Authors: Joseph Garber
Ransome’s voice was cool, without a hint of emotion in it, and his hill country accent made the small hairs on the back of Dave’s neck rise. His heart was beating faster now, and his breath was coming short. That voice, that goddamned Appalachian voice … so much like the voice of Sergeant Michael Mullins … the very late Sergeant Mullins …
Now is not a good time for reminiscing, pal. Now is the time you’ve got to think. Think fast, and think …
“… sharp, gentlemen.” The survival training instructor is a slender, intense colonel in perfectly tailored fatigues. There is something about his bearing, the way he stands and the way he moves, that tells his audience that he knows his subject firsthand. The colonel is not talking about abstract theory. The topic of his lecture is hard-won personal experience.
“Gentlemen, would you like to know what we call a man who panics under fire? Let me tell you. Gentlemen, the technical term for a man who panics under fire is ‘target.’ That sort of soldier is the sort of soldier who gets chalked up on the other side’s scoreboard before the end of the first inning. Accordingly, when you hear a round coming your way, you must not panic. You must not cringe. You must not feel the least apprehension or agitation. Instead, you must think. Thinking is the only way
out. Only logic and reason will preserve you. And what do logic and reason tell us, gentlemen? What they tell us is this: when someone shoots at you, the only rational response is to—with dispassion and dispatch—render that enemy incapable of shooting at you again. There is, gentlemen, no reasonable alternative to this course of action.”
Dave mentally reviewed the layout of the forty-fifth floor. The corridor in which he was trapped led east, passing a half dozen inner offices—cubbyholes occupied by the executive cadre’s aides and assistants. The doors to those offices were spaced about twelve feet apart. At its far end the hall intersected another corridor—one that ran around the perimeter of the building. That’s where the executives lived.
One other thing. The fire exits. There were three of them, heavy metal doors that opened, on stairwells. One of them was … off this hall … where? Twenty or thirty feet away, he supposed. If Ransome was as good as Dave guessed he was, Dave would be dead long before he reached it.
But then, you’re going to be dead anyway, aren’t you? Ransome just said something about a weapons team. They’re probably in the lobby, an elevator ride away. High side, pal, you’ve got maybe three, maybe four minutes of breathing time left
.
Dave winced at his inner voice’s jibe. Ransome, he thought. The only way out was through Ransome. Cupping his hand to the side of his mouth Dave called out, “Hey, Ransome.”
“Yes, Mr. Elliot. How can I help you?” Ransome’s tone was neutral, flat. He sounded, if anything, relaxed.
“I’m sorry about your friend Carlucci.”
“No sweat. I barely knew the man.”
“Good. Besides, I think you have to agree that it was your fault.”
“Really, why is that?” Ransome did not sound the least interested.
“You’re the senior man. Besides, you should have known that if I got past Bernie, then I almost certainly would have gotten his weapon.”
There was a short pause before Ransome replied, “Point taken.” His voice was still utterly unemotional.
Well, that idea’s not going to work. You’re not going to make him lose his cool. By the way, I bet the weapons team is in the elevators by now
.
(Think, gentlemen. Think fast, and think sharp.)
Dave glanced around the nook. It was a little more than three feet deep with walls like all those in the executive suite, papered with a stiff, beige fabric. In six places, the covering was gouged open, jagged, and showing the empty places behind. There was nothing else to be seen except a small red box marked
ALARM—FIRE.
Reaching up with his bandaged left hand, Dave yanked open the fire alarm box and tugged down the lever. A harsh siren blared through the halls. It sounded like a buzzsaw on sheet metal, and made the fillings in Dave’s teeth ache.
Ransome raised his voice over the shriek. “No good, Mr. Elliot. We’ll just call it in as a false alarm.”
Dave shouted back, “Think about it, Ransome.”
“What do you … Ah! Very good, Mr. Elliot. You’ve stopped the elevators, haven’t you? The law requires they automatically return to the ground floor when an alarm goes off. That’s just outstanding, truly superlative.”
“Thank you.”
“Congratulations, you’ve bought yourself some time that I didn’t think you had. However, be assured that my people will use the stairs.”
