by Vince Milam
“I can pick up rather vague upright shapes clustered near the largest tent in the center,” he said, voice at a whisper.
“Me, too. That’s the mess hall, I think. There are two shipping containers beside it. Supplies and food storage, my bet. But the containers are steel. That’s what I’d use as my Alamo.”
“I concur. Where might these fuel bladders you spoke of be hiding?”
“Look past the chopper. They’re flat on the ground, each ten paces by three paces in size. Two feet high.”
He searched in silence, eventually commenting. “Ah. Yes, I can just make them out.”
“I’m guessing one for auto fuel, the other for aviation gas. There’s got to be several hundred gallons in each one.”
Chambers continued staring through the binoculars.
“No, mate. That would be several thousand gallons in each one.”
“Good. The more the better.”
“Not necessarily. Toasted is not my best look.”
“I’ve got two hundred meters of wire.”
“It is a pity you didn’t bring several hundred more.”
“Let’s worry about that after we set the charges. The challenge is getting to them undetected.”
“The mechanic shed blocks us from their view,” Chambers said. “If, in fact, those indistinct shapes are our adversaries.”
“Okay. Let’s scoot farther down the brush line, then sneak across the airstrip toward the mechanic’s shack.”
“No, let’s scoot farther down, then sprint across the airstrip.”
We did. The gravel crunch under our running boots was disconcerting as hell. No way to tell if the sound carried across several hundred yards where the kitchen tent and containers sat. We spent five minutes huddled and quiet against the mechanic shed’s wall. I went belly-flat and edged around the corner, scoping for movement. I was met with stillness. The vague shapes near the steel containers and the now visible parked Sherpa took on more clarity. Three men, for sure. The other two were maybes. I crawled back.
“Okay. I can make out three. The other two are iffy. We’re right at two hundred and fifty yards from them.”
“And seventy paces from the fuel bladders.”
“Right. So here’s the deal. They’ll be eyeballing every direction from their position. Including our way. The first twenty paces are high risk, maximum exposure. After that, the bladders’ height will block us from their view.”
“The two-foot-high bladders.”
“It’s flat ground. That’s enough.”
“If we imitate worms.”
“You got a better idea, Chambers?”
“It sickens me to say so, but no. No, I do not.”
I led, head down, belly pressed against hard-packed earth. I kept a snail’s pace as our movement would draw fire if spotted. Even with night-vision scopes, at their distance and while they scanned, we would appear as two irregular shapes in the terrain. Unless they spotted movement. It took fifteen minutes to cover the first twenty yards, inching forward. Then I increased our belly-crawling speed.
I crawled past the first fuel bladder and pressed against the second, shoving a dynamite stick under the fuel bladder’s corner. Chambers passed me a blasting cap, and I slid it into the stick’s end hole, made for this purpose, then connected the two-strand wire. We scooted backward and repeated the process with the other fuel bladder. Chambers whispered something about ruining his trousers. I kept the wire spool rolling ahead of us as we crawled our way back to the mechanic shed.
It may have been I rushed the final twenty yards when we were most exposed, or it may have been the movement of shoving the wire spool ahead of me as we crawled. I’d never know. What I did know is they spotted us. The first bullet whined past, above my shoulders. The single shot crack echoed through the camp area. Shit, oh dear. Chambers and I, exposed, flattened as much as we could.
“Any suggestions, Lee? Other than imitating bare dirt?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“Yeah. We haul ass. I’ve got the spool.”
We did. I stuck a finger in the spool and let it spin as we leapt up and dashed, seeking the shed’s protection. Two more shots followed our progress.
“I’d suggest we lost the element of surprise, sport.”
We retrieved our weapons left behind for the big crawl—my rifle and his sawed-off shotgun.
“When those fuel bladders blow, they’ll be plenty surprised.”
I edged against the shed’s corner and scoped for activity. A single shadowy figure, a merc, appeared separate from the others. He made his way toward us.
