fresh thirty rounds while recording the locations of the moans and the rustling through the brush. Jimmy bolted across the camp toward his mother as Hart killed the easiest first. Men lay twisted and tangled where they had fallen or been pinned just behind the log bench. The smoke curling at the muzzle of his small black weapon was replaced by brief, foot-long jets of fire. One man tried to rise, and Hart flattened him with his boot and fired straight into the back of his head, which came apart. He counted as he went. There were seven lying draped over the log.
He pulled out his flashlight and found two blood trails. One led to a cowering, grimacing man who had dragged himself into a bush. He held his entrails in his belly as his other bloody hand was raised to Hart’s flashlight. His palm and fingers did nothing to stop the half dozen 9 mm rounds Hart fired in a fraction-of-a-second burst. The second blood trail led Hart in the direction of a man whom he could hear whimpering in the darkness.
The young Chinese soldier was hit in the shoulder and bleeding profusely. There were no pleas as he squinted into the glare of the light. He lowered his forehead to the ground dejectedly, then rolled his head to look away from Hart. That wasn’t good enough. Hart put the light on the ground, grabbed the man’s hair, and jerked his head around. The dirt stuck to his tear-covered face as he began to sob.
“Open your fucking eyes!” Hart demanded as he jammed the muzzle into the man’s mouth. He yelped in pain as the hot gun sizzled. When his eyes shot open, Hart released the man’s hair and pulled the trigger.