Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (74 page)

The leading elements of the 5th Battalion arrived shortly after.  Their truck convoy drove into the crash site from the same road where Ramos had first seen the white airplane.  Comandante Guzman arrived at the scene of the wreck to help coordinate the medevac of the less seriously injured. Ramos and Guzman stared at the crumpled fuselage in silence.  A short distance away, six pairs of boots stuck out from a covering shroud of green ponchos.

It could have been worse.  Even though the crash site stank of kerosene, at least Puma 2 had not exploded or burned on impact, so they were able to walk around its smashed fuselage and carefully examine it.  The Blackhawk had fallen from the sky while hovering over its intended landing zone.  It was now clear that it had not struck a tower, a wire, or a tree. The open space into which the helicopter had fallen was not large, but it was sufficient, with no obstacles near the radius of its spinning rotors.  

The reason for its crash was not long a mystery.  Even with Puma 2 lying on its side, even with its three segmented forward windshields buckled, cracked and partly hanging loose, the reason for its plummet was now plainly evident before the two Comandantes.  There were two bullet holes in what had been the right side windscreen, and one in the left.  Controlled by a dead hand, the Blackhawk had rolled over and then dropped thirty meters to the ground, impacting on its left side and pancaking.

After seeing the dead pilot’s head wound, they surmised that he had been killed almost instantly by a rifle bullet.  As experienced soldiers, they knew that head shots often resulted in spasmodic reflexive jerking of the limbs.  Puma 2’s pilot, shot through the top of his skull, had probably jerked his cyclic control stick and his foot pedals hard to the left, tumbling the craft to the ground.  The copilot in the left seat had apparently not been shot, and had survived the crash, but instead had bled to death while he was trapped and pinned inside of the twisted wreckage.  As always, the pilots were the weak spot of a helicopter, especially when hovering near the ground.  Instead of installing thick (and very heavy) bullet-resistant windscreens, the Blackhawks depended on the “spare” pilot for their safety from small arms fire.  Too close to the ground, with a steady hover presenting an inviting target, this insurance policy sometimes failed.

The two glum Comandantes did not chat or pass the time of day. Standing together in the space between the wreck and the trucks of the 5th Battalion, they took reports from junior officers and sergeants, and gave terse instructions.  The mangled green-black fuselage almost looked at home amidst the derelict mining equipment on the scraped hillside.

A 5th Battalion sergeant approached them both, his M-16 rifle slung over his back, carrying another very different rifle in front.  Today the 5th Battalion troops were wearing the same surplus woodland pattern camouflage BDU uniforms as the Falcons, but without ballistic body armor vests.  Unlike the Falcons, who were still wearing their kevlar helmets, these troops were wearing plain brown berets, without insignias.  The Sergeant saluted, and then held the strange rifle at port arms as he stood at attention before them.  He addressed Guzman.  “Comandante, we found this rifle in the forest, on the side of the road.”

Ramos quickly stepped toward the man, and took the rifle from him. It was the Dragunov. 
His
Dragunov.  “Thank you, sergeant.  We’ll need this for the investigation.”  

Guzman grunted and turned toward Ramos and the rifle, fingering a blue necktie that was improbably hanging from its barrel. He ran his hand down the silk, to where it appeared to have been neatly cut.  A second, more colorful silk tie was tied to the butt.  The sergeant had wrapped it around the rifle’s laminated wood stock, to keep it from dragging on the ground.  

Guzman said, “Well Comandante Ramos,
that’s
not something you see every day. A Russian Dragunov, with a pair of neckties for a sling— and cut in the middle.  Do you think this belonged to the sniper, the sniper who shot down your helicopter?”  

Basilio Ramos’s mind was spinning, trying to factor the angles presented by this unbelievable discovery.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps.  Perhaps it did.”  He was flushed, almost panicky, wanting desperately to leave with the rifle, to make it disappear, but there were too many eyes watching their little drama. 

