The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “You said you blast the hard rock you encounter at the site, Peterman.”

  His face twisted, not understanding.

  “Yes, we do. So what?”

  “So where do you keep the dynamite?”

  Chapter 12

  Nighttime ops come with their own special set of advantages and challenges. The challenges were many. We had no night-vision capabilities. My weapon’s red dot scope would help magnify the available light—a half-moon and starlight—but it was a poor substitute for a weapon equipped with a night-vision scope. And the Belgium-made weaponry these guys carried had that capability. I’d seen it at the encounter with the two Chechens at their camp.

  Our initial attack would mitigate much if not all of that advantage. Maybe. But being ex-military, they would have left several men behind at the camp. Standard operating procedure. And across brush-cleared landscape around their tents and work areas, anyone approaching was a sitting duck. I had a plan—risky as hell—for that too.

  There was another issue. The Bolivians. I could use their help for the initial setup, but otherwise it was imperative they stayed away from flying bullets. They were committed, no doubt, but had no concept about fighting against well-armed men with full automatic weapons. They would be participants without coming into harm’s way. A tricky proposition.

  Peterman said he stored the dynamite inside a steel-walled blasting magazine at the site. The Bolivians and my tablemates remained silent and waited. I don’t picture myself as a warrior, a badass. Not at all. Perhaps it was Peterman, Chambers, and Esma looking toward me that prompted the Bolivians to follow suit. Or perhaps I carried an attitude, a vibe, that translated into hidden proficiencies. I’d never know. I switched to Spanish so every single person within earshot absorbed the most important item.

  “Everyone must understand this one thing. The only thing.”

  I paused and scanned the crowd, focusing on the Bolivian crowd’s leaders. It was dead silent.

  “There is no middle ground. Either we wipe them out with our efforts, or they wipe out Santa Ana. These men are capable, and they will do it if we fail.”

  I paused again. The stakes couldn’t be higher. Men, women, children—slaughtered. My declaration settled over the crowd, whispers increased, then silence. The men nodded as acknowledgment. I pounded home the finality of our actions.

  “It is not complicated. We kill them all. We win, or everyone in Santa Ana dies. Is that understood?”

  Grim faces nodded and murmured affirmations toward me and each other. Good. I’d laid out the ground rules, the rules of engagement. My statements weren’t hyperbole. The Chechens and Iranians would sweep through the village if they defeated us. Kill the men and children, rape and kill the women. Brutality without rein on the Chaco. I switched back to English and addressed Peterman.

  “Pick eight good men. That’s all we can fit in the pickup. Do you have decent shovels and pickaxes at the site?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Handheld radios?”

  “We have dozens. We check them out each morning and retrieve them each evening for charging. It’s how we communicate at the site.”

  “Two-strand wire?”

  “For blasting? Absolutely. All you could need. Along with blasting caps and several hundred kilos of dynamite.”

  “Good. We may need it all.”

  “Several hundred kilos?” Peterman asked.

  Chambers, while focused on firing his pipe, said, “This is one of the great pleasures when working with you American chaps. The subtlety you bring to the table.”

  “How long do they stay in town on a typical night?” I asked the crowd in Spanish.

  “Tres o cuatro horas,” one leader replied. Three or four hours.

  “Do they drink much at the brothel?”

  “Suficiente.” Plenty.

  “Good.”

  I switched back to English and addressed Peterman.

  “Let’s draw out in the dirt what I want everyone doing except the eight men you pick. They clearly understand you best, so I’ll draw and talk while you reiterate. Okay?”

  The villagers crowded around as I flicked open my lock-blade knife and used the dirt road as a sketchpad. They affirmed that crossing the mountain ridge, even in the dark, was not a problem. And that they could do so silently. No yells or calls among them, whispers held to a minimum. I made it crystal clear that silence was golden. They nodded agreement and verbalized confirmation with no-nonsense voices. Peterman emphasized stealth as critical for our success.

