It just doesn’t add up, Sargent thought. We chase these sons of bitches all over the mountains for five days, and according to the Mexes, they never stay in one place for more than three hours at a time; they’ve gotta know we’re hunting them. Now they sit here for at least ten hours like sitting ducks, for no reason at all. It’s got to be some kind of setup. What else can it be?
Mentally, Sargent reviewed his own deployment, searching for holes. The three of them commanded this ridge; there was no higher ground behind them. The trucks were parked down in the next valley where they couldn’t be spotted, and Pulaski and Coleman were up in trees above them, just in case. Smitty’s squad, up on the far ridge, had an M-60 mached; the crossfire would be murderous; they were goddamn sitting ducks.
But why are they being so bloody stupid?
Bellows crawled up beside him, careful to stay out of sight. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “Man, you’re not going to radio for reinforcements! You thinking of calling in gunships, maybe? A couple Phantom strikes? We’re not still in the Nam, Chris.”
“I don’t like it,” Sargent said. “It’s too obvious a setup. They’re down there waiting for us. Daring us to come in.”
“Hell, those dumb bastards don’t even know we’re here. Rademacher and me can lob half a dozen bazooka rounds into ‘em before they even spot us, and we got a crossfire set up that’ll get ‘em all before they know what’s coming off. Blow the trucks, and there’s no real cover down there at all. Jesus, Chris, what’s the matter with you?”
McCracken came up to join them, handed Sargent his flask. Sargent took a sip of bourbon, passed the flask to Bellows.
“Rather have a joint,” Bellows muttered.
“Maybe you’d rather have those guineas see the smoke and blow your fool head off,” Sargent said. “What do you think, Bart?” McCracken stared down into the valley, sucked at a tooth. “Can’t say I like it. I mean, anyone actin’ as dumb as those fellas must be plannin’ something smart. Must be more of ‘em somewheres waitin’ for us to go in.”
“We’ve scouted out the whole area,” Bellows said. “Those guys are thugs, not pros like us, there can’t be any more of them hiding up here. What you see is what you get. I say let’s go get ‘em.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t sit up here forever,” Sargent said. “Only about three hours of decent light left.” But we might as well play it as safe as we can, he thought. If they
are
up to something, maybe we can trick them into a premature commit.
“Okay, Frank, get the radio.”
Bellows grinned, took a deep hit off the flask, crawled over to his rock, came back with the radio and his bazooka. “Get me those shells, will you, McCracken?” he said. McCracken nodded and crawled back to the crate of bazooka ammo.
“Get me Smitty, and tell him to stand by.”
Bellows nodded. “Duck, this is the Colonel. Rog. Stand by.” Sargent waited until McCracken had returned with the bazooka ammo and two M-16’s. Then he got on the radio. “I want you to send the machine gun and one rifleman about fifty yards downslope and about seventy yards to your right. When they’re positioned, they’re to open up. But I want you to hold your fire and not give away your position until the return fire starts. I want to make sure we really know where they all are before they know where we all are, got it?”
“Rog.”
“Out.”
“Fancy, fancy,” Bellows said, loading the bazooka and aiming it downslope.
Sargent peered across the valley at the opposite ridge, where Smitty’s squad was stationed. He could see a little foliage rustling, but nothing more. If you didn’t know where to look, you wouldn’t see anything; the cover was fairly thick and the boys knew how to move through it without making waves. Down in the valley, the organization boys were still goofing around like jerks, playing cards and taking siestas. Christ, what a stupid, lax outfit! Boy, if I was running their show, would I have those guys’ asses! Unless this really
is
some kind of set-up....
On the opposing slope, Sargent could just make out motion in the brush at the spot he had chosen for the decoy firing position. He grabbed up his M-16, pointed it downslope, flipped it to rapid fire.
Bellows had been aiming the bazooka at the trucks for minutes now; McCracken came to alert, ready to feed him.
“Okay, now this is it. Don’t get trigger-happy. Wait for me to fire.”
A long, silent pause—
A bright muzzle flash! Then another! A long chuddering roar and a pop-pop-pop-pop crackling! Two streams of bullets zipped downslope at the trucks and men below.
