“When you own as much as Macready, you don’t just walk away.”
The machine clicked off, and the spinning drum slowed down to nothing. She opened the front and took the jeans out. They were almost dry. The T-shirt too. She flapped them to stretch out the creases. Grant pushed off from the wall.
“He didn’t strike me as somebody with a firm grip on things.”
She looked up from draping the jeans over one arm. “Scott? He couldn’t grip his wiener. His father. Tripp Macready.”
“Not a man to be messed with, I’ll bet.”
“No.”
“Is that why you’re going to lend me your car?”
Their eyes met and locked. There was no denial. No discussion. She simply opened the desk drawer and took out a set of car keys. She held them in her hand briefly, then put them on the scarred wooden desktop. Then she nodded over Grant’s shoulder at the ironing board and handed him the damp clothes.
“You know how to iron, don’t you?”
six
Absolution dropped away behind him as he headed south. It didn’t take long before the town had all but disappeared. South along Avenue D, across the hump of the railroad crossing, and through rundown residential streets that became more rundown the farther south he went. By the time he reached the outskirts of town, the houses were more like wooden shacks. Cracked tarmac gave way to hard-packed dirt, and that was the best you could say about the road to Adobe Flats. Hard and flat but still wide enough to drive a bus down. American roads always seemed to be wide enough to drive a bus down.
Sarah Hellstrom’s car wasn’t as wide as a bus. It was small and foreign, not a big American automobile. The waitress might well own the diner, but there was no money to spare on luxuries. A big, comfortable car was a luxury. This one bounced and swayed like a bucking bronco, but it was faster than walking. The directions she’d given were simple: turn left on Avenue D and follow your nose. The only place it went was Adobe Flats.
Grant turned on the air conditioning. In Sarah’s car that meant winding down the windows. The breeze moved the air around but didn’t cool it. The interior became less stuffy but was still warm. Dust swirled in through the windows, forcing him to choose between choking or sweating. He compromised, winding the windows halfway up to keep most of the dust out. Adjustments made, he concentrated on the road ahead.
Whereas the streets in Absolution were tarmacked and straight, the road south was anything but. After the railroad tracks and the first three cross streets, the dirt road followed the contours of the land instead of cutting through it. Rocky outcrops and low hills soon shaped what had initially seemed like hard, flat desert plain. Corroded buttes and mesas broke the skyline, and Grant felt like he’d wandered into a John Wayne movie—a smaller version of Monument Valley, where he’d made so many classic Westerns. The road sometimes followed dry gulches and arroyos that could have been creeks and riverbeds if there’d been any water. He didn’t know if there was such a thing as a rainy season, but if there was, then this road would become part river.
There was no grass to speak of. The only greenery came from occasional plants that looked like they came from another planet. Grant couldn’t say if they were cacti or flowering triffids, but they were the only things alive out here—the only things visible anyway. Apart from the cloud of dust following him about a mile back and the glint of sunlight on glass. Not hiding but keeping its distance.
Large hills began to loom on the horizon up ahead. The rugged hills of Big Bend National Park. He knew the road stopped short but wasn’t sure how far it was to Adobe Flats. It wasn’t on the map, he knew that. The inset square on the street plan positioned Absolution in West Texas but wasn’t detailed enough to include Adobe Flats.
“Follow your nose.”
His voice sounded dry and harsh in his ears. He’d only been in Absolution a few hours, and he was already beginning to sound like a local. Apart from the Yorkshire accent. He wondered how long he’d have to stay before his face turned to parchment. The car followed a gentle slope out of the arroyo, then the road crested between two crumbling buttes.
He stopped the car. The road continued down a gentle slope into an expanse of open flatland. The final stretch before the foothills that marked the beginning of Big Bend National Park. The open ground wasn’t empty. A small group of buildings told him he’d arrived at Adobe Flats.
