Crush Depth (22 page)

When Jeffrey and Ilse got back to the others, Clayton and Montgomery and some of their men were standing or sitting
and eating rations, and chatting with Harrison and Constable Henga. The SEALs were posing as rear-area security troops, sent along by the U.S. Navy with Ilse and Jeffrey and Harrison, who were supposed to be SOSUS maintenance workers. That was the cover story Henga fed to curious islanders who’d asked, and it would lull enemy recon sensors too.

Ilse entered her tent, to establish the voice link with Sydney using her portable console. Jeffrey left her alone so she could cool off.

Jeffrey stood there catching his breath, winded from climbing and walking in rough terrain.
I’ve been so busy with all the duties as
Challenger
’s captain plus Wilson’s operations officer, I neglected my need for exercise. I’m really out of shape.
Jeffrey idly took a closer look at the rock outcropping that held the equipment bunker for the local satellite ground station. The rock was volcanic, old, weathered, but strong and hard. The parts Jeffrey could see from where he stood were rough matte black, with veins of dark gray. The outcropping formed a big hump jutting out of the soil. The portion that held the bunker showed fresh marks from blasting and jackhammers, presumably done by U.S. Navy Seabees or New Zealand military engineers.

Jeffrey heard a strange
crack
as a hot angry bee rushed past his ear. One of the enlisted SEALs caved in on himself and fell forward. There was another
crack
and someone plucked Jeffrey’s sleeve. He turned in confusion since nobody was next to him. Montgomery came running at Jeffrey as fast as he could.

“Wha—”

“Sniper!”
Montgomery bellowed as he knocked Jeffrey off his feet.

J
EFFREY LAY ON
his back, bewildered, staring at the sky, in mental shock as his heart pounded. Around him he sensed a disordered swirl of frantic motion and raised voices. Montgomery was already some distance away. Everyone was scrambling for cover and grabbing their weapons. Jeffrey’s former SEAL training came back from his younger days. He rolled onto his stomach and belly-crawled to a better position.
Where’s the sniper? And who the hell is shooting at us?

There was a
bang
in the distance, and a tearing sound.

“Incoming!” Clayton shouted. Everyone squashed flat.

Jeffrey caressed the damp soil with urgent intimacy, and tried to become one with the moss. The initial surprise of it all was wearing off, and now stark terror sank in. Jeffrey badly wished he had a helmet. A glowing ball was tearing toward him low over the ground, leaving a trail of dirty smoke. The rocket slammed into Ilse’s tent and exploded inside. The canvas billowed outward and ripped, riddled with white-hot shrapnel. The tent burst into flame at once. It collapsed, roaring and crackling.

Ilse glanced from around the rock outcropping; she’d had the sense to abandon the tent at the first sign of trouble. The tent burned merrily, fanned by the wind—and that ended their only link with
Challenger.
There was no way to sound a warning, no way to call quickly for help.

Jeffrey fought hard to regain mental balance. They had to
respond to this sudden emergency with speed and focused violence, or they’d be overwhelmed and defeated both individually and as a group—defeated emotionally and then physically. Jeffrey’s mind registered scattered rifle shots from the enlisted SEALs. He could tell they were uncoordinated, shooting wild, to try to suppress the enemy fire.
But who was the enemy?

Jeffrey heard Shajo Clayton’s voice, tough and commanding amid the din. The SEAL lieutenant was calling orders to his team, to stop wasting ammo and organize a meaningful hasty defense. Jeffrey drew comfort from Clayton’s leadership as Clayton rallied and prodded his men. Jeffrey’s own combat instincts clicked in more and more, and some of his fear began to give way to excitement and rising purposefulness. The key was not to stay passive, but do something useful immediately. Yet tactically, in this situation, Clayton was in charge.

Clayton crawled up next to Jeffrey. His closeness made Jeffrey feel better. Jeffrey felt less lost and alone, no longer quite so isolated as everyone else near him sought concealment or dug themselves in.

Both men gained scant cover using a small dip in the ground. Clayton showed Jeffrey a grin. The two had been here several times before, this special, taxing, mystical place where courageous people braved death together with righteousness on their side.

Another bullet crazed the soil, too near Jeffrey’s head. Clayton and Jeffrey were forced to move apart. Their separation made Jeffrey feel more anxious. He forced himself to get a grip.

“They’re after you, Captain. They know you’re senior.”

“Yeah, but who’s
they?
”

Gunther Van Gelder lay in the bushes beside Commander Bauer. Bauer studied their objective with his binoculars.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Bauer whispered. “They haven’t broken and run.”

“Maybe they’re too scared to move.”

Bauer made hand signals for his sniper to fire again.

“I got targets,”
Chief Montgomery shouted. “Two groups, three or four men each, heading right and left! They’re trying to outflank us!”

“Hold your fire,” Clayton ordered. “They might be friendly troops!”

“Constable,” Jeffrey yelled. “Are they yours? Some kind of mix-up?”

