The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) (36 page)

The small storage room that Daniels jumped into had been added later and did not rest on the same foundation. The last explosion had taken out the thin ferro-concrete floor exposing a wide hole dug four feet down. At the bottom of the hole, a large drainage pipe was exposed. It was three feet in diameter and the concrete on the top had been removed creating a wide opening into the pipe.

Daniels jumped down into the hole, entered the opening and started crawling away inside the pipe. The initial force of the fireball was dissipating, leaving blistering bone melting heat. He crawled for his life, feeling the heat entering the pipe, following him with tendrils of hot gas that burnt the soles of his boots. He held his breath as he crawled and the temperature rose within the tunnel. He came upon the first of Bobby-Ray's packages just when he believed his lungs would explode and the acrid smoke in the enclosed space burnt his eyes.

He quickly put on the fireman's breathing apparatus that the Alabama Militia had stolen from the Tuscaloosa Fire department and sold to Bobby-Ray. He turned the valve to the small tank and drew a breath of sweet clean oxygen. He crawled, fast as he could, as the temperature rose inside the cement pipe and thick black smoke obscured any vision out of the full-face Plexiglass mask.

The smoke inside the pipe seemed to suck out the light from the small lantern affixed to the top of the mask. He sweated from every pore and felt the heated grit of the cement on his knees and the palms of his hands. The inside of the breathing apparatus smelled of moldy rubber and he tasted the ashy smoke in his mouth.

Time slowed as he crawled in the dark tunnel. He imagined the interior of hell couldn't be much worse than this subterranean pipe. He thought he could feel blisters on his ankles as the heat enveloped his body when suddenly the ground just disappeared under him and he fell headfirst into darkness.

Daniels didn't fall very far, two feet, maybe three. His martial arts training saved him from painful fracture as he rolled when he landed. He stood slowly as the light on the breathing apparatus illuminated the area.

He had escaped through a three-foot diameter concrete drainpipe that passed under the warehouse. That pipe fed into one of several main drainage-runoff pipes that ran under the city of Washington and emptied into the Potomac several miles outside the city limit. Hundreds of pipes like the one Daniels had crawled out of connected to this main one. In times of heavy precipitation they carried away millions of gallons of water and prevented flooding.

The pipe Daniels had reached measured a diameter of six feet. About two inches of water sloshed in the center and the interior had the musty rotted smell of a place that has been damp too long. In the beam of the headgear light, he could see black smoke spilling out of the smaller pipe like poisonous ground fog. Crackling whispering shushing noises echoed from the smaller pipe and resonated throughout the larger pipe to fade away in the distance. The light could penetrate a little further and the smoke had thinned out, carried away by the moist, moldy breeze that ran through the drainpipe buried twelve feet underground.

Daniels started a slow jog down the large pipe. He had to stoop a bit so his head wouldn't hit the concrete top of the pipe. After a few minutes he was able to take off the breathing apparatus. The light was dimming when he came to a wide-angled bend in the pipe. The link was a large concrete block that joined two pipe lengths, allowing a change of direction without creating stress in the concrete. The junction of the two pipes inside the block formed a small alcove. It was there that Bobby-Ray had stashed the second set of items.

There was a light plastic helmet with a heavier light mounted on top. Daniels put that on first. Next, he donned the backpack. Afterwards, he took the folding bicycle and in two quick moves snapped the lock pins together. It was a small bike, portable and designed to be carried where space is at a premium, like a boat or the trunk of a car. It had short fat tires and was about three sizes too small for Daniels.

But Daniels was not entering the Tour De France. All he had to do was get out of the large drainpipe in reasonable time. He pedaled down the center of the pipe, the wheels splashing the two or three inches of water in the bottom. A huge rat, eyes glowing and small fangs gleaming white, darted away from his light and disappeared in some hidden crack in the cement wall.

It took a little over twenty minutes for Daniels to pedal the small bike to the end of the pipe. He could see the lighter circle of the opening ahead and shut off the light. He stopped the bike at the end of the pipe.

He stood on the edge of the great drainpipe where it emptied into the river. A narrow trickle of water fell twenty feet to the slow moving dark mass of the Potomac below. Daniels held the side of the pipe, stuck his head outside and looked around. There was no moon and although the night was clear, most stars were obscured by the bright glow of the city of Washington a dozen or so miles away. A slight breeze carried the scent of autumn vegetation and riverbank mud. A few miles upstream, the lights of the Wilson Memorial Bridge glistened like a string of bright jewels studded with the pinpoint headlights of traffic passing the bridge from I95. Twinkling dots of lights danced on the crest of tiny waves from the light chop on the river and he could see the red and green light of a small boat a couple of hundred feet away. Beneath the green light a small white signal blinked every three seconds.

He stripped to shorts and tee shirt and put on the neoprene wet suit and swim fins that had been in the backpack Bobby-Ray had placed with the bicycle. He threw the backpack and bicycle in the river.