Grant knew they’d been telling the truth before he even got out of the car. Doc Cruz wasn’t here. Nobody lived here anymore. He parked in the turnaround out front of the three buildings that formed a partial square. A ranch-style hacienda, a bunkhouse, and a barn. A stone-clad well stood in the middle of the turnaround, with the remains of the wooden tower and windmill that helped pump the water. It disappeared briefly until the cloud of dust settled. The blades of the wheel squeaked as the breeze kept it turning. It was the only sound once Grant turned the engine off and stood beside the car.
Nobody lived here anymore because there was nowhere here to live. The barn was the worst, burned to the ground apart from the splintered wooden frame and two sections of wall. The roof was gone completely, and the barn doors had collapsed inward. The bunkhouse was nearly as bad because that was a wooden structure too. Lower and wider with smaller doors and windows, but just as much a burned-out shell.
It was the hacienda that forced Grant to catch his breath.
He could picture it in its heyday because it had been described to him so many times. Its heyday was a long time past. The adobe structure had stood up best against the fire, but the roof was missing and part of the walls had collapsed. The front porch was still intact. The glassless window frames were still there. The main entrance too, a heavy studded door that could have kept the Mexicans out if it had been on a different building. A mission that became a fortress. A fortress that became a shrine. The similarities were uncanny. Even in destruction it seemed that Texans couldn’t resist copying the Alamo.
He closed the car door and crossed to the porch. It was solidly built and paved with slabs of stone. Heat reflected off the bleached walls. The sun was high in the hard blue sky. The windmill creaked, the blades casting uneven shadows across the porch. The rhythmic squeaking grew deeper in tone. Thwup, thwup, thwup. Like the ceiling fan at the hotel. Deeper still. More of a thud, thud, thud. A throbbing beat that Grant hadn’t heard for years.
The hacienda might resemble the Alamo, but the buildings it brought to mind were harder and drier and infinitely more deadly. The thudding rotor blades completed the memory. Another hot country. A harsher life.
the Past
There are no friendlies.
—Jim Grant
seven
The rhythmic thud, thud, thud shook the darkened room. Bare white walls and cracked plaster picked out by a single bedside lamp knocked over on the stone floor. The big wooden ceiling fan didn’t cool the room, it just moved warm air around. The thudding grew louder and faster. In sync with the helicopters coming in to land at the desert airbase but closer and more urgent. The headboard banging against the wall as Grant made love in the predawn heat.
The woman gritted her teeth and thrust back at him with equal vigor. Her naked body was bathed in sweat. Dark, smooth skin and nipples like bullets. Lying on her back and urging her pelvic thrusts for even greater penetration. Her breasts jiggled with each thrust. Full and tight even on her back. Hard, flat stomach. Fierce eyes. She reached behind her with both hands and grasped the spindles of the headboard.
“Yes.”
Grant ignored her urging and slowed down instead. He almost withdrew before leaning forward in a long, deliberate move. The woman closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep quiet. He repeated the move. Withdraw, then penetrate. Her stomach quivered. Her thighs gripped tight. She jerked her hips upwards to chase the withdrawal, unwilling to let him pull out. Grant supported his weight on one arm and looked down at the most beautifu
l woman he had ever seen. His shoulder muscles screamed. He used the other hand to hold her stomach down from following his withdrawal. Completely disconnected now.
Her eyes flew open and she shook her head.
Grant nodded.
He eased forward. The woman snarled. Then the rhythm started up again, harder than before. The helicopters were touching down, and their thudding rotors tore up the night. Grant tried to hold back. The woman let go of the headboard and grabbed his forearms. She snatched them from under him and twisted her hips. In one swift movement she was on top, breasts swaying above his face and pelvis riding him like a bucking bronco.
She growled. Grant roared. The explosion of ecstasy shook their bodies until they lay quivering in each other’s arms. Sweat dripped. The ceiling fan finally helped cool the dampness on their skin. The stethoscope hanging from the headboard stopped swaying.
After a few minutes the engines outside cut off. The heavy rotors thwup, thwup, thwupped down to nothing. Grant opened his eyes and glanced at the watch hanging next to the stethoscope.