“I think there’s a bogey coming our way,” I whispered.
“Which will make our mad dash back across the runway, in plain sight while unrolling the second wire spool, a major challenge.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen.”
“Look here, Lee,” he said, his voice far above the whisper level. “I am certain you are aware we are situated less than a hundred meters from several thousand gallons of fuel and two dynamite charges. Which places us in a rather tenuous position if your intention is to set off those charges from this spot.”
“We have the shed for protection.”
“You are mad as a hatter if you think…” He paused, sighed, and muttered, “Bloody hell.” Then he produced a folding blade, cut the wire, and stripped off the insulation.
Chambers was tough as a nut, and for all the verbal barbs tossed between us, a fellow warrior. He understood the situation, including the fact a merc now stalked cautiously our way, cutting down the long distance between us. He passed me the stripped wire, the two copper strands bright under the moonlight. I placed one strand against a battery terminal and locked eyes with him. He returned a grim nod. I touched the second strand to the battery’s other terminal.
The two concurrent explosions weren’t awe-inspiring, but the resulting fireball sure as hell was. The concussion partially collapsed the shed, covering us. Which protected us from the mini-fireballs landing across a wide swath of the immediate area. Night turned into day, or near enough, as flames roared and fuel burned. We were still in a bad spot, but the enemy had lost their night-vision advantage. I could now see the bastards.
“You okay?” I asked. Small ground fires, fuel balls, surrounded us.
“Fine enough. Shall we engage?”
Chambers knew the explosions were a starter’s pistol shot for the battle. Our lone option was a mad dash at an angle toward the enemy, using the outlying tents as cover. They wouldn’t stop any bullets, but did offer protection from being seen. If we made it to them. No need to spell anything out for Chambers. Armed with a Walther pistol and sawed-off shotgun, he was prepared to rock and roll.
“Let me have a look.”
I scooted forward, a shed wall pressed against my back side. Chambers crawled with me, on my heels. At the edge of the collapsed shed, I shouldered the rifle and scanned. The merc who’d cut the distance between us was a little over a hundred yards away, on his knees. His rifle at the ready but not aimed toward anything as he stared at the massive fireball. A center-mass shot was the best bet, and I squeezed off a round. My rifle shot’s sharp crack was lost in the fire’s roar. The merc wavered, dropped the weapon, and collapsed on his side.
“Done?” Chambers asked.
The enormous fire cast a yellow-orange light across the battlefield, extending far skyward. The mountain ridge’s base and brush line, over a hundred yards past the holed-up mercs, was just visible. I scoped the kitchen tent area and spotted several men scrambling for the shipping containers’ protection, their weapons trained in our general direction. And their backs toward a mountainside full of Bolivians.
“Yeah. Done. Let me call for some help.”
He remained quiet, letting me take the lead. I pulled the handheld radio and called for Esma.
“What has happened?” she responded. “The world is on fire below us.”
“Could use a little help.”
“I cannot hear you. There is a great noise in the background.”
I spoke with a yell, slowly.
“Get all the villagers to scream and yell as loud as they can. I want the noise washing over the enemy.”
It was the closest thing to cover Chambers and I had for our mad dash.
“Are you two injured?”
“We’re fine. Do it now, Esma. Spread the word. We need noise, lots of noise, from your position. And we need it now.”
Peterman’s voice came over the radio. He spoke Spanish and instructed his workers to do what I asked, adding his own emphasis. They did. It started low, barely discernible over the fire’s roar. It grew as the Bolivians vented their rage, screaming death threats and retribution. It rolled down the mountainside and flooded the camp. Vocal fury in the night, coming from unseen forces above the enemy. It worked.
The remaining mercs shifted position and addressed this new threat, aware their adversaries had them sandwiched. As they scrambled and found protective cover from both sides, it offered a brief window for movement. For a borderline crazy advance.
“Right,” Chambers said. “Let’s get after it.”