  Once they had descended the other side, they would remain hidden in the brush. It would be dark, and once again their silence was imperative. Then two men, with a handheld radio we’d soon give them, would cross along the mountain’s base, moving through the brush, until they arrived where the enemy kept its roadblock. With all their vehicles in town, they might still post a foot soldier there. More affirmations came from the men.

  Multiple events would then happen, I explained. They would first hear a loud explosion. Soon thereafter, we would contact the two men at the sentry location via radio. These men must keep the volume on their radio low, and whisper. I paused while Peterman reiterated the point. Once they told us whether or not a sentry was posted, the two men would return to the larger group hidden near the camp. Under no circumstance would they engage until we radioed them again. Peterman emphasized they must remain still and silent until given the word. I sketched the plan with my knife a second time while Peterman spoke. There could be no mistakes, no deviations, no blood on my hands because of miscommunications. Nods and low, affirmative voices responded.

  Good. Eight Bolivians would be with us, and I’d ensure they remained outside harm’s way. The remaining villagers, several hundred, would huddle among the brush until I’d taken out the two or three or four remaining at the camp. At that point, the villagers could ransack and burn everything to the ground. The killing rested on me, Chambers, and our good friend, Mr. Dynamite.

  “Alright,” I said in English. “We’re burning daylight. Let’s ride.”

  Peterman selected eight workers and assigned two others as the enemy sentry scouts. He told them we’d return from the mining site in one hour. Then we hauled it, Peterman and Chambers in his truck, Esma with me.

  “Will this plan work?” she asked, once we were underway.

  “It’ll work. The question is how well. Things get messy in battle. Expect the unexpected.”

  “What is the dynamite used for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We zipped along, Peterman’s truck in front kicking up dust.

  “This would appear as an all-or-nothing approach,” Esma said. “Is there a backup plan if things do not go as you expect?”

  “Yeah. If we’re still alive, run like hell.”

  At the mining site we collected pickaxes, shovels, two-strand wire, two boxes of blasting caps with a dozen in each box, and a small nine-volt battery that would trigger the explosion.

  “You carry the blasting caps, Case,” Peterman said. “I’ll carry the dynamite. It’s best keeping those separate until it is time. Safety first.”

  I had to grin. I liked this Canadian miner who’d shown a helluva lot of moxie over the last hour. There was little point expressing that things would become plenty unsafe for those SOBs on their return trip from the bordello.

  “Grab an extra battery,” I said. “Just in case. Okay, let’s load the good stuff.”

  “How much?” Peterman asked.

  I had worked out the basic configuration. Twenty explosive plants over a hundred-yard stretch of dirt track. It was a seat-of-the-pants calculation, and may have been overkill, but Peterman had the juice so we might as well use it. The dynamite came in one-kilo sticks with threaded plastic ends so we could join them. Five sticks provided about eleven big-bang pounds per plant. Twenty buried plants would guarantee a shitty trip for a four-Sherpa convoy.

  “A hundred sticks,” I said. “Make it a hundred and
two.”

  I tossed in a couple extras because, well, you never knew. Peterman didn’t question the amount, and we loaded dynamite into the pickup. Chambers and Esma pitched in. I reassembled my assault rifle. Everything, every moment, from this point forward was a hot-fire situation.

  We raced back into Santa Ana, distributed the handheld radios, collected the eight handpicked workers, and sent the remaining villagers off toward the mountain ridge. It would take them several hours to make the other side and get situated.

  Shadows lengthened, twilight an hour away. We flew from town and turned left at the dirt track leading toward KDB’s camp. I stopped halfway along the ridge’s base at a straight stretch. We were a mile away from where the track turned west toward the merc camp.

  I asked the eight Bolivians to grab pickaxes and shovels and follow me, halting at the first location for an explosive plant.

  “Alright. Dig a shallow trench here. One-foot deep. Wide enough for a dynamite stick and long enough for five sticks joined together.” I marked with my boot toe the appropriate length. “Understand?”

  The lights came on as the eight Bolivians grasped what we planned to do. They smiled at each other and at me.

  “How many trenches?” one asked.

