The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) Page 8
* * *
Matt stood up in the darkness and removed her Ghilie suit. She stripped down to shorts and top and New Balance running shoes. She left her weapons, carrying only a light target pistol as she began jogging in the opposite direction. She ran for about twenty minutes until she came to the BMX Honda 350 off road motorcycle concealed in an arroyo. She started the bike and headed toward the rendezvous point.
* * *
Richard Daniels saw the glow that was the remains of the still burning Hummer, in his rear view mirror. A few miles further up the road, a set of headlights appeared behind them and flashed the predetermined code.
Rollie bringing up the rear—it all should go well now. But Daniels felt a tug, a pull that he recognized as the disquieting specter of his edge. He couldn't put it into words, or figure it out exactly, but something wasn't right.
Chapter 16
They drove to the North Road and the dump. Splitting up into two groups, Daniels, Carlos and Rollie drove two vehicles, the Durango and the Land Rover. Rhineman, Oscar and LeCount used the Jeep Wagonneer to rendezvous North with Matt Kelly. From there they would pick up the Vietnam Era vintage Huey helicopter that had been converted to civilian use and rented by Rollie and Matt, supposedly for a tourist sightseeing business. Daniels, Carlos and Rollie would head south to a high elevation overlooking the compound to keep it under observation while they extracted. They would be picked up by the Huey for the flight back to Tampico where Daniels seaplane awaited to return them to the US.
They laid Oscar down in the back of the Wagoneer as Rhineman drove. The road turned into a dusty trail leading to the backcountry, a series of arroyos, canyons and plains, arid, uninhabited land. Two hours later they arrived at an outcropping of rocks. A camouflage net had been strung between boulders and covered the thirty years old, HU-1, Huey helicopter. The net was strung with clay and vegetation, invisible until you were right on top of it.
Rhineman removed the camouflage net. The Huey was painted a touristy red and yellow. The paint was dull and cracked in spots, revealing the original military Olive Drab underneath.
Pinpoints of light danced in the night as Matt approached on the BMX, the engine whining like a chainsaw. She stopped by the lantern they'd set up near where Oscar lay. Rhineman stepped up and gave her a high five.
"Nice shooting. You learn that in the Corp?"
"No, the Godamned Girl Scouts," she grinned and walked to Oscar.
She kneeled and looked him over, pulling back the makeshift bandage they had applied to his leg.
"Christ, don't any of you geniuses know any first aid?"
She pulled the first aid kit out of the Wagoneer and started working on Oscar. She injected him with antibiotic and administered a sedative then cleaned the wound best as she could and applied a local anesthetic. Finally she bound the leg in a straight position and immobilized it with a plastic and Velcro cast. Oscar was asleep when they loaded him in the helicopter, secured in a corner of the wide passenger compartment. With Matt at the controls, they took off exactly twenty minutes before dawn.
* * *
Richard Daniels led the way in the Durango, Rollie followed in the Land Rover. They drove at high speed in total darkness using infrared lights secured to the roofs of the vehicle. Daniels and Rollie wore night goggles with attached power packs and radios. They looked like alien bugs with mechanical heads. Anyone looking their way would only see the total darkness of a cloudy night. Through the goggles, the landscape was a brilliant shade of light green, every detail outlined and clear. To Carlos in the passenger seat of the Durango, it seemed as if the vehicle was pitching along full speed in total darkness.
"Hey, pandejo, slow down man, you going too fast. You sure you can see with that shit on your head. I ain't like, suicidal, you know."
Daniels grinned under the infrared helmet.
"I can see a little bit. Just don't shit in your pants or I'm going to have to throw your nasty Mexican ass out of here."
Carlos closed his eyes and went back to his prayers. This terror filled high speed ride in the dark was not quite as bad as that moment when it appeared they were caught between the guard posts and Hector Durand and his men. Not quite as bad, but a close second.
They reached the extraction zone one hour later. The area had been perfectly chosen. It was the highest spot of a low plateau that overlooked the flat area where the Durand compound was located. They could see it in a blaze of lights, miles below them.
