The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) (13 page)

* * *

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 supposedly 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."

"Your cousin?"

"Yeah, my cousin Emiliano. He's got a little farm just outside of Zacotacas, about thirty miles from here. He's got some cows and pigs and goats, raises chickens too. He's got this big truck, a Ford. We buy it from him. You can trust him to keep quiet. We use the truck to get us all out of here."

Daniels didn't think it was a great idea but couldn't think of anything better.

They walked all day in the dusty clay semi-desert rugged terrain. Every so often they would disturb a scorpion or a snake. Late in the afternoon a couple of helicopters made lazy circles in the distance, above where the Durand's compound would be.

They continued walking and toward the end of the day the countryside began to change. There was water nearby. They crossed a few fields and small stands of lush green trees.

Emiliano's farm turned out to be a dilapidated collection of wood buildings overrun with livestock, chickens and squalling kids. The place smelled of manure and dirty laundry. Daniels counted at least nine kids, could have been more. Emiliano's wife was a large reddish woman who spent some time cooing over Daniel's head wound in between bouts of screaming at the children. She bandaged Daniels while Carlos and his cousin argued and shouted in rapid fire Spanish. She made them two heaping dishes of fried beans with pieces of grilled chicken. After nine hours without food, Daniels thought it was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.

After a particularly strident bout of arguing between Carlos and Emiliano, Carlos came over and sat next to Daniels on the bench where he'd been dozing.

"Okay, it's settled," said Carlos.

Daniels paid five hundred right away and guaranteed to send another two thousand soon as they arrived in the US. Carlos shaved his mustache and Emiliano's wife cut his hair almost bald. The difference in appearance was startling.

The truck turned out to be an ancient wheezing Ford flatbed with two by fours nailed as retainers eight feet on each side. They packed the bed with bales of hay leaving a space in the middle with enough room for three adults.

It was past midnight when they drove the truck behind the Cantina. Carlos woke his mother and sister and after much cajoling, pleading and explanation convinced them they must leave immediately.

It took five days to drive across Mexico from Zacotacas and the Guadalajara region to Tampico. They abandoned the truck outside of town and mailed the keys with a note to Emiliano. Perhaps he would come back for it. Daniels doubted the old war-horse could make another trip back. But then again, this was Mexico and people were used to coaxing years more of life from their machines.

Carlos rented a twenty-foot fishing boat in Tampico. At two AM that night, Daniels and Carlos loaded Rosa and his mother in the boat. They motored out to where
Albatross
was moored. A chain and lock had been placed around the pontoon with a Customs sign in Spanish. Daniels cut it off with the portable acetylene torch stored on
Albatross.
Flying around the Yucatan Peninsula and through the Gulf of Mexico, Richard Daniels and his passengers landed just outside of Everglades City eight hours later.

Chapter 18