Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Bruce pulled up and rotated his right leg inside the house. He tried to move as fast as he could. He hoped the rain had masked the sound of the guard’s fall.

  Bruce scanned the room as he lowered himself down to the wooden floor. A chest of drawers, a low table, a mirror, and the bed decorated the Spartan room. Outside the door he could hear muffled talking.

  Adleman lay on his back, his arms roped together and tied to the top of the bed. Bruce unsheathed a surgical blade and sliced through the ropes. Adleman stirred. He moaned, then blinked.

  Bruce lunged over and put a hand on the vice president’s mouth. Bruce held a finger up to his lips, indicating silence. Adleman’s eyes widened, then he nodded.

  Bruce sliced the ropes by Adleman’s feet, then pulled his legs around. Bruce helped him to his feet.

  “Who … are you?”

  “Later.”

  Adleman put an arm around Bruce’s shoulder causing him to lose his balance and nearly trip over the dead guard.

  The vice president spoke with difficulty. “Are you … all right?”

  Bruce waved him toward the window. “Sprained ankle.”

  Adleman hobbled to the window. He rubbed his hands together. Bruce noticed they were heavily bandaged, but didn’t say anything. Adleman peeked out. “It’s clear.”

  The sounds in the back bedroom had quieted. Cervante didn’t notice the silence for some time.

  He sauntered to the back. When he reached the door to the bedroom, he could not open it. He jiggled the door knob. “Open it—you cannot shock me!”

  He chuckled to himself. The men had enthusiastically participated in the gang rape, venting their frustrations—it was not a woman Cervante had brought them, it was a toy. Something to be used, thrown away.

  Cervante jiggled the doorknob harder. “It is over. Come out now.”

  Still nothing.

  Cervante frowned. He placed a shoulder up against the door and pushed. When it did not give, he stepped back and kicked at the doorknob. Another kick shattered the wood; the door swung open.

  Two Huks lay across the bed, bullet holes in their heads. Cervante’s eyes widened. “The vice president!” He yelled at the top of his voice. “The vice president! Quickly!” And ran from the room.

  Shouting erupted from the outer room. The sound of feet, thundering down the hall, grew louder and louder.

  Bruce reacted immediately. He pushed Adleman out the window. Adleman yelped, then disappeared from sight, head-first. Bruce heard a muffled “Ooof” as the vice president hit the ground.

  Bruce pulled out his radio and punched the on switch. He whipped the M-16 off from around his back as he spoke. “Mother hen—Mayday, Mayday! Pull us out!”

  He had the wits about him to stuff the walkie-talkie into his pocket. Backing toward the window, he kept the M-16 aimed at the door. He reached out with his hand and found the window sill. He managed to get his foot up to the sill when the door splintered open from someone kicking.

  Bruce let go with a burst from the M-16. There was a scream, then the kicking stopped.

  More yelling. Feet running and people jabbering. Bruce’s nostrils filled with acrid smoke from the automatic weapon.

  A round of bullets zinged into the room as Bruce fell over backward. He tried to keep from landing on his ankle and almost hit his head, but he rolled and flew out into the mud.

  Adleman sat up against the house. Bruce waved and shouted. “Come on!”

  Adleman winced in pain. “I think my leg is broken.”

  Bruce crawled forward and grabbed at the vice president. He grit his teeth and stood, ignoring the blinding pain that shot up from his ankle.

  “Come on! Bruce jerked Adleman up and started dragging him; they were in the rain, water covering them. “Help me, you son of a bitch!”

  A volley of shots peppered the area. A zing flew past Bruce’s ear. He ducked and tried to drag Adleman faster. Bruce felt as if his leg would explode any moment—his ankle had to be broken.

  Lights flickered through the rain and darkness, bouncing from the house as lanterns were taken outside. Bruce squinted through the downpour; he couldn’t see any sign of Yolanda or Pompano. All around came shouts and bullets, curses, the tart smell of gunpowder.