Daniels observed the compound for long moments with powerful Zweig binoculars. The wreckage of the vehicle destroyed by Matt's rocket smoldered, blocking the road. It would be most of the day before the wreck would cool sufficiently to allow removal. Daniels peered through the binoculars but saw little activity. He handed the glasses to Rollie.
"Doesn't look like they're doing much of anything," said Daniels.
"Probably still in shock."
Carlos took his turn looking through the glasses.
"You just about cut their balls off. El Toro, Rat, Aquilino, Hector Durand, those were the big guns. They're all dead now, Diego can't cut it by himself. Somebody strong going to have to step in, but right now, you gotta pick up my family, my mother and sister. That was part of the deal."
"I don't renege," said Daniels, "The chopper picks us up at first light, we land behind the Cantina and you got five minutes to get them on board. Leave everything behind. That was the deal. Nothing changed."
Carlos would have been at a loss to explain why he trusted the big American. Maybe it was because Rosa accepted him immediately. His sister seemed to have an instinct, a subconscious window into people's characters. Or maybe it was just the way the American carried himself with swift and sure confidence. Whatever it was, Carlos felt secure that Daniels would come through.
It was right on time, first light, when Daniels heard the whomp-whomp of the heavy helicopter blades beating the early morning still air. He raised the binoculars and spotted the Huey, just an approaching dot over the horizon. He scanned the surrounding canyons and hills. Suddenly he spotted some movement by a shallow natural ditch. Two coyotes trotting for an early morning hunt.
He was about to put the binocular down when the shape caught his attention. He focused on it. The early morning had gotten bright enough that he could just make it out. It looked familiar, yet out of place. His mind struggled, trying to make sense when the shape moved ever so slightly, revealing the man beneath it. Now he knew exactly what it was. He flung the binoculars on the hood of the Durango and ran to the Wagoneer parked a few feet away.
"Hell's going on?" said Rollie, awakening and grabbing the M-16 he'd slept with.
Daniels didn't reply. He yanked open the rear door of the Wagoneer and pulled out the Winchester 30-30 case. In seconds he assembled the rifle, installed the scope and loaded a magazine of Magnum high velocity rounds. He ran back to the Durango and got into a shooting stance using the hood of the truck. Elbow locked, holding the forward part of the rifle, the rest of his body leaning against the truck, steady as the surrounding boulders, Richard Daniels sighted into the scope.
There it was, no mistaking it: The heavy black circular rectangle resting on the man's shoulder with scope atop and the long barrel extruding. Daniels estimated the range at about 300 yards. Damn, he could use a laser range finder and a real sniper rifle. The Winchester had the range with the Magnum loads, but it was never meant for this kind of accurate shot. Still, he could put enough fire in that little gully to keep the man's head down, prevent him from shooting.
"What's happening pandejo, what you see?" said Carlos, squinting down where Daniels was aiming the Winchester.
Daniels didn't reply.
* * *
Matt held the Huey steady in spite of the vibrations. The old machine had not been very well maintained. Something was out of balance causing the frame to vibrate and there was a steady burning smell where oil probably leaked somewhere onto a heated surface, at least she hoped it was noth
ing worse. She'd done several checks and test flight of the Huey and in spite of the problems she knew the machine would get them where they had to go. These old Hueys were practically indestructible. All the gauge readings were as they should be. Matt was more worried about getting Oscar to decent medical assistance in the States. She knew the leg was infected and he had suffered heavy blood loss.
Far off she could see Daniel and Rollie's vehicles, tiny as little bugs on the sloped hillside. She maintained the course heading as she began to drop altitude.
* * *
Daniels elevated the crosshair to compensate for the distance. He would rather have the shot go a little high so it would hit the gully wall above the man's head—long as he could stop the man from raising his head and firing the weapon. Daniels mind raced with the implications. How could they know to be exactly in that place at that time? He brought his breathing to a calm state and began slowly squeezing the trigger.
