by Eric Meyer
“Later,” she said hoarsely.
“Yes, later,” he replied, just as hoarsely. Then she was firing again, and he squirmed out of the turret, donned his night vision goggles, and sat back in the commander’s seat.
“Okay, Carl, take it slow, and ease her into the factory yard.”
Carl nodded and engaged the gears. The huge V8 engines throbbed, and the ungainly vehicle lurched forward again. Nolan keyed the commo.
“Bravo One, this is Four, we’re right outside.”
“We see you, Bravo Four. Opening the gates now.”
The double gates slowly swung open, and Carl drove through into a scene of indescribable carnage.
Nolan climbed up through the hatch and onto the hull. Talley ran across to him. Sniper fire was still coming into the compound, and both men ducked behind the hull. As they leaned forward to talk, they heard Gracia using the turret gun to take on the snipers.
“Thank Christ for the APC,” Talley said. “We got in here without any of them knowing we’d arrived, but there were literally hundreds of them. The moment one stumbled into us, he shouted the alarm, and this firefight started.”
“Are the hostages safe?”
“Yeah, as I said, we got them out okay, and they’re inside the factory building. Raoul is with them.”
Nolan looked around the factory yard. There were dozens of bodies lying on the ground.
“He should be out here, directing his men.”
Talley just shrugged. “The ones on the ground are not ours. The whole platoon came through without a scratch. Half of them are Salazar’s people, and the rest are Castro’s Colombians.”
“Yeah, without him, the rest will be demoralized. Can you get him out here, Boss?”
Talley nodded. “Sure, I’ll go get him, then form up the convoy to go out. You’ll be leading us with the APC. The machine gun trucks can go at the back and in the center. The rest will be strung out in between.”
Nolan nodded. “It’s a plan. They’ll be keeping their heads down after the hosing that Gracia’s giving them. We can wrap this up and go to the next stage of the operation.”
Talley looked back at him, his face grim. “There’s another complication. Raoul interrogated a couple of Salazar’s people. Jacks is running out of time.”
“How long has he got? What’re they planning?”
“We’ll talk when we get back, but it’s not looking good. I’ll round ‘em up, and we can get out of here. How’s the ammunition in the BTR?”
“It’s okay. We have enough to see us out of here. When we get back, we need to ask Jorge if he has any supplies stashed. That is, if we need this beast again.”
“Okay, lock and load, and I’ll get the rest of them moving.”
Nolan climbed aboard the BTR-70, and immediately he started to sweat again as the clammy heat enfolded him. The interior stank of oil, gas, gunpowder residues and most of all, the strong, musky scent of woman, of Gracia. She was checking the alignment of the feed belts for the heavy machine gun. She looked out and smiled as he came near.
“How long before we leave?”
“A few minutes. How’s that gun, any problems?”
She shook her head. “Not really, no. This Soviet equipment needs more maintenance than American weapons, so I was just running through the standard checks. It’s all loaded and ready to go. We have over four hundred rounds of 14.5 millimeter and almost a thousand rounds of 7.62, so that’s plenty to fight our way out of here.”
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked her.
She gave him a searching gaze. “Not right now, no, Chief Nolan, but if the guns have problems, I’ll shout for you to come up and help fix it. Otherwise, I’m ready.”
They’d moved closer so that their faces were only six inches apart. They stared into each other’s eyes, and Nolan felt her looking inside his soul. They rocked together slightly, and then they were kissing. Their arms went around each other, and they held their bodies close.
“If we get out of here,” Nolan breathed when they pulled slightly apart. “I’ll…”
“Ahem.” They whirled as Carl Winters cleared his throat. “I thought I’d come aboard and start up. Or do you want me to…”
“We’re fine, Carl. Get this beast rolling.”
He gave her a last look and then climbed down and into the commander’s seat.
“How’s it all looking?” he asked Carl.
“All good, Chief. I dipped the fuel tank. The gage isn’t working, but we’ve got more than enough to take us back to Bello. Engines are running well, so we’re ready to move out. You okay, I mean, you know?”
