The first subfloor door was locked. Their intelligence briefing said that this floor had some offices but was mostly file and furniture storage. They decided not to shoot it open, for fear of attracting the attention of any enemy soldiers that might be nearby, so McLanahan applied another jamming spike and infrared tape to the doorframe and they made their way downstairs to the last subfloor.
The door here was locked as well. There was no other way out — it was either through the door or back upstairs. Their intelligence briefing said that the second subfloor was heating and cooling equipment, incinerators, and water heaters. No reason to enter that floor either. “We’ll hide back in the corner so we can cover the stairs and the door,” McLanahan said, handing a submachine gun to Ormack. “I’ll go upstairs and check to see if any Marines have—”
Suddenly they heard four shots, followed by the most bone-chilling scream either of them had ever heard. The screaming continued, increasing in pitch and intensity. It was coming from inside the door to the last subfloor.
“Christ, what was that?” Ormack whispered.
McLanahan’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “It’s Dave,” he said. “That was Dave!”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I’ve heard him scream like that before — when we got hit by the missile, on the Old Dog,” McLanahan said. “It nearly blew his right leg off. He screamed just like that. It’s him! He’s in there!” He raised his MP5, set it to single-shot semiautomatic, and aimed it at the door handle …
“Wait, Patrick. What are you going to do?”
“Get Dave, that’s what. Step back.”
“But you don’t—”
“I said step back, John, goddammit!”
Ormack dragged the two Marines away from the door just as McLanahan fired several shots at the handle. After several seconds of frantically pulling at the hot metal, the door wrenched free. McLanahan snapped a fresh magazine into the submachine gun and made ready to go through the door.
“Wait, I’m going with you,” Ormack said.
McLanahan was about to argue, but he changed his mind — he knew he needed the backup.
“Here.” Ormack removed his helmet with the NVG-9 night-vision goggles and gave it to McLanahan, who strapped it tightly on his head. “You’re better at this infantry shit than me.” But when Ormack handed him the infrared light stick, McLanahan refused it.
“If his guard’s got night-vision equipment, I’ll be a good target for him,” said. “There’s supposed to be boilers and incinerators down there — I should have enough light. Leave it here but bring a few more new ones.”
Ormack picked up the second MP5 submachine gun, checked the magazine, set it to single-shot semiautomatic as well, and nodded to McLanahan.
With Ormack behind him, McLanahan crouched down and slowly pulled the steel-sheathed door open. No sign of response. He slowly moved it all the way open and applied the doorstop to keep it open. There was a small ledge just inside the door, a small staircase leading down, and a dark maze of pipes, conduits, and huge pieces of equipment inside. The screaming had subsided somewhat. Judging by the sounds, the person was not too far away. McLanahan crouched, partially shielded by the steel railing surrounding the ledge, and carefully scanned the entire sub-floor, watching for any movement that might reveal Luger’s captors. Nothing. There was a small light far off in the distance, toward the source of the screams, and McLanahan thought he saw the light move.
McLanahan figured that David Luger’s captor obviously knew they were there, so all chances of surprise were gone. McLanahan filled his lungs with air, then yelled, “United States Marines! You are surrounded! Surrender!” Then, switching to Russian — hastily taught by Wohl and the other Marines back at Camp Lejeune — he yelled, “Stoy! United States Marines! Pahsloshightye myenyah! Bistrah!”
The screaming stopped abruptly. McLanahan’s heart was in his throat — he thought Luger’s captors had killed him. McLanahan gripped the gun, ready to rush toward the light—
— but a distinct voice cried out, “PATRICK! I’M DOWN HERE! HELP ME!”
Damn, damn, damn it! Teresov swore.
American Marines were invading Fisikous — and they were here! Worse, Luger — that shit — was still alive! He had to finish him off before they arrived. He would put a bullet in Luger’s head, then wound himself, get rid of the gun, and pretend that he was a prisoner along with Luger. Perhaps the Marines wouldn’t kill him right away if they saw he was wounded. Hefting the gun, Teresov snapped open the last bolt on the door and—
— the door suddenly burst open, and David Luger came flying out and landed on top of him.
The presence of the Marines, along with seeing Luger’s foot flopping around and hearing him scream like a wounded cat, made Teresov sloppy, made him think only of himself and not of his captive.
Luger was not injured, and now he was fighting for his life.
The emergency flashlight went flying under the desk. Luger had hit Teresov low, right around the knees. Teresov crashed back against the guard’s desk but stayed upright. Luger was a wild man, his bony fingers digging into Teresov’s flesh, screaming like an animal, writhing and snarling. He had grabbed on to Teresov’s right wrist and was squeezing like a man possessed. A hand raked across Teresov’s eyes, into his nostrils, pulling at his ears. First a fist, then an elbow, then another fist hammered his face.
But none of his blows caused any pain — Luger was simply too weak, too emaciated, to hurt anyone. Teresov’s right arm broke free of Luger’s grasp, the Makarov in Teresov’s right hand came down hard on Luger’s skull, and the American officer crumpled. Teresov swung with his left arm, and the skinny, half-naked body flew across the basement, hitting hard against the open cell door.
Luger dropped to one knee, dazed, but he raised his head — and Teresov freaked. Even in the dim glow of the emergency light he had never seen such wild, murderous eyes before in his life. They were wide open, spinning, gleaming and terrible. Luger’s lips were pulled back in an animal-like snarl, his brown teeth bared. Blood flowed from a head wound, covering Luger’s hideous death-mask of a face with rivulets of bright-red blood. Teresov knew what it was like to have just cornered an injured wild animal. There was nothing human about that skinny, disheveled figure before him.
That made it that much easier for him. Teresov raised the Makarov, aimed, and—
“NOOOO!” someone screamed behind him.
Teresov jerked his head around, saw a dark figure running out of the shadows, carrying a submachine gun. Teresov squeezed off two shots at Luger without aiming — at this distance, he could not miss — and turned to face his new assailant.
Three shots rang out from an automatic weapon. Teresov could feel the slugs whiz by him, walking up from about waist level to well over his head, could feel the shock and heat of the muzzle blast, but he was unhurt. A clean miss, at very close range — sloppy work for one of the legendary U.S. Marines. He whipped around toward the gunblast and fired the last round from his Makarov. A figure leaped out of the darkness, tackling Teresov and shoving him hard down the hallway in front of the other concrete-block cells. Teresov let his body go limp, cushioning his head with his left arm as he hit the concrete floor.
To his surprise, however, the figure was off him immediately. Teresov could see a solidly built man in dark-green baggy fatigues, wearing a bulky “Third Reich”-style Kevlar helmet with boxy fittings attached to it — night-vision equipment, Teresov guessed — crawling over to where Luger had collapsed. He seemed to have forgotten all about him. Scrambling to his feet, Teresov wheeled around and kicked as hard as he could into the newcomer’s midsection.