* * *
In the gully three hundred yards from Daniels and at a slightly lower elevation, the man had the weapon mounted on his shoulder and the scope aimed at the approaching helicopter. The Huey would fly just a few yards to his left. The man powered the heat seeking device as the weapon's computer chips started scanning for a heat source.
* * *
Daniels had not yet pulled the trigger when the world exploded. He felt a tremendous crash against the side of his head. The Winchester flew out of his hands. He slammed against the windshield post of the Durango and slid down the side of the truck. Blood poured onto his left eye while his head dropped into the sandy soil. He tasted grit, dirt and blood in his mouth. He tried to stand but his knees gave way and he slid down again. His breath come in ragged pulls, bright spots danced in front of his eyes and a throbbing pain in the left side of his head seemed to overwhelm his thoughts.
* * *
In the gully the man heard the buzzing noise that told him the Stinger, shoulder mounted portable ground-to-air missile, had acquired its target. He pulled the trigger and the missile shot out of the launching tube.
* * *
Matt knew this was always the most vulnerable time, when you were extracting a team and you had to go in low, exposed to ambushes and ground fire. She'd been looking hard, seeking anything out of place, Rhineman crouched in the co-pilot seat, scanning the ground nervously. He was never happy in the air, he felt helpless, at the mercy of whatever was on the ground and whoever was piloting the machine.
Matt saw it and immediately knew what it was. The flash of the rocket leaving the tube and the plume of smoke following it was unmistakable. She knew in an instant it was hopeless. They were too low and too close to the launch site for any effective evasive actions. Still she tried. She put the Huey in a hard ninety degree turn and dove toward the ground at the same time, hoping the missile's tracking system would lose the Huey in the ground clutter.
The missile's microchip brain had locked on the infrared heat signature of the slow moving Huey. Accelerating toward supersonic speed, the Stinger turned with the helicopter and struck the Huey at the engine nacelle, just below the rotor shaft. The explosion severed the shaft and sent superheated gas and ignited fuel into the passenger compartment. A split second later the rotor blade, now loose, uncontrolled but still spinning at a high rate of speed, crashed through the body of the helicopter with devastating results.
Matt felt the tremendous impact in every molecule of her body. She turned her head and in that final split second saw Oscar's form lashed to the bunk. Her last feelings were sorrow. She wouldn't bring him back, wouldn't bring any of them back. Fiery pain flashed through her body, mercifully extinguished as her consciousness evaporated. Kurt Rhineman opened his mouth but there was no time, no thought, as the helicopter disintegrated and the explosion consumed his body. James LeCount turned away from the explosion as if that involuntary move could somehow save him. In his last moment he saw the brown and gold earth below and his last thought was Mexico, I'm going to die in fucking Mexico.
Matilda Kelly, Kurt Rhineman, Oscar Velez and James LeCount died instantly, painlessly. The violent fireball consumed their bodies faster than their nerves could bring the sensations to their brains.
The wreckage of the helicopter fell four hundred feet to earth where the remaining fuel ignited in a second fireball. Black greasy smoke rose in the still morning air as the first sliver of the sun peeked over the horizon.
* * *
Richard Daniels shook his head, trying to clear the throbbing pain. Bitter acrid smoke wafted in the morning air. Someone was wiping his eye and left side of his head with a wet cloth. Everything was blurred and hazy and he tasted a sour metallic film in his mouth. He grasped the side of the Durango and stood on wobbly legs. Carlos put down the wet bloody rag and held him up under his left arm. Daniels turned toward the flames and the column of smoke rising in a tick pillar, laden with the burning particles of fuel, other combustible materials, and the bodies of four human beings.
Christ what could have happened, thought Daniels. One minute he was lining up a shot on the guy with the Stinger, the next minute a freight train hits him on the side of the head. And where did that Stinger come from, how did he know to be exactly in that place, at that time, with that weapon? He focused on Carlos, the brown eyes wet and glinting with bewilderment. The Mexican nodded toward Daniels' left side.
Rollie leaned against the Land Rover, casually cradling an M-16. A wicked grin split his face as he patted the stock of the automatic weapon.