  “Twenty. Every five paces. Each in the middle of the road. At each one, I need another smaller trench in that direction. For the blasting cap wire.”

  I pointed at the uphill slope next to the road. The Bolivians talked among themselves, ensuring everyone was on the same page. Peterman clarified a few finer points for them, and dirt began flying.

  “Twelve inches is awfully shallow,” he said, walking beside me as I paced off each trench.

  “When it’s that shallow, where will most of the blast go?” I asked him. He was a miner. Blasting was for breaking apart deep rock.

  “Well, it will blow upward.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll notice evenly spaced disturbed dirt sections?”

  “They’ll be liquored up. At night. I think we’re okay.”

  I asked him to insert the blasting caps, run the thin wire along the small trench into the nearby brush, and supervise the covering up of each blast trench with dirt.

  “How can I help?” Esma asked.

  “Run the thicker two-strand wire uphill from each blasting cap’s wire. Chambers, let’s go find an uphill command center. Esma, do you have anything that will cut the two-strand wire into sections?”

  Without answering and with a single smooth move, she slid a large lock-blade knife from her front pocket and flicked it open. Good to go.

  “Don’t connect the blasting cap wires and the two-strand,” Peterman said. “Let me do that. And I’ll show you how much two-strand to lay out. I’m going to connect them partway up the hill, then run a single line to where we’ll set everything off.”

  He had taken full responsibility for ensuring that when it came party time, we would unleash hell. Chambers and I hustled uphill. After seventy yards we came to a massive stand-alone boulder, most of it above ground.

  “They can position behind this,” I said. “And hunker down when things get loud.”

  “I assume you and I will position within the brush on the roadway’s other side. Cleanup duty and all that.”

  The blast would stun, wound, and incapacitate any merc survivors. Chambers and I would administer the coups de grâce. A final bullet to the head.

  “You okay with that duty?”

  “Quite. Now, even accounting for your evident proclivities, isn’t this a bit of overkill? A hundred meters of roadway for four vehicles?”

  “Dust.”

  Each vehicle would kick up thick dust, and each driver would keep more than the normal distance from the other to avoid breathing grit.

  “Ah, yes.” He held a forefinger against his nose, a seldom seen affectation. “You ops lads do live in a different world.”

  “Pot, kettle, Chambers.”

  The Bolivians and Peterman and Esma worked like dervishes. Chambers and I descended the hillside, helping out. It was getting dark. Several Bolivians whacked down small scrub brush and used it as brooms, sweeping away any telltale signs of the buried dynamite. Peterman connected the twenty two-strand leads together, wrapped the junction with electrical tape, and ran a single wire to the uphill boulder. Chambers and I hopped in the vehicles and weaved deep into the brush, ensuring they were well hidden. We assembled at the huge uphill boulder for final instructions.

  “Okay. Esma, Peterman, and the Bolivians wait here with at least two radios on. When you’re given the word, set it off. Now this is important. Hug the ground behind this boulder. Chunks of vehicle will fly all over the place. I don’t want to lose anyone when an engine block lands close by. Peterman, make that crystal clear to your men. Hug. The. Ground. Behind this boulder. Got it?”

  Peterman spoke with his men, hammering home the safety issue.

  “Where will you two be?” Esma asked.

  “Chambers, you take a position at what will be the column’s front. Don’t let the first Sherpa pass that point. We damn sure don’t want them surviving and making a run for their camp. I’ll pull drag and handle what’s left at the rear of the column. Detonation takes place at Chambers’s word. Everyone got that?”

  “I have a concern about your position,” Peterman said, addressing Chambers. “What is a decent distance for you where you will be safe?”

  “London would work nicely.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” I told Peterman. “This isn’t his first rodeo.”

  “What if there are survivors?” Esma asked.

  “Chambers and I will take care of those.”

  “And if this goes off without a hitch, what’s next?” Peterman asked.

  “I’ve got a plan. But first things first. You folks up here will have a bird’s-eye view of them approaching. They’ll have their headlights on. Use the radios, and tell us what’s going on. As they pass below, wait for Chambers’s word. Then send them to hell. Everyone got it?”

