Thankfully, the emergency flashlight hadn’t broken when he dropped it, and there were other emergency lights on nearby, so the entire subfloor itself wasn’t completely dark. He made his way to the proper cell door, opened the shutter, and, holding the emergency light up to the opening, peered inside.
The cell was empty. The shadows were thick because the light was too weak to illuminate the entire cell, but Luger could not be seen. The bed was empty, the computerized vital-signs monitor and environmental regulator were off. Luger was free but nowhere to be found.
Teresov felt a chill of panic. What condition would Luger be in — was he deranged or dead? Teresov needed help. He tried the phones on the guard desk in front of the cells — all dead. No walkie-talkie. He was alone. No lights except for the one he held in his hand and another farther down in the subfloor. Searching the desk, he found no tear gas, stun guns, or anything else he could use to subdue the prisoner singlehandedly. Well, he decided, a lie was as good as anything else.
Teresov returned to the cell and, hefting the big Makarov PM pistol, said in English, “Lieutenant Luger, this is Major Vadim Teresov, General Gabovich’s aide. I have been directed to take you upstairs. Come out so I can see you. Immediately.”
No response.
From somewhere overhead, a series of loud booms reverberated throughout the building — two, four, maybe ten of them, all in a loud, terrifying string, like massive firecrackers going off. Teresov felt moisture on his palms, and he dried his hand on his pants before tightly gripping the pistol again. “Do you hear that, Lieutenant? We have been ordered by an American Marine Corps rescue detail to destroy our weapons and bring you to the ground floor for a prisoner exchange. If you do not comply with my request, the Marines will assume you are dead and destroy this building. You and everyone inside will die. So close to rescue, do you want to risk dying? But I do not want to risk dying either. Come out where I can see you and I will escort you upstairs.
Still no response.
Luger flattened himself against the door to the cell, staying as far out of sight as possible. No more passive, drugged-out, mind-fucked prisoner, Luger told himself. Teresov is here to kill you. Fight with everything you have left, Dave, because there won’t be a second chance.
Luger knew there was one dead-bolt lock and two sliding cylinder bolts on the door. The door would withstand an impact with two of the three bolts in place, but with only one he might be able to break it. He started to summon all his power, all his courage, all his being into concentrating on what Teresov was doing out there. He would have only one chance.
Shots rang out and McLanahan’s body jumped at each burst — but they were not from in front, they were from behind! John Ormack, still wearing his helmet and night-vision goggles, had run up beside McLanahan, firing away with his 9-millimeter automatic.
“Those sons of bitches,” huffed Ormack. Patrick heard the loud, dull click! as the slide locked open — Ormack had run out of ammo.
As Ormack hurriedly reloaded he shouted, “Patrick! Run!”
The two enemy soldiers had ducked behind the fuselage of the MV-22, so McLanahan took the opportunity, scrambled to his feet, and dragged the corpse back to the building. McLanahan heard Ormack eject a spent magazine, snap a new one in place, and begin firing again.
Ormack used several shots from his Beretta to break open the lock on the door, and then closed it behind them. The hallway was completely dark. McLanahan used the grisly, broken body of the Marine copilot to barricade the door. “Jesus, John, you came along just in time,” McLanahan said, breathing heavily. “I owe you one.”
“Forget it,” Ormack said. He examined the copilot through his night-vision equipment. “Yeah, he’s dead, poor bastard.” He lowered him gently to the floor in front of the steel door, then withdrew his FM radio from his ALICE harness. Ormack tried several times to raise someone, with no luck. “Try your radio, Patrick.” But it was obvious the instant he withdrew it from his harness that the radio was shattered.
“What do you see around here?” McLanahan asked. “Where are we?”
Ormack withdrew an infrared chemical light stick from a pouch, bent it until a vial inside the soft plastic tube cracked, and shook it. McLanahan could see nothing at all, not even his hand in front of his face — to him, it was pitch black. But to Ormack, with his night-vision goggles, the hall and stairwell were brightly illuminated. “There’s no other door here — this entrance only leads to the subfloors,” Ormack said, peering around them with the goggles. “There’s only a staircase that leads down.”
“Well, we can’t stay here. Those jokers outside may be coming after us,” McLanahan said.
“Let’s leave the copilot here — we’ve done all we can for him, and I’ll need help with the injured,” Ormack said grimly. “Let’s head down with the others and find a place where we can cover the stairwell and lower floors at the same time until help arrives.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” McLanahan said. “Lead on.” McLanahan first withdrew a door-jamming spike from the semiconscious Marine’s ALICE harness pack and hammered it into the doorframe with the shattered remains of his FM radio. Anyone trying to open the door would have to break it open, and they would hear it and be ready. He also applied a small strip of infrared tape with his element number and the date-time group on it to the doorframe, and rubbed it with his gloves to night-vision goggles — hopefully, the other Marines in the assault force and not the Black Berets — would see the otherwise invisible tape and know who had been there and when. McLanahan then hoisted the unconscious jumpmaster onto his shoulders, and with Ormack painfully helping the other semiconscious Marine, they made their way downstairs.
Damn you to hell, Luger! Teresov raged inside. But Teresov was really angry at himself. Why didn’t I think of bringing a soldier down here, or a grenade, or some tear gas? Teresov opened the magazine on the Makarov and counted the rounds — seven, with one in the chamber. I didn‘t even think to bring extra magazines.
His anger boiling over, Teresov snapped the magazine back into the gun, stuck the muzzle into the shutter, and fired four rounds blindly into the tiny concrete cell. He was rewarded after the second shot with a blood-curdling scream, like a badger caught in a trap.
Well, well, Teresov thought with relief.
The screaming continued unabated — Luger barely had time to draw breath before another scream echoed throughout the subfloor. Teresov had heard men scream before — in pain, in fear, in sheer terror, when they know death is only a fraction of a second away — and Luger’s scream was real. A ricocheting bullet must have hit him in a serious but obviously nonlethal place.
Teresov eased the bolts off the door, leaving one in place, then flashed the light inside the cell. He could see a foot at the very bottom of the shutter — Luger must have been hiding directly underneath the shutter. The foot was trembling uncontrollably, as if in death throes. Perfect. Teresov inserted the key into the lock. No hurry now. Let Luger become weak from loss of blood.
When he opened the door, Luger would fall right into his waiting arms.