I’d already begun shoving against the fallen shed wall with my back, creating an exit space. We both popped out and sprinted like banshees for an outlying tent over a hundred yards away and fifty yards from the tightly clustered mercs. We angled and gained a tent-blocked line-of-site from the mercs, then made a beeline for the large tent. I threw a glance at the thundering fireball. The chopper was ablaze—gasoline gobs had landed on it. The scene was reminiscent of a Kuwaiti oil field fire. The eerie yellow light it threw created a hellish impression.
Our mad dash didn’t go unnoticed. Two mercenaries fired at us, two rapidly moving targets amid the war cries descending from the mountainside. They continued firing on full auto, the bullets buzzing past our running bodies, while others kicked up small dirt explosions near our feet. After seventy yards we made the large outlying tent’s view-blocking sanctuary. The firing tapered off but didn’t quit as blind-fired bullets popped through the canvas walls, aimed at our approach.
Chambers and I plopped down next to the tent, breath ragged. I crawled toward a corner and peeked around. They’d opened each container’s two swinging steel doors and nested between them. High odds the mercs had split up and were stationed at each container, covering both directions with their weapons. Smart move. I scooted back and brought Chambers up to speed on the battlefield situation.
“Okay. Our best bet is another dash for the kitchen tent. It will have supplies and a stove and other solid items that will help stop their fire. It also positions us for more options. This spot sucks.”
We were both flat on the ground and facing each other, our heads three feet apart. Canvas fiber puffs blew from two small holes between us as more bullets ripped through the tent.
“Then let’s not dally, Lee. ‘Sucks’ does not do justice to our current location.”
“I’ll provide covering fire while we run. It’s about twenty yards, so stay on my ass.”
I leapt up and turned the corner, firing as quickly as my finger could pull the trigger. The shots rang against the closest container door and forced the merc stationed there to duck back behind it. I made a sliding stop behind the kitchen, Chambers right with me. The Bolivian war cries increased in volume. They had a ringside seat for our advance. Shots continued in our direction, although fewer bullets made it through the kitchen tent’s rear.
“Right. I like the looks of the Sherpa,” Chambers said, his voice raised over the Bolivians’ cacophony. The mercs sprayed random automatic fire at the villagers’ hidden positions, which incensed them even more. “I picked up three at the first container, two at the farther one. Positioning behind the Sherpa puts us squarely at the rear of both containers. They will expose themselves from behind those swinging doors to have a crack at us.”
“Roger that.” I’d had the same thought. The Sherpa was parked a short distance away.
“I wonder if the glass is bulletproof?” Chambers asked.
“As opposed to tent material?”
“A legitimate point, sport.”
“Ready?”
“Go!”
We made our last dash as I again fired from the hip while running. Then I almost shot Esma.
Chapter 16
She must have shifted west along the hillside and dashed across open ground, using the cover of darkness farther away from the battle. Then approached the containers, blocked from the mercs’ view, and positioned behind the Sherpa. Even among the chaos and killing, a vivid mental banner flashed neon-bright. These weren’t a Bolivian small business owner’s actions. Nossir.
“Are you nuts?” I yelled at her as Chambers and I pressed with her against the vehicle’s rear.
Glass exploded as furious gunfire ripped into the Sherpa. We ducked low. The first container and its three mercs sat thirty feet away.
“Alright. Let’s advance left. We provide our own covering fire. Esma, stay here.”
“No.”
Not the time for arguments, so I scooted around the left rear bumper, fired several times, and took off. I continued firing as Chambers, two paces behind me, blasted his pistol past my left shoulder. Esma followed. Three flesh-on-metal thuds announced our arrival at the shipping container’s rear wall.
Metallic pings sounded from our protective wall’s interior side. A merc had ripped shots toward us in the vain hope they would penetrate the steel container. I jammed in a fresh magazine.