  Handshakes and hugs all around, Bolivians included, with absolute grim commitment ruling the moment. Chambers and I headed out, speaking with each other prior to separating halfway downhill.

  “We’re counting on you to kick things off,” I said, shaking his hand as a prebattle custom. “If it gets ugly after that, I’ve got the rifle and will handle things. Keep your head down.”

  “No worries on my end, sport. It should be one for the books.”

  As I crossed the road and made my way toward an advantageous position, I stared upward toward a million stars and cast a short and sweet prayer.

  “Please don’t let this turn into a shitshow.”

  Chapter 13

  Wait time at night on the Chaco. I positioned fifty paces from the explosion’s expected tail end. The final Sherpa in the return train should catch it not too far from me. Heeding my own advice regarding flying engine blocks, I found a slight depression against a small tree as a hunker-down spot. Where I sat and waited.

  The sky was clear. The half-moon and great swaths of stars provided decent visibility. A light breeze blew across the dry landscape, carrying a pungent scent from the plant life. An hour into the wait, Peterman performed a radio check. Both Chapman and I replied a confirmation.

  An occasional small bird fluttered among the small trees and brush. Otherwise, dead quiet. The silent backdrop contributed to a sound that startled the bejesus out of me. One of the weirdest noises I’d ever heard. A mix between a lion’s roar and a large dog’s bark. A roar-bark, coming from behind me. I whipped the rifle around and sighted the area. There was sufficient light to make out the critter. A fox head on a wolf’s body with deerlike legs. A thick tuft of hair stood a foot or so down its backbone. I found out later it was a maned wolf. It had scented me or seen my movement and roared a warning before trotting off on long legs deep into the brush. Jeez Louise. Silence returned, and another hour passed.

  I h
eard their approach long before I could make out headlights. Peterman, with a better vantage point, announced their impending arrival.

  “They are coming.”

  “Roger that,” I said. “Let’s keep radio silence unless something out of the ordinary happens. Wait for word from Chambers to set it off.”

  “Will do.”

  Chambers keyed his mic twice as response. The two clicks were standard field ops, signifying in the affirmative. Man, I appreciated his presence. You can’t toss untested and untrained folks into a battle situation and expect decent results. Chambers anchored our dynamite trail’s other end and would perform as a professional. We needed the help.

  I watched the first Sherpa roll past, the speed slow, appropriate for the dirt track. When the second rolled past, I knew we had an issue. They were farther spread out than I’d expected. It would be iffy fitting the four vehicles inside the kill zone. Shit.

  As the third Sherpa passed me, Chambers gave the order. The lead vehicle was approaching the final dynamite plant.

  “Now, Peterman. Do it now,” he said.

  Nothing happened.

  “Now, Peterman!” he said again.

  A mic keyed, and Peterman’s voice said, “I… I can’t…”

  I could hear Esma’s voice, loud and emphatic, through Peterman’s handheld radio.

  “Give me the battery!”

  The explosion was beyond massive. The earth shook, and the noise deafened. It lifted me a good eighteen inches off the ground, landing me as flat as I’d lain. The concussive wave cracked trees; the sky filled with flying dirt and vehicle pieces and dead or dying men. The sound rumbled across the Chaco long after the initial blast. Then gravity took over. Bits and pieces and large chunks of vehicle rained down, slamming into brush and trees. The larger pieces bounced upon impact as the sounds of their heavy thuds repeated along the track’s terrain. My position received its fair share of smaller metal and plastic chunks. An entire axle assembly with one wheel still attached crashed through brush and landed ten paces away.

  As I kissed dirt and strained to see through the thick dust cloud, the poor lack of timing wasn’t a mystery. Peterman, a good and fine man, couldn’t bring himself to take on the role of executioner. He had sat with a small nine-volt battery and two trimmed-off bare wires. He’d waited to touch the battery’s two terminals with the wires. Waited to set off the explosion and kill a dozen men. And he couldn’t do it.