He jumped feet first into the water twenty feet below. The ice-cold river shocked him when he first splashed in but quickly warmed with his body heat inside the wet suit. He started swimming with powerful strokes and kicks from the fins.

When he approached the boat he saw it was a ten-foot Boston Whaler yacht tender with 40HP Mercury outboard. He swam alongside, placed one hand on the gun whale and held the other hand up. Bobby-Ray grasped his hand and helped him roll aboard the small boat.

"Hey boss," said Bobby-Ray, "looks like you had yourself some kind of barbecue back there."

Richard Daniels looked toward the banks of the river he had come from. There was a red glow inland and occasional lick of flames and eruptions of sparks could be seen in the distance. The night air carried the sound of sirens and a helicopter circled the scene with spotlight reaching down like a distant firefly. The breeze held a whiff of smoke and gasoline.

"Yeah, I cooked me up some rats."

Bobby-Ray started the engine and the little Boston Whaler ran down the river. Fifteen minutes later they came up behind a much larger boat. It was a fifteen years old Grand Banks 42. A sturdy ocean going pleasure trawler that Billy had purchased and set up in a nearby marina. Daniels could make out the form of Carlos at the helm, his face orange with the reflected glow of the instrument panel.

Daniels helped Bobby-Ray secure the Boston Whaler on its davits and went inside the cabin where hot food and a bear hug from Carlos awaited him.

The Grand Banks accelerated to its cruising speed of nine knots as it followed the river eastward toward the Chesapeake Bay and the open Atlantic. It would take about seven to eight days for the Grand Banks to round the tip of Florida and head toward the Gulf of Mexico and the Everglades.

Epilogue

The town of Islamorada is not quite like the average American small town. Lying on mile marker 32 of the Florida Keys, it straddles Highway 1 about a third of the way to Key West. Surrounded by the transparent waters of Upper Matecombe Key on one side and the coral reef-studded clear green waters of the Atlantic on the other, it is host to an amazing bio-diversity of ocean life. The climate is one of the most temperate on earth, with balmy salt-water scented breezes and clear skies adorned with small puffy clouds mostly the rule. Once in a while, tropical storms will descend in violent waves of wind and rain and crashing surf, providing a counterpoint to the normal tranquility.

For an area that has no traditional industry, there is quite a bit of economic activities provided by local small businesses. Food stores, restaurants, hotels, emporiums, repair shops, marinas and the ever-present souvenir shops. Most of these businesses are grateful for local patronage but depends mostly on the constant streams of tourists pouring down Highway 1. The population is about equally mixed between retirees, artists, writers and craftsmen and the owners and workers of local businesses and those who choose to commute to jobs in Homestead and Miami.

In one respect however, Islamorada is like any small town in any corner of the United States. Gossip is one of the main activities and takes the attention of the residents as much as the World Series or Super Bowl.

The speculations among the townspeople started the day ground was broken for the luxury home on a spit of land that juts out from Upper Matecombe Key, pointing its shell and white sand covered ground, like a finger toward Florida Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. The house was not overly large, nor was it built with the pretentious gaudiness that the nouveau riche will sometimes bring to this part of South Florida. In fact, it had been carefully designed to blend with the beauty of the environment. But the luxury was there nevertheless as the local tradesmen brought back the stories of the Jacuzzis and saunas, the observatory and heated pools.

The couple that owned the house brought more mystery and speculations then the residents of Islamorada could remember since the days of the bootleggers and rum-runners. The woman was tall and blonde with Hollywood good looks. Speculations ran that she had something to do with the entertainment industry, perhaps the theater or movies. Many a gossiper thumbed through hundreds of entertainment publications looking for a tidbit that would identify the woman and enhance their status as gossip emeritus.

The couple was always friendly and polite and would often chat with the locals. Somehow, the chats never went beyond the usual banalities of weather and traffic. They never gave parties and always politely declined invitations. It was noted with approval however, that they never missed contributing to local charities and fund raising events.

The gossip bogged down considerably when it was discovered for sure that the woman had been a senior partner at a prestigious Naples law firm. With the possibility of Hollywood or Broadway scandals eliminated, the gossip died down, unable to sustain itself on the banality of a law practice.

Speculations still abounded for the man. Tall, lean and muscular with those rugged good looks, consensus had it that he was a retired pilot, possibly military.

This speculation was fueled mainly by the twin-engine seaplane emblazoned with the name
Albatross,
kept moored at the dock that was joined to the house by a cedar walkway. Periodically, residents passing by the small remote road that ran to the house, could observe the couple getting into the plane and casting off.

The plane would be seen taxiing down the sparkling emerald water until it lifted off. As it gained altitude, the residents could see it banking, always north.

Toward the Everglades.

The End

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THE DOPPELGANGER PROTOCOL

The Remnants to War Series

Book Two