Peones
screamed and shouted and dove inside the hootches. Bullets tore into the cabs of two of the trucks, and the guards bellied under the truck beds. Two cardplayers clutched at their legs and crawled toward the brush. Men ran every which way, it was like a Chinese fire drill....
But no answering fire! What the—
Crouching behind one of the trucks, a big guy in black pants and a blue Levi jacket was waving a white undershirt tied to the top of his rifle.
“What do you know,” McCracken shouted, “They’re surrendering.”
“It’s a trick!” Bellows yelled. “Let’s get ‘em before they get to better cover.” He leaned forward, sighted the bazooka—
Sargent slammed the barrel of the bazooka with the side of his hand, knocking it out of line. “Hold your damn fire,” he shouted. “Let’s call ‘em on it!” He got up to a half-crouch; there was still no fire from the men below. He waved his M-16 over his head three times. The M-60 chuddered a few more times and was quiet. The rifleman fired another short burst, and he too stopped shooting. Sargent dove back onto his belly.
Still no return fire. What the hell is going on?
Down below, the guy in the Levi jacket was still waving his white flag. All the other organization soldiers were either behind the hootches or under the trucks, except for three of them who were sprawled on the ground in the open.
“Goddamn it,” Bellows snarled, “now they’ve got cover!”
“Which we can blow away easy enough with the bazookas,” Sargent said. “Let’s see what’s really going on before we give away all our positions. McCracken, get on the radio and make sure Smitty’s men hold their fire.”
Still bellied down in the underbrush, Sargent made a megaphone with his hands and shouted through it at the top of his lungs: “THROW DOWN YOUR GUNS! THROW YOUR WEAPONS OUT WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS! THROW YOUR WEAPONS OUT WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
He could hear some shouts and arguments below, then, amazingly, rifles and automatic weapons started to skitter out from under the trucks, from behind the hootches, from the margin of the brush. Jesus, these guys aren’t kidding. They’re really surrendering!
“It’s a trick,” Bellows muttered.
“Some trick,” Sargent said. But Bellows was right about not taking any chances. Let’s just see how far this goes. “STEP OUT OF COVER AND LINE UP IN FRONT OF THE TRUCKS WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!” he shouted, still not showing himself.
More arguments below, and then, one by one, men began to crawl out from under the trucks, from behind the hootches, from the edge of the brush, and in a couple of minutes, seventeen of them were lined up in front of the trucks behind the guy with the white flag. With the three wounded still on the ground, that was twenty-one, and that was all of them.
“YOU WITH THE FLAG, THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPON!”
The rifle with the undershirt tied to it was tossed ten feet away.
Now Sargent finally stood up and showed himself. I don’t understand this, he thought. I don’t understand this at all. He took a deep breath. Well. There’s nothing to do but go down there and find out.
“McCracken, you come down there with me. Bellows, you know what to do if anything funny happens. Just don’t get trigger-happy, or I’ll have your ass.”
“If they don’t have yours.”
With McCracken trailing him by five steps, Sargent crashed his way through the undergrowth and down the hillside. It took under five minutes to reach the men standing in front of the trucks with their hands clasped on their heads. They were a pretty anonymous-looking crew—mostly in their mid-thirties, with short hair, and tough blank faces, dressed in plain jeans or fatigues, no touches of personal color, no insignias, and five’ll get you ten not a scrap of identification in a truckload.
Sargent stopped in front of the man who had waved the white flag. He seemed a little older than the others, with slick, graying black hair, and a little mustache. He looked more angry than afraid.
Sargent pointed his M-16 at the head honcho’s gut. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “You’re covered from all sides.”
“What’s the matter with you?” the man with the mustache said. “Why the hell did you open fire?”
“Why did we open fire? You rip off half the pot harvest in our territory, and you ask me why we open fire?”
“We were waiting for the rendezvous and you sons of bitches started shooting.”
“Rendezvous? With who? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You mean you haven’t been in touch with Beck for the past forty-eight hours?”
“With Beck? You think he does all my thinking for me? Why should I have been in touch with Jango Beck?”
The man with the mustache shook his head. “J
ee-zus,
what a screwup!” he said. “Look, Sargent, it’s over. Finished. Done.”
What the hell is this monkey babbling about? Sargent toyed conspicuously with his safety. “You better start talking straight,” he said, “or I’ll start shooting straight, pal.”