“Time to suit up.”
Cruz smiled at him. She nodded towards the shower curtain in the corner of the makeshift barrack room.
“You first.”
By the time Grant’s six-man team filed up the cargo ramp of the twin engine, tandem rotor helicopter, the equipment had been checked and the briefing completed. Mack and Cooper stayed together as always, friends since the first day they had joined the Allied Expeditionary Force. A throwback name for several countries banding together to deploy where needed. Like the United Nations, only with a more proactive role. Aggressive, not passive.
The other four were junior in service and age but not experience: Wheeler, Carlino, Adams, and Bond. Mack and Cooper took them under their wings, two each. Grant took the entire unit under his. Three Americans, two Brits, and an Italian. They all kept to the left-hand side of the ramp. Aid parcels strapped to big square wooden pallets were being loaded on the right.
The Chinook’s rotors began to turn, the slow whine becoming harder and deeper as they built up speed. The chopper’s camouflage pattern was still intact, but the unit markings on both sides had been painted over with a huge red cross in a white circle. This was a famine relief drop into the heart of the township. Three miles from the safe zone airbase on the outskirts of town.
Grant stuck three fingers up, then pointed to a row of makeshift seats on the left. Mack peeled off with Wheeler and Carlino. Grant did the finger thing again, pointing to the seats on the right. Cooper took Adams and Bond. All sat in unison. That left one seat on either side. Grant stood between the two squads. He had to shout over the sound of the engines.
“Final check.”
Six heads turned towards him.
“Touchdown in twenty minutes. Predawn.”
Nobody nodded. They’d heard this before but listened as if they hadn’t.
“Mack. Secure the perimeter. Quiet and deadly force.”
Mack looked square and solid in the shadows. Wheeler and Carlino were big but paled in comparison. Grant didn’t think Wheeler had started shaving yet.
“Coop. Snatch team with me. Cover all doors. Put down anyone that moves until we reach the target package. Once he’s secured, withdraw in reverse, folding in on ourselves until we’re back outside.”
The engines were getting louder. The cargo was stowed.
“There are no friendlies. We’ll be in the heart of the township. Aid drop should draw some attention away but expect the main force to hold firm. Once we’ve got the package, fall back to the market square for extraction. Same transport on its return trip. Time on the ground: fifteen minutes. Any questions?”
There were none. Grant threw a glance towards the ramp and everyone followed his eyes. The most important member of the team came on board: an army medic in full combat gear. Grant raised his voice one last time.
“Don’t forget. The target will be dead weight once the medic’s given him his shot. Snatch squad, form into stretcher-bearers. Perimeter team, run interference. That’s going to be the danger time.”
Nobody disagreed. Grant raised one finger to the medic, then pointed at the seat next to Mack. Cruz tucked the ends of the stethoscope into her webbing straps and sat down. Grant looked her in the eyes and sat opposite. Even with her face blacked up and in baggy combats she looked beautiful. They didn’t smile at each other.
The cargo ramp closed with a thump. The engine noise became deafening inside the cabin, and the floor shifted under them. The straps holding the pallets in place creaked. Then they were in the air and leaving the safe zone behind.
Everyone has their own way of coping with pre-action stress. Grant and Cruz had taken care of theirs in the bedroom. Mack chewed gum as if it were going out of fashion. Most relaxed against the bulkheads. Wheeler and Bond argued.
“Just ’cause you share the same name doesn’t make you right. Best James Bond is hands-down Sean Connery.”
Bond threw a withering look at Wheeler. “Come on. Fella wore a duck on his head, for Chrissakes. How realistic is that?”
Wheeler nodded. “In Goldfinger. Yes. Best Bond in the best Bond film. Set the template.”
“Set the tone, you mean. Downhill from there on.”
Wheeler saw an opening. “Exactly. Fucks your argument then. Downhill after Connery.”