With one hand Guzman put a strong grip on the rifle’s scope, and with the other, he reached under and extracted the box magazine.  Then he stripped out the remaining rounds, counting them while they dropped to the ground.  “Six unfired
cartuchos
. One still in the chamber makes seven. Plus three bullet holes in the windshields, two dead
pilotos
, and one crashed Blackhawk.  How do my numbers add up, Comandante Ramos?”

He was speechless.  His Falcons all knew that they had recovered a Dragunov rifle last week, from the South African who had ambushed them on the way back from the rifle range.  Jan Pieter…something? That was the man.  Of course he recognized his own neckties, and he wondered if anyone else did.  He had rarely worn them, he could not even remember the last occasion.

Nevertheless, he knew exactly what this discovery meant.  His fingerprints would be all over the rifle, which did not concern him so much, since he had a good reason to be touching it now. What concerned him were the other fingerprints that might be found on the rifle.  Worse, his men were sure to make a connection between last week’s Dragunov recovered from the South African, and this rifle.  It was too much of a coincidence for anyone simply to disregard.

Ramos knew exactly where this rifle had spent the last week, and he knew just who had cleaned out his safe and stolen it.  The fates were conspiring against him, there was no other explanation.  He responded weakly, “Yes, of course, this might be the rifle that killed the pilot.  We’ll take it for the inquest.”

Guzman handed him back the empty magazine, leaving the golden-colored cartridges on the ground.  “What are the odds, Comandante Ramos, of finding a Dragunov here? That’s a rather uncommon rifle, isn’t it?” His coal-black eyes had a burning intensity.  

Ramos attempted a nonchalant tone.  “Oh, you know the Americans—they’re crazy about their guns.  Until a few years ago, they were allowed to own almost any weapon they could pay for.”

“Yes, perhaps so…I’ve often heard that.  A strange national custom indeed—and very dangerous.  Well, anyway, I’m sorry for the loss of your men, and the aircrew.  My battalion will do anything that it can to help. Our humble trucks may not be as swift as your Blackhawks, but they are at your service.”  His comment dripped with sarcasm, with the two officers standing in front of the crumpled hulk of Puma 2.

“Thank you, Comandante Guzman.  The 5th Battalion’s support is always appreciated.”

“Just doing my duty, Comandante Ramos, as always.  We must all do our duty, must we not?”

“Yes, of course.”  Ramos turned to leave, but there was really nowhere to go.  He was now in the humiliating position of being forced to depend on the Peruvian’s pickup trucks, to take his men back to their own vehicles at the Vedado Ranch airstrip.  After the chain of disasters that had transpired in the last two hours, he was not about to call the Blackhawks, and request that they return to lift out the rest of Beta platoon.

***

The Cessna Centurion’s low fuel alarm
began flashing ten miles north of the Ripley airfield.  They were five miles from a routine landing when without warning the engine RPMs spun up, and the engine coughed, sputtered, choked and died.  After two hours of hearing the steady roar of the turbocharged motor, they were overcome by the silence that meant they were suddenly flying in a glider.  A new whistling noise could also be heard, the air rushing over and through the plane’s new collection of bullet holes, some seen, some unseen.

They had known that they were edging toward fuel starvation, and as a precaution Logan had been flying 800 feet above State Road 14.  The road was 6,200 feet above sea level, a low elevation for Cantrell County, near the Arizona border.  The county was larger than the state of Connecticut, with a population of less than five thousand, half of whom lived in or near the town of Ripley.  The two-lane paved road ran southwest down the center of a broad valley, between mountains that rose to above ten thousand feet on either side.  The road was clear of traffic, the engineless Cessna 210 was a passable glider, and Logan had no trouble putting down the gear and making a smooth landing.

He said, “This is one more reason why I like a high-wing plane,” as he nodded to the low barbed wire cattle fence about twenty feet to the right side of the road, and slightly down slope.  In fact, the fence was far enough from the plane’s wingtip not to matter, but the point was made.  He taxied a short distance to a dirt turnout area, obviously used for many years by trucks and other large vehicles to stop and turn around on the narrow road. The men opened their doors and climbed down, followed by Ranya, all of them eager to stretch their legs.  They walked around the plane, counting the bullet strikes.  There were three in the wings, and one in the fuselage above the luggage compartment.  The most serious was the one that had torn through the front of the right wing tank from above.