“No!” Henga yelled back. “Nobody dresses like that.”

“Like what?” Jeffrey couldn’t get a clear view. He was pinned down as the enemy sniper learned the feel of the wind—his shots were closer and closer.

“Black body stockings,” Henga yelled.

“Kampfschwimmer,” Jeffrey said. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then the SEALs visibly braced themselves. Clayton licked his lips, as if he welcomed this one-on-one contest of champion teams. Jeffrey thought fast. “They’re after the bunker.”

“Return fire!” Clayton ordered.
“Weapons free!”

The SEALs resumed firing the time-worn M-16s they’d brought with them, part of their disguise as rear-area troops. The outflanking Kampfschwimmer went to ground. M-16s crackled and spent brass flew as each SEAL took carefully aimed shots. They needed to make every round count: they hadn’t brought heavy weapons, or much of an ammo supply.

The flanking Kampfschwimmer fired back. Their rifles made a deeper booming noise than the M-16s. Jeffrey knew those telltale reports from the old days: AK-47s, also aged, but lethal. Their bullets were much heavier than the ones from an M-16. Both Kampfschwimmer flanking teams advanced, using fire and movement skillfully. Jeffrey felt the pressure mount as the enemy pincers advanced.

Clayton raised his head, just long enough to squeeze off a round. Burnt powder went up Jeffrey’s nose and stirred his adrenaline more, but he was unarmed and they were in seri
ous danger of being surrounded. Jeffrey began to choke on thin but acrid smoke—the fire in Ilse’s tent had spread and the second tent was burning.

“There’s a radio in my truck!” Henga yelled.

Harrison was the only one close enough to stand a chance of reaching Henga’s Land Rover alive. He broke cover without hesitation, and dashed behind the truck. The German sniper loosed a round that smashed the windshield to bits. Jeffrey judged the sniper had changed his firing position.
He’s good.

Jeffrey saw the Land Rover’s far-side door swing open. Jeffrey knew that if Harrison failed, they might all be killed or captured where they lay. A sniper round pierced the sheet-metal side of the driver’s door.

“Tom!” Jeffrey shouted in concern.

“I’m okay!” Harrison shouted.

Bullets flew in both directions viciously now. The Land Rover bounced and sagged as its tires were hit and exploded. All the different noises hurt Jeffrey’s ears.

Henga fired his revolver twice at a distant clump of bushes. Jeffrey knew the weapon was useless at such range—and Kampfschwimmer wouldn’t be slowed by ineffective fire. But then Jeffrey had an idea. He turned to Clayton. “We don’t want the Kampfschwimmer knowing we’re SEALs.”

“Concur, Skipper. Let’s show ’em some sloppy fire discipline.” With difficulty, since the slightest movement drew more fire, Clayton tossed Jeffrey his pistol. It landed on the ground halfway between them. As Jeffrey reached, a sniper bullet almost took his hand off at the wrist.

Jeffrey grabbed the pistol and checked that the muzzle was clear of dirt. Like Henga, he fired two rounds. The AK-47s boomed, and the M-16s responded, but the outflanking enemy men advanced again. Soon the line of retreat would be cut off.

“Who do I call?” Harrison yelled from down inside the driver’s compartment. His voice sounded deep and confi
dent; Jeffrey was very glad they’d had that talk in the minisub.

“Waitangi!” Henga shouted. That was the only town, in the middle of the island. “Tell the council duty clerk to sound the invasion alarm.”

Jeffrey waited impatiently—Harrison seemed to take forever.
If that radio is busted we’re in very serious trouble.
This was an uninhabited part of the island. Anyone who heard the firing from farther off might just think Henga was holding an exercise.

“I’ve got him,” Harrison yelled.

Henga shouted his orders. “Waitangi platoon to head here by the Tuku Road. Owenga platoon to come the way we came, and Saracen to follow the Naim River trail! Others to muster in place and hold the rest of the island!”

“Okay!”

Jeffrey and Clayton looked at each other. Henga sounded like he knew what he was doing. Reinforcements from Owenga would strengthen their hold on the satellite site. From Tuku, the militia could threaten the enemy from the rear. The Saracen, with its cannon and machine gun raking the Germans from off to the side, could tip the balance decisively.

But this would all take precious time, and the time factor favored the Germans. The SOSUS bunker itself would have made a beautiful defensive stronghold, but the path there was much too exposed for Clayton’s men to get inside—the door faced right at the enemy’s center.

Bullets continued to fly. One of Clayton’s spent shell casings burned the back of Jeffrey’s hand. There was a loud clang, then a screeching whine, as an incoming bullet ricocheted off the Land Rover’s engine block. In the far distance, carried on the wind, Jeffrey could hear air-raid sirens now.

“Tom,” Jeffrey yelled. “Get out of there before they hit the fuel tank!”

“Tom,” Henga yelled, “take my shotgun, under the dashboard! Shells are in the glove box!”