Bond wasn’t fazed. “The Bonds that came after him—yes. Up to a point. I mean, Roger Moore. For fuck’s sake…”
Everyone knew what was coming next. They all spoke in unison.
“pink panther films.”
Nobody laughed but everyone was smiling. Bond raised a finger to emphasize the point.
“Goddamn comedies. Dalton and Brosnan weren’t bad, but—”
Wheeler interrupted. “Connery was better.”
“I agree. Until Daniel Craig.”
The chopper changed course. First leg complete. Now it was the long, low run straight down the main road into the township. Mack stopped chewing. Grant took slow, deep breaths. The argument became more heated. Wheeler’s eyes bulged.
“Short and blond, with a nose like a punch bag. Where’s the comma of black hair curled over the forehead? Or the slim features?”
“That’s Fleming’s description. Connery was a truck driver, according to him.”
“But Fleming gave Bond a Scottish heritage after that—because of Connery. Can hardly see him giving him a boxer’s nose halfway through.”
Bond shook his head.
“Short and tough, and a bloody good actor. Tom Cruise is no Jack Reacher physically. But I’ll bet he’ll make a good fist of it.”
Wheeler wagged a finger.
“Don’t change the subject. Just because of Collateral.”
A dull thud hit the side of the helicopter. Then two more. The Chinook swerved, kinking left and then right before settling back on course. Carlino glanced towards the cockpit.
“Are they shooting at us?”
Adams roused from dozing against the fuselage.
“Ungrateful fuckers. Don’t they want their rice and Mars bars?”
Carlino lowered his voice to a stage whisper that was still loud enough to be heard over the rotors.
“Maybe we disturbed morning prayers.”
Grant waved a hand for them to be quiet.
“Too early. That’s why we chose this time. No. This is something else.”
A red light went on in the middle of the roof and the ramp motors began to whir. The copilot’s voice shouted through the tannoy.
“One minute. We’re taking small arms fire.”
Almost immediately a staccato beat stitched holes along the right-hand side. High—just visible above the cargo nets. The Chinook veered left, then back on course. The ramp opened like a gaping mouth at the rear of the cargo bay. The night sky outside
had become dark blue heading towards dawn. Mack started chewing again. Adams stated the obvious.
“That’s not small arms fire. Thought they only had machetes and toothpicks.”
The ramp fully deployed. Adobe rooftops flashed by either side of the opening. The chopper was preparing for dust off. Grant pumped a fist then held the hand up, fingers straight. He rested the other hand across the top to form a T. Time. He whirled a finger three times for everyone to get ready. Harness buckles unsnapped in unison. The chatter stopped.
Dust swirled around the open ramp, towed in the slipstream. The flat rooftops rode higher in the field of vision. The chopper was closer to the ground. Slow and even. Approaching the drop zone. Then the floor suddenly tilted to the right and the tannoy blared a single word: “RPG.”
The whoosh and explosion were almost simultaneous. High up at the rear of the cabin a gaping hole opened in the roof above the cargo nets. Sparks and flames filled the gap and rending metal twisted off into the night. Grant was on his feet and lurching towards the ramp.
“Everybody out. Now.”
Height wasn’t an issue. Speed wasn’t important. Getting out of the helicopter before it slewed sideways into the passing buildings was. There was no time to see who was moving and who was too slow. First rule of combat: survive. Then regroup and counterattack. Surviving meant getting out of there. Fast.
The Chinook lost all control and direction. The front rotor was softening the sudden descent, but without the rear blades it was sliding sideways towards the buildings. The chopper took more bullet hits. There was another whoosh as a second rocket-propelled grenade missed high and wide.
Grant reached the ramp first. They were only six feet off the ground but moving dangerously fast. Others joined him but he couldn’t tell who. They all moved down the ramp at the crouch, using the grillwork for handholds. The dust was a choking cloud, a blizzard of sand kicked up by the thudding rotor blades.
Survive. Then worry about who survived with you.
Adobe Flats Page 4