Carl looked at him in a mischievous way. Nolan returned the stare. “I’m fine, Carl. But I’ll feel better when this one is over and we can go home. This one is turning real messy.”
“Don’t they always?” he grinned. Nolan realized that Carl was actually enjoying himself. Maybe that was to be expected when you were driving an armored antique. Carl had always had an affinity for all things mechanical.
He’ll soon change his tune if the Salazars bring out any missiles, he reflected soberly. I’d better warn Gracia.
He climbed back to the turret and mentioned the possibility of shoulder-launched rockets.
“I am well aware of the dangers of MANPADS, Chief Nolan. I shall keep alert.”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
He climbed through the top hatch and onto the hull. The convoy had assembled and looked ready to go. Talley was in the center truck, standing next to the gunner manning the M60. He waved to Nolan, and the Chief heard his voice through his earpiece.
“We’re ready to go. Raoul has two of his men on the gate. As soon as we start rolling, they’ll open up, and jump on the nearest truck.”
“Copy that. We’re ready to pour it on as soon as we get out there.”
“You’ll need to. I downlinked a map just now from the UAV they have over our heads. Infrared shows trucks loaded with men still arriving. It’s going to be a close run thing.”
“Are the Colombians up to it, you think?”
“They’re Special Forces, so they should be,” Talley replied.
“We are ready,” a new voice came on the net. Captain Raoul Castro. “We have fought our way in here to save my family, and I will not fail them now. These animals will be beaten, have no fear, Chief Nolan. My men will play their part.”
“Yeah, I hear you, Captain. Boss, we’re ready to roll.”
Talley’s voice came over loud and clear. “Head ‘em up. Move ‘em out!”
The net was alive with laughter. The trail boss’ traditional shout from the old TV series ‘Rawhide’, that started Clint Eastwood on his movie career.
“I’m on it,” Carl shouted across to him over the roar of the engines.
He slammed his foot down on the twin throttles, and the heavy APC lurched forward. Nolan watched through the open viewport to see the gates already beginning to open. A few rounds struck the more heavily armored front of the BTR, and then they nosed through into the open street. It was time to run the gauntlet of Copacabana.
They made a sharp turn and headed towards the main street that led out of town. The firing increased, and the steel hull echoed to the jackhammer sound of the heavy machine gun as Gracia went into action. She fired in short, controlled bursts, the mark of a trained machine gunner. Outside, Nolan could hear the cries of the besiegers as her bullets started to find their mark, but there were a lot of them, too many of them. He could hear the shouts over the net.
“One of the Colombian trucks got hit, and they must have got the driver. He’s swerved out of position.”
“Watch out, there’s one up there, he’s aarrhgh!”
“Vince, on your three o’clock, at a window twenty feet up. He’s killing Castro’s men.”
Nolan was a sniper. It was his skill, his trade, and the specialty that set him apart from other men. Hearing Vince’s sniper skills being called into action jolted him into action. H
e leaned across so Carl could hear him.
“I’m going on the hull to take out some of these shooters. There’re too many of them.”
Carl nodded. “Stay low, Chief. You can shoot from out of the hatch, and it’ll give you some protection.”
Nolan nodded, grabbed his SWS sniper rifle, and unfastened the hatch. Gracia popped her head down from the turret to see what he was doing.
“Chief Nolan, no, the gunfire is too heavy!”
“That’s why I’m going out there, Gracia. Besides, the trucks behind haven’t got an armored hull. They have to take their chances. I’ll shoot from behind the steel hatch.”
Before she could answer, he clambered up through the hatch and wedged himself so that he could shoot over the top of the open lid.