Ransome seemed to go silent. No … not silent. Dave could make out his voice, smothered by the sound of the alarm. He probably was on the radio explaining the situation.
Uh-uh. No good. You don’t want him talking to his men, you want him talking to you
.
“Ransome!”
“Yes, Mr. Elliot.” As Ransome replied, the alarm shut off. The disappearance of the noise made Dave jump.
(You must not panic. You must not cringe.)
“Is Ransome really your name?”
“No.”
“How about John?”
“No.”
“Do you want to tell me what your name is?”
“No.”
“Mind if I keep calling you Ransome? Or would you prefer John?”
Ransome thought about it. “Ransome is better.”
“Okay, Ransome it is. Mr. Ransome, I’ve got a favor I’d like to ask.”
“Go ahead.”
“Tell me why you’re here. I mean, what’s this all about?”
“Sorry, no can do. All I can tell you is that it’s nothing personal. I hope you appreciate that.”
(You must think. Thinking is the only way out.)
Dave let a little bitterness creep into
his
voice. “Thanks a lot. So why can’t you tell me? What is it, don’t I have a need to know?”
“Something like that.”
He’s sniffing the bait. Now try a little whining
.
“All right, then. What are my options? Can’t we cut a deal or something?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Elliot. There is only one way to end this thing. The best I can offer is to make it easy for you. Reflect upon your military experience; you will understand what I mean.”
Dave bit his lip. What did this man know about his Army record? And how dare he bring it up?
“What are you talking about?”
Ransome’s voice warmed. The change in inflection was almost unnoticeable, but it was there. “Last night I read your old 201 file.”
Just last night? What the hell …?
Ransome continued, “It turns out that we went through the same school and the same classes, you and
me. Uncle Ho’s elite academy of elegant etiquette. You were an R.O.T.C. boy. Me, I was a 90 day wonder. Not that how we got there matters. What matters is that even though I was there ahead of you, we were in the same units, and the same places, and the same dire hell. We even reported to the same C.O.… ”
“Mamba Jack,” Dave blurted. This was bad, very bad.
“Yeah, Colonel Kreuter. I was on his team just like you were. And Jack only hired one kind of man—my kind of man, your kind of man. That kind of man.”
Dave forced himself to laugh. “Ransome, are you trying to tell me you think I’m some sort of hard case?”
“You know it, buddy. They don’t issue you a green beanie unless you are. You wore one. I wore one. We are who we are.”
Dave didn’t want to hear this. “Maybe. But I’ve been somebody else for a long time now.”
“I don’t think so. Once you’re one of us, you’re
always
one of us.” Ransome’s hill country voice was vibrant now, and he spoke with a warrior’s pride. “It’s like being a communist or being a Catholic. You can’t ever quit. Not really. Think about it—you still have all the moves; you’re still a pro. If you don’t believe me, just ask Carlucci.”
“I got lucky.”
“I think not.”
(Only logic and reason will preserve you.)
Dave raised the pitch of his voice, speaking faster and with calculated nervousness. “Okay, okay, what’s your point?”
“My point is very simple. You pulled an honorable tour of duty, at least until the end …”
Dave snapped, “Some people would say that was the only honorable part.”
“Yeah,” Ransome drawled, “but we both know what kind of people
they
are. But my point is that you wore the colors, did the tour, and served with the best.”
“So?”
“So, that buys you something in my book.”
Dave sent his voice higher. “What?” He sounded almost shrill.
“One favor. Only one. First, you toss me that little sissy peashooter of yours. Then you come out and assume the position. You remember the position, don’t you? On the knees, hands under the fanny. You put your head down, and I handle the rest. No muss, no fuss. That’s the best deal I can offer you, Mr. Elliot. Clean, quick, and painless. Otherwise—well, hell, buddy, we’re going to have us a messy morning here.”
“Jesus!” Dave made the word sound like a squeak of terror. He wanted to sound almost—but not quite—hysterical. “That’s your best offer? Jesus!”
“Think about it. It could be worse.”
(And what do logic and reason tell us, gentlemen?)
Dave sluffed off his suit coat and counted to fifty. “Uhh …,” he groaned.
“Come on, Mr. Elliot, be reasonable. Make it easy on yourself.”