"Old vertical butt strike worked wonder on your head, didn't it?" said Rollie.
Some understanding came into Daniels' face. He brushed away Carlos' restraining hand and advanced toward Rollie. He clenched his fists and opened them spasmodically, and Rollie shifted the M-16, pointed it toward the ground in front of Daniels and fired a four round burst. The 7.62MM rounds kicked up dust and clay a foot in front of Daniels' legs.
"You bastard, you fucking murdering swine. Why Rollie? How much they did pay you?"
"You wouldn't understand Daniels. You always had that straightforward fantasyland view of the world. Only thing is, it don't work like that most of the time. It had to be done, there was no other way."
"Wrong, you murdering prick. They were our team. They trusted us, trusted their lives to us like we trusted ours to them. That's how combat teams work. You of all people know that. You murdered them."
Daniels took another step forward, his face contorted. Feelings of rage and despair for his dead team members coursed through him like a black primordial wave as he stood, held in check by Rollie's weapon.
"Godamn buddy," said Rollie, "you should be showing a little more gratitude. I could have just wasted you. Just capped you all neat like while you were aiming down on the Stinger. In fact, that's what I was supposed to do. I held back, saved your ass. Rollie always pays his debts. That makes us even for that time in the Kandahar. Next time you'll be just another target."
Daniels closed his eyes for an instant. Be calm, he told himself, no sense letting him blow you away cause you're too stupid to bide your time. He stared steadily at Rollie, didn't move a muscle. I'll track you down, he thought, somewhere somehow, they'll be a reckoning for what happened here Rollie, you murdering bastard, it will be a most righteous reckoning and I will be the by-God instrument of it. He stood very still as the thoughts raged in his head. He knew Rollie's skills with the M-16. Any move would be suicidal.
Certain things became clear to Daniels, things that had nagged him with questioning twinges of doubt. He had suppressed those doubts, accepting explanations simply because he knew and trusted his team members and contacts. The way the whole plan had been micromanaged, most of the training done sureptiously in the Everglades instead of at Langley. When they did get to Langley, they were hustled through in three days, almost like they were snuck in. Then there was the splitting up for extraction—he hadn't liked that part of the plan, it didn't made sense. In the end he'd accepted it because they supposed
ly had more information than he had. Now Daniels saw with implacable clarity that except for Rollie, none of them were meant to survive after they took out the Durands.
Chapter 17
"Sit," Rollie told Daniels. "Cross legged, both of you. Daniels if you so much as sneeze I'll waste your little wetback friend first. If you don't piss me off you can at least get him out alive."
Daniels and Carlos did as instructed, sitting cross-legged in front of the Durango. Rollie swung the M-16 toward the front of the truck and fired a four second burst that shredded both front tires. He traversed the weapon toward the rear and fired two more bursts. The rear tires of the Durango blew out and the odor of spilling gasoline filled the air as the steel jacketed slugs tore out large holes in the bottom of the fuel tank. Rollie climbed in the Land Rover as he kept the weapon trained on Daniels. He started the vehicle and took off down the narrow dirt path. Daniels jumped up and tore open the door of the Durango, eyes wildly searching the interior.
"Don't bother looking Amigo," said Carlos, "He took all the weapons while you were knocked out."
The only thing left in the disabled truck was a jug of water. Carlos tore a strip from his shirt, moistened it and made a bandage that he wrapped around Daniels' head. They started on foot toward the road leading to Zacotacas.
"What we gonna do now, eh?" asked Carlos as they walked. "We can't just stroll in like nothing happened. We took out half their crew. They gonna be some mighty pissed off Hombres."
"You got a better suggestion maybe. Should we just flag a taxi, pick up your family and have him take us to Tampico Harbor?"
"Yeah, I got a better idea," said Carlos. "You may be the big honcho warrior, Bruce Lee and all that shit, but you're in Mexico now and you don't know nothing except enough Spanish to get you by. Well it ain't nearly enough Amigo, we're going to need a lot more to get out of this. Like my cousin, to start with."