Such was the changeable nature of war, where life, death, disfigurement were measured by inches and seconds. He considered his own past. How many friends had he lost to the capriciousness of fate? Take a half step to your left and you get cut in half by an AK-47. A tossed grenade bounces to the right, and you live another day, but if it bounces to the left, your legs are blown off.
He felt an icy shudder run up his spine. His eyesight swirled. In some detached part of his mind, he thought: classic symptoms of PTSD.
He clung to that notion.
You know this enemy.
Tucker took a half-dozen calming breaths.
You’re alive. Kane’s alive. Get it together and do what you came here for.
Abruptly, Kane’s ears perked up, accompanied by a low growl meant only for his ears.
Rustling rose from the tunnel.
He motioned for Kane to stay.
Clicking off his headlamp, he grabbed his rifle, rose to his knees, and found a break in the sandbags to peer through. Using his night-vision scope, he spied a Spetsnaz soldier edging toward the mouth of the tunnel, cautious, likely hearing the gunplay from a moment ago.
Tucker waited until he reached the tunnel’s end and shot him in the head. He followed it with a continuous barrage of fire into the tunnel to keep the others at bay. While doing this, he crossed forward, high-stepping the sandbags, knowing what he needed from the dead soldier.
He reached the corpse, clicking on his headlamp, and pulled the dead man’s torso to the side.
Enemy fire blasted out of the tunnel, but he kept away from the direct line of sight. He quickly stripped off the man’s portable radio. That’s all he intended to grab, but he got greedy and yanked a couple of grenades off the man’s tactical harness. He shoved the pilfered pair into his pocket—then he grabbed a third, pulled the pin, and threw it down the tunnel.
And ran.
He vaulted over the first wall of sandbags, stopping only long enough to yank the hidden flare’s ignition loop, setting it sputtering to life. As he rolled over the second barrier, he dropped flat.
The grenade exploded, the flash bright in the darkness, the noise deafening.
Tucker gained his knees, stared back as smoke poured out, along with a sift of fine sand. The tunnel hadn’t collapsed, but it would certainly discourage any more soldiers from coming through for a time.
Gathering Kane to his side, he fled across the Cathedral, his wounded leg on fire. By the time he reached the twin tunnels, his sock on that side was damp with blood. Exhausted, he reached the twin tunnels and sank to his rear with Kane.
Calling over his shoulder down the tunnel, he shouted. “Christopher!”
The young man appeared a moment later and knelt beside Tucker. “You are hurt.”
“And Anya is dead. I’ll take that deal. By the way, how did she get loose?”
“When Bukolov returned, I had to help him out of the hole. She came at us then. Caught us by surprise. She knocked me down and attacked Bukolov with an old bayonet she must have picked up. She tried to cut away the doctor’s specimen collection kit and steal it. But he fought and the bag ripped open, scattering bulbs and sample dishes across the floor. She did succeed in grabbing Bukolov’s gun. By the time I got to my rifle and fired at her, she was already running and gone.”
“But how did she get loose to begin with?”
“Among her ropes, I found the ripped remains of her cast.”
Tucker nodded slowly. During his fight with her, he hadn’t noticed her cast was missing. While tying her up, he had bound her good wrist to her cast. He should’ve known better, but he never imagined her to be that tough and stoic. It had to be extremely painful to get the cast off, yet she showed not the slightest wince or bead of sweat.
With her back against the stalagmite and her hands hidden behind her, she must have slowly—using the fingers of her other hand and the rock’s hard surface—broken through the plaster and worked the cast free. Afterward, she was able to tug her hands through the loose rope. From there, it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to act.
“I’m sorry,” Christopher said.
“Nothing to be sorry about. She was scary good. But I need a few things: two of the five-second chemical detonators and the first-aid kit.”
As Christopher disappeared into the tunnel, Tucker put on the stolen headset and keyed the radio. “General Kharzin, come in. Are you there?”
There were a few seconds of silence, then a harsh voice answered. “This is Kharzin. I assume I am talking to Tucker Wayne?”
“That’s right. I want to negotiate. We can all leave here with what we want.”
“Which is what?”
“Against my advice, Bukolov wants to make a deal. A trade. Some of the LUCA samples for our lives.”
“He has it then?” Kharzin asked. “He’s found the source?”
“Almost,” he lied. “He’s in the tunnel digging as we speak. He sounds confident of success.”
“Give me a few minutes to consider your offer.”
That was a lie, too.
Tucker needed to teach the Russian a lesson before they could really talk.
Christopher reappeared, carrying the items Tucker had requested. “Thanks. Follow me.”
He regained his feet and hobbled up the tiered steps to the right and dropped into the old Boer foxhole. He moved fifty yards along it. Christopher followed, carrying the supplies.
Once settled, Tucker pointed across the Cathedral to the small red glow, “Do you see the burning flare over there?”
“Barely, but yes.”
“Put your rifle scope on the shaft entrance beyond it and tell me if you see anything.”
With Christopher guarding, Tucker slit open his pant leg around the wound, then ripped open a QuikClot package from the first-aid kit and pressed it to the bullet gouge. He clenched his teeth against the burn and wrapped a pressure bandage around his thigh and knotted it in place.
He then took out the remaining half block of C-4 from his pocket. He divided what was left into two equal pieces. He returned one to his pocket, then shaped the other into a deadly pancake and carefully inserted a chemical detonator in its center. He passed the bomb over to Christopher.
“This half we’ll use to blow the artillery shells.”
“Hold on . . .” Christopher whispered. “I see movement. Two men, I think.”
“Good. I’ll take over. Take the C-4 back to the cavern and wait for me.”
As he left, Tucker lifted his rifle and peered through the scope. A pair of Spetsnaz soldiers crouched at the entrance of the blasted shaft. They were in full body armor, weapons ready. Beyond them, another soldier crept out . . . and another. The last one carried an RPG launcher. An arm waved, preparing for a sweep of the cavern.