“You can’t … I mean, we can’t … ahh, talk this over? If you’d just tell me what the problem is …”
Don’t lay it on too thick. Hell get suspicious
.
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Look, Mr. Elliot, way back when, you and I were in the same line of business. Remember how it used to be? Well, I’m sorry to say that’s the way it is now. So, come on, Mr. Elliot, we both know how these things work, the same as we both know there’s no other way. Face the facts, man: the longer you wait, the worse it’s going to get. Please, Mr. Elliot, I’m asking you—wouldn’t you rather make it easy on yourself?” Ransome’s voice was soft, sympathetic, encouraging.
(The only rational response is to render the enemy incapable of shooting at you.)
“Uhh … I mean … uh … But can’t we … uh …” Dave cocked his arm for a hard throw, and tossed his wadded-up jacket into the hall. A small hail of silent slugs shredded it to ribbons while it was still in the air.
Dave smiled, mentally tallying the number of times Ransome had fired. His inner voice, his guardian angel,
sneered in a Daffy Duck voice,
Of courth you realithe thith meanth war.…
He hadn’t hated war. Twenty-five years earlier he hadn’t hated it one little bit. Other men did. But not Dave Elliot. Dave Elliot rather enjoyed it—or at least he enjoyed it until he realized what it was turning him into.
He especially enjoyed it when his enemies were good. The better they were, the happier he was. There was something about knowing your opponents were hardened, smart professionals that made it … that made it …
… almost fun.
“Ransome, I consider that to be a pretty goddamned unfriendly gesture.”
“I understand your perspective, Mr. Elliot, but try to look at the situation from my point of view. I’m just trying to do my job here.” There was not the least hint of an apology in Ransome’s voice.
Come on, Ransome, do it. Please, Ransome, please. You know you have to do it.
Dave’s heart was thundering. He forced himself to take long, deep breaths, hyperventilating, keeping his adrenaline high, pumping himself up for what he was about to do. Get psyched, get psyched, get psyched! That was what Mamba Jack had always barked just before the lead began to fly. Get psyched!
Yeah!
“I thought we were supposed to be comrades-in-arms.”
“I want you to know that I was sincere about that, Mr. Elliot.”
Listen for it. Get ready
. The muscles in Dave’s legs tingled. His face burned red with anticipation. He obsessively rubbed his thumb rapidly back and forth against his index finger.
“You know I’m not going to believe another word you say.”
“I can respect that.”
Any second now. Any second …
The sound was very faint. Just a tiny click—the noise made, Dave prayed, by a magazine being ejected from a pistol butt.
That has to be it. If it isn’t, you’re about to die
.
He jerked down hard on the fire alarm lever, using it to pull himself to his feet. The siren squalled, filling the hallway with its grating shriek. Dave spun out of the nook, stretching his legs, pumping his elbows, running headlong as hard and as fast as he could, running as he ran every morning but running faster, running toward where, if the gods chose to smile on David Elliot, the man who called himself John Ransome crouched with a temporarily empty gun.
And the gods did smile. Ransome was stretched prone on the reception room floor, his head and shoulders angled into the hallway in a classic shooter’s sprawl. An empty clip lay under his chin. He was off balance, rolled sideways to reload. As Dave hurtled forward, he saw anger flit across Ransome’s face. The man knew that he had been suckered.
Well, thank you, Mr. Ransome. It was most kindly of you to lie down in that position—excellent for target practice, but a little lacking when it comes to mobility
.
Ransome snaked back, raising his arms defensively. Dave was five feet away. Ransome pulled into a crouch, started coming out of it.
It was going to be close. Too close. He’d have to use Bernie’s gun, and he didn’t want to do that unless he had to. And he’d have to unless …
The one thing, his instructors at Fort Bragg had told him, the one thing you never,
never
do in hand-to-hand combat is kick your opponent. Forget everything you’ve ever seen or heard or read about karate, judo, and kung-fu. Forget Batman and forget Bruce Lee on that
Green Hornet
TV show. That’s Hollywood stuff, not the real world. In
the real world, there are twenty different things your opponent can do to you if you’ve got a leg up in the air, and nineteen of them make you dead.
Never kick!
The drill sergeants had screamed it over and over again.
Never kick!