The first target came into view, the window of a third floor apartment. Four Colombians were leaning out shooting; three with assault rifles and one with a large pistol. Nolan sighted on the man with the pistol who could be their leader, and fired, four shots, four hits, despite the movement of the APC. This was no time for double taps, and no time for making sure. Just shoot the enemy as fast as possible and move on. He sighted on another shooter crouched behind a car parked in the street. The car offered visual cover only, as it was not armor plated. The man ducked down. Nolan estimated his position and fired through the car doors. His 7.62-millimeter bullet smashed through the thin metal, and the man shrieked as he was thrown backward by the shot. Another man ran out of a nearby apartment block to pick up his rifle, and Nolan shot him even before he’d got back into cover. The noise was deafening, Gracia’s 14.5 millimeter and 7.62 millimeter machine guns firing quick, short bursts. The two M60s, also firing disciplined bursts, interspersed by the HK416s of the Seals and the Heckler & Koch G36 5.56 millimeters of the Colombian Special Forces. Firing back was an assortment of weapons from the Salazars’ soldiers. American M-16s, Soviet made AK-47s, and just about every rifle and pistol that had ever fallen into the hands of the traffickers. Nolan felt a tug on his jacket as a slug narrowly missed him, then a bullet hit him fully in the chest. Despite his flak jacket, he was thrown back to hit his head against a steel stanchion fitted to the deck of the APC.
“Chief Nolan! Are you okay?”
It was Gracia. She’d stopped firing when she saw him hit.
“I’m fine, don’t stop firing. We have to get out of here.”
“Driver, take the next lane on the left. It will lead us out to the main highway that will take us back to Bello,” she shouted. Then she started firing again.
Carl swerved into the narrow lane, barely wide enough for the Soviet armor, and he accelerated down the street, squashing flowerpots and bicycles that were leaning against the sides of the apartment block. But there were no shooters, and they were almost clear. A man ran into the road ahead of them, and Nolan shouted a warning.
“Missile, dead ahead. Someone take him!”
The man had the missile pointed at the armored car, ready to shoot. He must have had his finger on the trigger when Gracia hit him with a long, concentrated burst from the two machine guns. The man was thrown back as if hit by a truck; his missile launched and soared harmlessly into the sky to land in the distant jungle. Nolan felt the bump as they rode over his bullet riddled body, then Carl swerved onto the main highway, and they were heading back to Bello.
Nolan watched the vehicles as they turned out onto the main highway. As far as he could tell, they’d all made it. No, one was missing. He’d heard an explosion and burst of heavy gunfire seconds before they made the turn, someone had been ambushed by the Salazars. He keyed his mic.
“Bravo One, this is Four. How are we doing, Boss?”
“Our platoon got out okay, but Castro’s men lost a truck, about fifteen men aboard.”
“Any chance of survivors?”
“None. There was another missile shooter. He was in that street just before we turned into the lane. It was a direct hit on the cab, and when the truck was brought to a stop, the rest of them set on it like a pack of wolves.”
They were both silent for long minutes as the convoy raced away from Copacabana towards Bello. Then there was a series of enormous explosions back in the town.
“What the hell was that?” Carl asked on the net. “What are they doing back there?”
“It’s what we’re doing, PO. The downlinked images showed them forming up inside that factory compound we left. I guess they were checking to see that we’d all gone, and they were forming up a small force to come after us. I called in a Reaper strike, and what you just heard was the sound of a barrage of Hellfire missiles.”
Nolan watched the flames leaping up from the place they had just left. The whole town seemed to be on fire; an illusion caused by the leaping flames of exploded and burning fuel tanks that backlit the town.
“That’ll slow ‘em down a piece,” Carl grinned happily, as he relaxed on the smooth, tarmac road.
They drove straight to Jorge’s yard and parked inside. He slammed the gates shut. On the way, they’d noticed the town of Bello was silent, dark and shuttered. The inhabitants had heard the shooting and explosions. They could hardly have missed them. But it was someone else’s business, not theirs. These were survivors of a deadly conflict; the drug wars that held way over the lives of millions in the South American sub-continent. These people knew when to keep their heads down. Not a soul had stirred as they had made their way along deserted streets.
“What’s the deal with the Admiral?” Nolan asked Talley when they’d dismounted.
“Call the men around, Chief. I want you all to hear this.”
