been ransacked, papers spilled, a small mound of the documents spread across the top, covering something. But not completely.
“Tripwire,” I said.
Schiavo leaned her head to look over the papers and saw a thin blue cord beneath. It ran along the far edge of the desk and dove down to the opposite, unseen side. From there it disappeared from my view, but I suspected that it was running under another mass of strategically placed papers on the floor.
Right where Schiavo would have taken her next, and possibly last, step.
“Just don’t move,” I said.
I shifted to the right and looked to the side of the desk where it nearly butted up against the wall. There was a space there between the piece of furniture and the drywall. Not much. About as wide as my fist. Just large enough to conceal the three grenades duct taped to the hidden side of the desk.
“Grenades,” I said.
“You’ve gotta guide me,” Schiavo said.
“Give me a minute.”
I looked closely, taking out my flashlight to examine the improvised trap. The pins on each grenade were connected to the blue line with an elaborate series of knots, the string already taut. Any further pressure on it, such as Schiavo stepping on the concealed trigger wire, would cause the pins to be pulled. With the safety lever not depressed, a detonation would be imminent. Would we have noticed the sound? And if we had, would we have recognized it in time to avoid being blown to pieces in the confined space?
“Take one step back, on the carpet only,” I directed the lieutenant.
She followed my instructions. A couple more steps had her fully in the clear. She joined me in examining the grenades.
“Those are ours,” she said. “M Sixty Seven frags.”
Her knowledge on the subject was greater than mine by far. I knew only that the small green globes were fragmentation grenades, potentially lethal out to nearly fifty feet. Where we stood they would have shredded us to bits.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“I don’t have a demo guy,” she said. “So we leave it.”
I didn’t full agree. I’d disarmed traps that major Layton’s people had set around my refuge in Montana. But that had been TNT. Cutting simple wired fuses was different than making safe a tensioned tripwire. That much I was certain of.
“Let’s back out and do visuals from the sidewalk from now on,” Schiavo said.
A few minutes later we were outside in the rain. We briefed Neil and Elaine on what we’d found. An hour later, simply peering through still intact windows and broken front entrance doors, we’d identified five more booby traps inside differing establishments. All set the same. Three grenades connected to a tensioned tripwire. We marked each on our map and started back to the Coast Guard Station.
“I wish we had com,” Schiavo said.
I knew why she was expressing that particular concern. Up the road, in the north of the town, her sergeant and his team could very well be facing the same improvised traps we’d come across. Having a regularly working radio would allow her to inform him of the hazards we’d encountered. Before his team did with possibly tragic results.
“Your sergeant seems sharp,” I said. “He’ll spot anything not right.”
“I didn’t,” Schiavo said.
The rain began to pound, drenching us and the town as we left it behind.
* * *
S ergeant Lorenzen made it back to the station with Westin and Enderson an hour after we’d returned. He reported that they’d found no sign of the garrison, and, after hearing what we’d come across, that no traps had impeded their search.
“Who would lay traps with our own gear?” Enderson wondered.
“The garrison,” Westin said. “They got spooked, boogied out of here, and rigged the town.”
“Then they up and vanish?” Enderson challenged him, shaking his head. “I don’t buy that.”
“They are not here,” Westin said. “But some of their munitions are in town. Add it up.”
Westin left the
“Tripwire,” I said.
Schiavo leaned her head to look over the papers and saw a thin blue cord beneath. It ran along the far edge of the desk and dove down to the opposite, unseen side. From there it disappeared from my view, but I suspected that it was running under another mass of strategically placed papers on the floor.
Right where Schiavo would have taken her next, and possibly last, step.
“Just don’t move,” I said.
I shifted to the right and looked to the side of the desk where it nearly butted up against the wall. There was a space there between the piece of furniture and the drywall. Not much. About as wide as my fist. Just large enough to conceal the three grenades duct taped to the hidden side of the desk.
“Grenades,” I said.
“You’ve gotta guide me,” Schiavo said.
“Give me a minute.”
I looked closely, taking out my flashlight to examine the improvised trap. The pins on each grenade were connected to the blue line with an elaborate series of knots, the string already taut. Any further pressure on it, such as Schiavo stepping on the concealed trigger wire, would cause the pins to be pulled. With the safety lever not depressed, a detonation would be imminent. Would we have noticed the sound? And if we had, would we have recognized it in time to avoid being blown to pieces in the confined space?
“Take one step back, on the carpet only,” I directed the lieutenant.
She followed my instructions. A couple more steps had her fully in the clear. She joined me in examining the grenades.
“Those are ours,” she said. “M Sixty Seven frags.”
Her knowledge on the subject was greater than mine by far. I knew only that the small green globes were fragmentation grenades, potentially lethal out to nearly fifty feet. Where we stood they would have shredded us to bits.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“I don’t have a demo guy,” she said. “So we leave it.”
I didn’t full agree. I’d disarmed traps that major Layton’s people had set around my refuge in Montana. But that had been TNT. Cutting simple wired fuses was different than making safe a tensioned tripwire. That much I was certain of.
“Let’s back out and do visuals from the sidewalk from now on,” Schiavo said.
A few minutes later we were outside in the rain. We briefed Neil and Elaine on what we’d found. An hour later, simply peering through still intact windows and broken front entrance doors, we’d identified five more booby traps inside differing establishments. All set the same. Three grenades connected to a tensioned tripwire. We marked each on our map and started back to the Coast Guard Station.
“I wish we had com,” Schiavo said.
I knew why she was expressing that particular concern. Up the road, in the north of the town, her sergeant and his team could very well be facing the same improvised traps we’d come across. Having a regularly working radio would allow her to inform him of the hazards we’d encountered. Before his team did with possibly tragic results.
“Your sergeant seems sharp,” I said. “He’ll spot anything not right.”
“I didn’t,” Schiavo said.
The rain began to pound, drenching us and the town as we left it behind.
* * *
S ergeant Lorenzen made it back to the station with Westin and Enderson an hour after we’d returned. He reported that they’d found no sign of the garrison, and, after hearing what we’d come across, that no traps had impeded their search.
“Who would lay traps with our own gear?” Enderson wondered.
“The garrison,” Westin said. “They got spooked, boogied out of here, and rigged the town.”
“Then they up and vanish?” Enderson challenged him, shaking his head. “I don’t buy that.”
“They are not here,” Westin said. “But some of their munitions are in town. Add it up.”
Westin left the
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