Dean nodded to a control panel inside the doorway. Bob told him to go ahead. Dean entered a code, and the doors slid the rest of the way open.
John watched this in angry silence. The doors must have weighed several dozen tons or more and were at least three feet thick. Fifty yards into the tunnel, there was another set of doors, not as substantial but still significant, and for a second time, the same ritual was played out of cracking them open, Dean taking a few steps in, shouting for the security detail behind them to come out with weapons secured and surrender.
It was a tense few minutes with several of them refusing until Bob, with his excellent command voice, talked them down, that the entire firefight had been a tragic misunderstanding and as he was commander of all troops east of the Appalachians, those within were under his command, to obey immediately or face court-martial. They finally surrendered.
“Another security detail beyond here?” Bob asked as he nodded down the wide, cavernous corridor carved out of solid rock, three lanes wide, illuminated every hundred feet or so by a dimly glowing fluorescent light set into the ceiling.
“Just those off duty and everyone else.”
“Everyone else?” John asked.
Dean looked at him but said no more.
“Get this bastard out of here,” Bob snapped, looking back at Sergeant Bentley. “All prisoners secured outside. All wounded regardless of side treated ASAP. I think ten of our men can handle this rabble now that they’ve surrendered. I want the rest on me. I want you with me as well, Sergeant, so get it squared away and then catch up.”
Bob watched as Dean, staggering from shock, was led back into the brilliant midday light of the entrance.
“Would you have done it?” Bob asked, looking at John.
John just gazed at him, still feeling cold, nearly broken inside, wondering now what shock would confront him next.
Bob put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ve all been through too much,” he said, gesturing down the long tunnel. “Let’s see what’s down there and if this trip was worth the price.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was a very long trip down, a hike of well over half a mile. John and those with him and Scales fell silent except for occasional whispers and Bob explaining this entire facility was carved out of solid rock and was not a natural cave.
The road began to level out from its five-degree pitch, the air within warmer so that parkas were unzipped. Bob cautioned those with him to keep their Kevlar jackets buttoned up tight and weapons held up in a nonthreatening manner and to only return fire if fired upon first.
A babble of voices began to echo—shouts, cries, yells of confusion and fear. Bob ordered the main group to stop, and he sent several scouts ahead, again reminding them of orders not to shoot.
Long minutes passed. Bob squatted down on the hard tarmac, reaching into a pocket and pulling out some hard candies from an open MRE pack and passing them around.
As they waited, Bentley came up. There was a wordless exchange of glances, and it was an indicator to John that this officer and top NCO truly worked as a team, respected each other, and could work on instinct of mutual trust without a word being said.
Bentley unclipped a flashlight from his vest, snapped it on, and continued down the tunnel until finally he was only a pinpoint of light. Several more minutes passed and then all jumped with a start; a single shot, followed a second later by two more, echoed like a cannon in the cavernous hall, the flashlight snapping off.
“Son of a bitch,” Scales snapped. “Up, get ready to move, weapons on safety, but be ready to engage if fired on.”
The troopers with them began to move out, edging along either side of the tunnel. Bob gestured for John and those with him to hold back for a moment, passing a quiet order to the one medic who had come in with them to get against the wall and be ready to set up an aid station.
“I don’t want a bloodbath,” Scales announced. “If we find what I think we’re about to find, I don’t want a bloodbath.”
They started forward, crouching low. A flashlight came back on down at the end of the corridor, blinked twice, and then several seconds later blinked five more times. Bob, unclipping his flashlight, repeated the signal back, and came fully erect.
The flashlight at the end of the corridor grew brighter, moving up and down, obviously held by someone walking toward them, shifting the high-intensity beam up toward the ceiling so as not to blind them. The troopers advancing ahead of John and those around him stopped in place. There were some whispered exchanges, and then Bentley came into view, illuminated by the dim overhead fluorescent lights, left hand holding his .45. In the pale light, John could see blood soaking his arm. He had his right hand firmly gripped to the collar of a civilian dressed in what was the nearly ubiquitous uniform of government officials of chinos and a blue dress shirt. The man was short next to Bentley, nearly bald, features heavy, looking back and forth nervously at the troopers who were poised to either side of the tunnel.
Scales stood in place, not coming forward, John falling in by his side.
A few more steps and Bentley showed just enough restraint not to send the man he was hanging on to sprawling to the pavement, but he did shove him forward so he nearly lost his balance.
His dignity obviously insulted, the pudgy-featured man drew himself up, tucked his shirt back in—which had been disheveled by Bentley’s rough handling—looked down at his left sleeve, which was splattered with blood, and shot an angry glance at Bentley, who remained by his side.
The medic was already up by Bentley’s side.
“It can wait,” Bentley snapped. The medic looked over at the civilian.
“That’s my blood on him,” the sergeant said sharply.
“Just who the hell are you?” the civilian cried, voice a bit quivery, but Scales ignored him.
“Sergeant Major Bentley, are you hit?”
“I’ll be all right, sir; it can wait.”
Scales glanced to the medic.
“Don’t see anything arterial, sir; I guess it can wait a few minutes.”
“Fine, then.”
The civilian cleared his throat to try to interrupt, but Scales continued to ignore him.
“Report, Sergeant—what was that shooting about?”
“This man here had a bodyguard who decided to take issue with my presence. He fired first.”
There was a pause.
“So I killed him.”
He said so as if it were just a typical day’s work, and Scales nodded.
“A lot of others around—you’ll see in a minute. I had to aim for the center of his body. Didn’t want any stray shots to get someone else.”
“He murdered my man—”
Again Scales cut him off. “Let the medic tend to your wound, Sergeant, and thank God you are safe.” At last, he turned back to the civilian. “You are damn lucky my sergeant was able to walk back; otherwise, it would have gone very badly for you and a lot of others. Do you read me?”