“What is the next move?” she asked, peeking around the container’s corner and firing several blasts at mercs only thirty feet away.
“Keep it up, Esma,” Chambers said, placing a foot on a series of small exterior plates that offered climbing access for the container’s top. “If you would, Lee, cover me from the other side.”
With that, and with no further discussion, he began climbing. I took the opposite corner, shot a quick glance toward my side’s open door, and was greeted with bullets slapping metal near my head. I dropped low, waited for a break in the firing, and exposed myself again, unleashing hot lead toward the enemy. He ducked back behind the open container door.
“Keep after it, Esma!” I said. “Keep them tucked inside!”
My peripheral vision caught Chambers pulling himself onto the container’s roof. Esma and I continued providing covering fire and kept the mercs pinned inside the doors’ protective shield. The second container was directly past ours, its view blocked by the open doors. We couldn’t shoot at them, and better, they couldn’t shoot our way.
The gas bladders continued roaring several hundred yards away. The light they cast wavered, yellow and hellish, with battlefield shadows dancing. The Bolivians continued howling from the mountainside, a dam soon to break. While an MI6 spook climbed onto a shipping container with a sawed-off shotgun and pistol, and a Bolivian supply company owner provided covering fire. Man, I’d seen goat ropings with more forethought.
Chambers made the top and took off on hands and knees. I couldn’t let the dude fly solo on his assault. Elevator time. I called for Esma to keep firing and scrambled upward while she slapped a fresh pistol magazine home. My head cleared the top in time to see Chambers unload one barrel downward. The shotgun’s muzzle blast extended a half-dozen feet, flashing white-bright, the weapon kicking upward. I made the container’s roof, hunkered over, and dashed the seven paces toward Chambers.
Bullets pinged under my feet as the mercs inside tried again firing through steel. Chambers, on his knees, calmly flipped the shotgun backward, the weapon upside-down, pointed toward himself. Thumb on the trigger, he used both hands and lowered the twin barrels over the container’s lip and into the interior. He fired again. Both his arms flew upward with the short, powerful weapon’s recoil.
I kept scrambling and flew past him, hitting air and spinning. I fired blindly into the container before reaching the ground. My muzzle blasts revealed a me
rc hunched over, wounded, as the second one slammed home a fresh ammo magazine. Bad timing on his part. A double tap put him down. A headshot finished the wounded one.
Chambers jumped and landed beside me, cracked open the shotgun, and reloaded from the shells in his pocket.
“This next one might be a harder nut to crack,” he said, voice calm. I halfway expected him to produce his pipe and have a smoke.
He referenced the next shipping container. Its rear wall was twenty feet away. We hauled it and pressed against the steel wall. Well, I hauled it. He walked. The final two mercs were positioned within the same protective open doors’ cocoon opposite our position. One of them continued firing sporadic bursts toward the screaming mountainside. Then the dam broke.
Small moving shadows emerged from the slope’s base. The Bolivians entered the distant gas fire’s flickering light with a mad howling rush of machetes, shovels, and picks. A straight-on attack across a hundred yards of bare ground. Shit. The two remaining mercs opened fire.
Gotta move, gotta fly. Each passing second ensured the Bolivians would get slaughtered. I attacked from the opposite side, sprinting along the container’s side. Skidded to a dusty stop as I cleared my side’s open door, weapon shouldered. Both mercs fired at the advancing horde, their backs toward me, four paces away. Two instant headshots ended it.
The Bolivians swept over us, filled with bloodlust. Each dead merc received multiple hacks and slashes and pickax strikes. They demolished the tents, then set them on fire. I walked away from the scene and stood with Chambers and Esma.
It was over. The entire seat-of-the-pants insane battle was finished. I was at a loss for words and thanked God for the healthy doses of luck that had allowed us to pull it off. To complete it with terminal finality. A flashlight along the base of the hillside shone, its movement indicating a search. Five minutes later, Peterman hustled over and joined us.