The organization honcho seemed to be having a hard time controlling his temper. But the M-16 aimed at his belly was providing him with the necessary motivation. “We’ve made peace with Beck,” he said. “I got orders to rendezvous here with you and hand over the marijuana.”
“What?”
“You’ve got your pot trade back. We’re not going to interfere. We live and let live on the coke. Orders from the top.”
“What’s this all about?”
The man with the mustache shrugged. “Now you know what I know,” he said.
“If this is some kind of dumb trick....”
“Check it out.”
“McCracken, go back up the hill, get on the radio to Browder, have him use the big job in the truck to check with the boat base, and see if we got any messages from Jango in the past two days. Then get your ass back here
muy pronto
.”
McCracken nodded, and started trotting up the hill. “That’s gonna take time, Sargent,” the man with the mustache said. “Can we put our hands down?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Sargent said absently. “Put your hands down, sit your asses down, take care of your wounded. Smoke if you like. Just don’t try anything stupid.”
“I told you, it’s over.”
“Yeah, sure, it’s over,” Sargent muttered. He took out a joint, puffed on it diffidently, waiting for McCracken to return. The sun beat down. The organization soldiers relaxed, lit up cigarettes, passed a bottle, bandaged up the three wounded men. Sargent smoked half the joint and began to feel a little high. Nobody tried anything. After a few minutes, he could see Smitty’s squad, up on the next hill, stand up and stretch their legs. If this is a trick, he thought, I don’t see what it’s supposed to accomplish. But if it’s not, how in the world did Jango manage to get this war called off on
our
terms? Whoever heard of the organization knuckling under so easy?
About ten minutes later McCracken came scrambling down the hill with a dumb look on his face.
“It’s true,” he said. “There was a message to rendezvous here and pick up the pot. And another for you to meet Jango himself at Jet Warren’s house eight days from now.”
“Son of a bitch!” Sargent exclaimed. “Son of a bitch....” Man, I just don’t understand it! How on earth did Jango get them to make a one eighty? He took a drag on the joint. “Hey, you,” he called to the head honcho, “you have any idea why your bosses knuckled under to Jango Beck?”
The man with the mustache scowled at him. “Believe me,” he said, “it makes less sense to me than it does to you.”
Sargent laughed. “Yeah, I can see how it might,” he said, flicking the roach at him. “Here, have a joint, relax your ass. We’re buddies now, ain’t that a bitch?” He shook his head. Man, you gotta hand it to Jango! Who else could make the Maf say uncle without dropping them all in the ocean?
But somewhere deep inside, Sargent felt a gnawing discontent, as if it were
he
who had been bamboozled, as if something precious and personal had been taken from him.
“Let me tell you my vision,” Ivan Blue said, sitting on a makeup table and stretching his arms out as if to embrace the makeup room of the
Flash
, the Movement, the counterculture itself. “Let me tell you what my vision is, and then you can add to it, and then we can start planning how to turn fantasy into reality.”
Sitting on the other makeup table, Barry Stein found himself on the periphery of things, but it didn’t matter. Ivan was pouring out energy, filling everyone with his own sense of the outrageous possible. He wasn’t draining the energy out of everyone and drawing it into his own persona like a power freak; he was enlarging those around him instead of diminishing them, like a true leader. What a difference he made! The
Flash
was no longer a faction-ridden paper in thrall to a greasy crook and waiting for the ax to fall; it was the center of a true revolutionary action in the making. The whole staff was reimbued with a sense of purpose, and in this context, the economic situation was simply one more obstacle to overcome by revolutionary action, rather than the central fact of the paper’s life. If the price for this was letting Ivan occupy center stage for a time, Stein was more than willing to pay it.
“Woodstock turned out to be an ending when it should’ve been a beginning,” Ivan said. “Sunset City is going to be what Woodstock should’ve been—a
permanent
nucleus for a new America, a capital for Woodstock Nation. Think about it. Facilities to handle a quarter of a million people for four days. Tents, toilets, water, food, and a big stage with sound equipment to reach everyone. All this is going to be used to rip off the people, to cut a bunch of record albums and make a crummy exploitation film. That’s Jango Beck’s vision of Sunset City, and it sucks!”