Jeffrey saw Harrison roll out of the Land Rover. As enemy rounds chewed the dirt near his feet, Harrison bobbed and weaved and dashed behind the outcropping next to Ilse. He was smart enough to hold his fire—a shotgun was a close-in weapon. Jeffrey urged him to fire a couple of rounds—again, the deception plan that they were rear-area troops.

The shotgun blasts were deafening crashes. Another sniper bullet barely missed Jeffrey’s head. He crawled and shifted position again. The firefight had been raging long enough for him to take stock of what was happening and why.

How did the Germans get here? Dropped from a secret compartment of a pseudoneutral airliner? High-altitude-low-opening parachute tactics at sea, then move inshore with the wind and tide, using rubber boats or even underwater scooters? Do they want to commandeer the SOSUS site to eavesdrop on the data? Use it to locate Allied subs, and then use that to help
Voortrekker?…

So
that’s
what ter Horst is waiting for, our undersea fleet dispositions, before he tackles the Gap.

Yeah, that’s what the Germans are after. Even with all this shooting they’re leaving the satellite bunker untouched.

They’re clever, I’ll give them that.

Clayton fired another round from his smoking rifle, then ejected the empty magazine, his last. “Captain, we have to withdraw. We’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

“We can’t,” Jeffrey said. “We have to destroy the equipment bunker.” Jeffrey told Clayton why: the whole outcome of the battle between
Challenger
and
Voortrekker
could hinge around this little bunker.

Clayton told his man nearest the bunker to throw in fragmentation grenades.

As the man rose off the ground he screamed, hit in the neck by the sniper. Bright red arterial blood arced into the air and soaked the grass. Montgomery dashed to help the wounded man, dodging incoming rounds, and the chief was
quickly soaked by the blood. From behind a boulder he looked at Clayton and shook his head.

That’s two dead, Jeffrey told himself, counting the SEAL killed by the sniper at the very start of the action.

Another enlisted SEAL made a try for the bunker. The distant sniper fired but missed.

A German light machine gun, held in reserve, opened up immediately. The SEAL was almost cut in half. He dropped both live grenades. They exploded next to his body. The double concussion through the ground made Jeffrey hurt. Intestines and body parts flew, but the bunker was undamaged. The corpse began to burn. The stink was unbearable. The dead SEAL’s ammunition cooked off like strings of firecrackers.

That’s three dead, one-fourth of our manpower, and it confirms they really want the bunker intact.
The Kampfschwimmer flanking units were swinging wide now. Soon they’d surround Clayton’s team and hit the SEALs with fire from every direction at once.

Clayton lobbed a grenade, to try to cut Ilse’s cable that ran to the sea. The concussion flashed and pounded the earth and more shrapnel whizzed through the air. Jeffrey aimed at the satellite dish, and kept firing rounds from his pistol to try to knock the dish out. At this distance, he couldn’t tell if he’d done anything. He ran out of ammo, and Clayton threw him another clip for the pistol, his last.

“We have to withdraw!” Clayton repeated.

Jeffrey shook his head. “They’ll pick us all off if we move.” As if to emphasize, the German light machine gun fired again, peppering the SEALs and Jeffrey with dirt and fragments of rock. “We need a smokescreen or we’re finished.”

“We don’t have that many smoke grenades. Not with this wind, it’s too strong!”

“The truck’s fuel tank. We can
use
that.”

Clayton nodded. Jeffrey crawled flat on his stomach until he had a good line of fire. He shot at the underside of the
truck. The bullet found its mark, and diesel fuel leaked in a widening puddle. Jeffrey fired again, at a stone under the vehicle, to make a spark. The diesel refused to ignite. Jeffrey signaled for Clayton to pass him his other grenade. Jeffrey set the timer to “Long,” seven seconds.

“Grenade!” Jeffrey shouted. He rolled it beneath the truck and scrambled away.

A split second after the grenade went off, the whole fuel tank exploded with a gut-pounding
whump.
Parts of the Land Rover flew through the air. Jeffrey felt a wave of blistering heat that didn’t diminish. The truck was giving off heavy gray-black smoke. It grew even thicker when all four punctured tires began to burn. The combined odors at this point were revolting.

“Pop what smoke you got,” Montgomery ordered at the top of his lungs. The chief was hoarse from shouting and breathing the smoke, and Jeffrey’s eardrums ached so badly it was hard for him to hear.

The surviving SEALs tossed the few smoke grenades they had. Clouds of chemical smoke puffed out in green and orange and purple. The different colors blended oddly with the oily, choking smoke from the burning truck.

Montgomery shouldered the nearest dead SEAL’s body. Henga was closest to the enlisted SEAL who’d been killed first—Henga crawled and grabbed the body and started to drag it along. Ilse, with nothing to do up to now, darted through the smokescreen and snatched the corpses’ intact M-16s. She threw one rifle to Jeffrey, then with the other began to send short bursts blindly through the smoke, toward the Germans.