“So, who’s going for gas?” asked Ranya.

Alex replied to her query with a smile, “I’d hitchhike into town, but I think you’ll have better luck getting somebody to stop.”  They were all feeling rather chipper, having cheated death several times today.

“Yeah, well, I’d be happy to flag down a car with my Dragunov, but Logan cut it loose back at Vedado, and then
somebody
forgot to grab it.”

“Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” said the pilot.  “You were having a little trouble getting in the airplane with that rifle strapped to your back.”

“Kind of like the Three Stooges,” added Alex, stretching out his arms and flexing, while bouncing on his toes.

Logan walked down the dusty slope to where tall weeds grew against the wire stock fence, and answered the call of nature with his back to them.

She asked Alex, “Are you sure there’s no Milicia around here?”

“Pretty sure.  This is cowboy country.  I think we’re safe.”

“So who’s walking, you or Logan?”

“You mean to get gas?”

“That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

Logan returned and the three of them stood in the shade beneath the high wing, discussing what they knew about Ripley, which wasn’t much. The airfield was two miles south of town, on the other side.  While they were talking, a car appeared over a low rise, approaching from the direction of town, but it stopped in the middle of the road a half mile away. While the three of them watched in silence, it paused for a long minute on the crest of the hill, and then it backed up, and disappeared.

Alex said, “It shouldn’t be long now.”

“What shouldn’t be long?” asked Ranya.

“The welcome wagon.”

***

Ten minutes later, a Jeep and two pickup trucks
climbed into sight where the earlier car had paused.  They stopped along the side of the road, and about a dozen men climbed out, all of them carrying long arms.  The men broke into three groups, one squad on each side of the road, and one remaining behind the Jeep.  The flankers spread out in the brush on either side of the road in lines abreast, skirmish lines to allow them to direct all of their weapons toward the unknown threat to their front.  These two groups moved forward in alternating bounds, until they were both only two hundred yards from the plane on each side of the road, then they sank down behind brush.  After these men disappeared from view, the Jeep began to edge forward down the road at a walking pace, shielding the third group of men. No driver was visible in the Jeep.

“Well, I’m impressed,” said Alex.

“Yeah, it sure looks like they’ve done this before,” noted Ranya. “Now what?”

“Just stay cool, and go with the flow.”

When the Jeep was also 200 yards away, it stopped and a man with a bullhorn hollered in English, “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Logan said quietly, “Well, at least they’re speaking English.  That’s a good sign.”

Alex quipped, “I don’t suppose I should say we’re federal agents?” Finally, he yelled down the road, “We’re refugees! We ran out of gas!”

“Refugees?” whispered Ranya, rolling her eyes.  “Refugees?”

“You have a better idea?” he whispered back.

The spokesman for the squad walking behind the jeep called back, “We’re coming down to you.  Step out into the sunshine, and keep your hands visible.”

Whoever was driving the Jeep was crouching too low to be seen.  The Jeep stopped a hundred feet from the plane, in the middle of the road.  The four men went past it and continued walking forward, also in a skirmish line spread across the road.  Their rifles were shouldered, but pointed down toward the asphalt at an angle.  They were all dressed somewhat differently, but all of them wore various types of body armor and combat vests.  All of them had on identical tan ball caps, which said DEPUTY in black letters across the front.

They finally stopped when they were only twenty feet away.  Alex, Ranya and Logan stood perfectly still, facing the four riflemen.  Two of the men carried either military M-16s or civilian AR-15s, it was impossible to determine which.  One carried a black FN-FAL, a Belgian-designed 7.62mm battle rifle

The leader of the four was a hearty-looking late-middle-aged man with a closely trimmed gray beard. He was carrying an M-1 Garand, a World War Two era battle rifle recognizable by its lack of an external box magazine.  It had been his voice on the loudspeaker.  “You just said you were ‘refugees.’  You mind explaining that?”  The four men appeared to be Anglos, but with all of them wearing caps and sunglasses, this could not be known with any certainty.