They gathered in a horseshoe in the center of the courtyard, the Navy Seals and the survivors of the Colombian Special Forces. Castro’s men had lost a total of eighteen dead, with a few minor wounds to the rest. As for the Seals, they were almost unscathed, just a few scratches and flesh wounds. Talley stood with Castro at the head of the horseshoe so that each man could see and hear what they had to say.
“It’s not over,” Talley began. “We embarked on this rescue operation to free Captain Castro’s family. That would enable him to ally his forces with us, and using his local knowledge, free Admiral Jacks and complete out mission. We’re a long way from doing that. We’ve hit the Salazars hard, and they’re hurting but not hard enough. But the problem is this. The two Salazar soldiers we interrogated both told the same story. Admiral Jacks is to be executed tonight. They’re using a video camera to broadcast the execution and send it out on prime time television.”
“We need to get in there and get him out,” Nolan said quickly. “That just can’t be allowed to happen.”
“Yeah, agreed,” Talley replied. “But after this ruckus, they’ll be waiting for us to do just that. And the second they think we’re getting near, the Admiral’s dead. They’ll slaughter him out of hand. It may be there’s nothing we can do to save him.”
Chapter Eight
Nolan sat drinking a cold beer in the shade of the APC, his back leaning against one of the huge, rubber tires. Gracia sat cross-legged on the ground, also drinking from an icy bottle of beer. Since Talley’s announcement of the fate of Admiral Jacks, there’d been an atmosphere of gloom descended on the courtyard. After the shock and hopelessness had sunk in, they’d slept fitfully through the rest of the night, all except for Talley. He’d spent hours in communication with San Diego, attempting to make some sense of the situation they were in. So far, it looked hopeless. The only chance was an airborne attack by a large force, probably a brigade to make certain of overcoming the Salazars. But such attacks were not easily planned, and one thing stood in the way, the Colombian government. Talley had explained the politics to them, his face creased in lines of worry.
“Even if the Colombians did want to give our people the go ahead, and assuming we could get the Rapid Deployment Force in country in time enough to save Jacks, it would be political suicide for them to agree. They’d be out of office within weeks of the people finding out th
ey’d allowed a large scale invasion on Colombian soil by American forces. So my guess is, it’s not gonna happen.”
“We have to do something,” Nolan insisted. “We can’t let them execute Jacks on prime time TV.”
Talley nodded. I agree with you, Chief. You tell me what we can do, and I’ll give the go ahead.”
But there was nothing he could suggest. For all of their military skills, and the immense power of the technology they could employ, through the use of drones and other aerial assets, they had to face simple facts. Navy Seals employed stealth to reach their targets. Their numbers and weaponry were too small for large-scale head-on confrontations. Yet the Salazars were fully alerted, so stealth was out of the window. The UAVs could punch holes in the Salazars’ infrastructure, but they couldn’t magically lift the Admiral out of the Salazar camp. So they’d broken up into small groups and tried to catch up with some sleep. If a plan to save Jacks did materialize, they wanted to be ready to put it into action.
“It will be bad for your country if they go ahead with this,” Gracia murmured to Nolan.
He’d been lost in his thoughts. The idea that one of theirs, a Rear Admiral no less, could be executed on Primetime TV was astonishing, abhorrent. And for Navy Seals to sit around while it happened, well, that just didn’t happen.
“It’ll be very bad, yeah. It’ll make gangsters like these Salazars, as well as terrorists, think that they can play games with our military while we’re powerless to stop them.”
Before she could say more, Roscoe Bremmer walked up to them.
“Hey, that’s gonna be something, those guys executing a real, live Admiral on the tube. Damn, that’ll be something.”
Up until then, Bremmer had kept his head down, and Nolan grudgingly admitted he’d done a good job. When the fighting was at its thickest, Bremmer was often there, handling his weapons and taking down enemies as if he’d been born to the trade of the Navy Seal. Yet here he was, back and undoing all of the admiration he’d earned from Nolan and the rest of the Platoon, by playing the ‘chip on his shoulder’ black man again.