  One of the Huks ran in front of Cervante and kicked the door at the opposite end of the house. “Booto!”

  A volley of shots ripped through the door.

  “Back—get back!”

  The man crumpled, blood running from his stomach.

  Cervante took an instant to decide what to do. He ran out the front, yelling at the top of his voice. “The Americans! They are coming!” Out in the rain, he spotted two of his men underneath the overhang by the right side of the house. They looked quizzically at him, holding cigarettes. A group of men poured from the house, rifles at ready.

  Cervante pointed to the high-power microwave weapon in the truck. “You two—start the device. Everyone else—capture the Americans!”

  “Where are they?”

  “What? I only hear—”

  “Which way?”

  One of the men unfolded the three-meter dish antenna.

  Barguyo appeared on the porch, rifle at port arms. He looked wildly around. “Cervante—which way do I go?”

  Cervante motioned toward the high-power microwave. “Stay here—direct the men setting it up.”

  Barguyo took a step out into the rain. Cervante motioned for his rifle. Barguyo hesitated, then, grudgingly, turned the weapon over. “I … I must join the others.”

  Cervante nodded to the HPM device. “You are needed here. Your talent is too valuable to lose.”

  Shouting mixed with the sounds of gunfire came from behind the house. The rain made Barguyo look like a little drenched rat, so hopeless standing there, as he was not allowed to join his comrades. Barguyo’s mouth twitched as he spoke.

  “But what can I do?”

  “The HPM weapon can stop them.”

  “How? I do not hear a plane.”

  The shouting continued. It sounded as if the men were chasing a fox through the clearing.

  Cervante set his mouth. “They did not get here through the jungle. Someone will fly in to pull them out. The HPM weapon will stop them.” He turned to join the others, leaving the boy in charge.

  “Got ’em, got ’em, got ’em!”

  The Electronic Warfare Officer on board the MC-130 Combat Talon looked excitedly up, for the first time all flight. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the blacked-out interior, but he threw his head back and took in the darkness—for relief of eye strain, if nothing else. The Coke-bottle-thick glasses he wore didn’t get in his way as he clicked the mike.

  “Pilot, EWO. Assassin is away from the house, carrying a captive.”

  “Rog, we copy the image up front. Can you make out any details?”

  The EWO squinted back at the computer-enhanced infrared screen. “Negatory. The house is too bright, but—wait! A crowd has come into view. They don’t look like they’re bidding Assassin a fond good-bye.”

  A second passed. The pilot’s voice was replaced by Colonel Lutler’s. “Can you pinpoint the good guys from the bad?”

  The EWO leaned into the screen. He played the small recessed ball on the side of the control panel. The view jumped from person to person, but he still couldn’t get a good ID.

  Two additional figures ran from the house at right angles from Assassin—if it was Assassin. The EWO swore to himself.

  “I can’t get a positive.”

  “Then scratch calling in Maddog right now. There’s too much uncertainty to have them blowing the hell out of everything. Put them on standby.”

  “Sir, what about the Vulcans?”

  “What?”

  “The Vulcan cannons. It might be too tight for the ’15s down there right now, but we could use the IR to direct the Vulcans, at least to lay down a shield until the Black Hawk arrives.”

  “Have they deployed that HPM weapon?”


  “I haven’t spotted it, sir. But as long as we stay at least a thousand yards out, the HPM’s intensity won’t affect us.”

  Lutler appeared at the young officer’s side. He placed a hand on the EWO. “I’ll help the gunner set it up, you sing out and aim it. Have the pilot bring us into range.”

  “Rog.” The EWO turned back to his scope. He clicked his mike. “Pilot, EWO. Lutler will fire the Vulcan.”

  “I know, EWO. I figured that’s what he’d have us do. We’re pulling into position now.”

  Seconds later the EWO heard the side hatch come open and the Vulcan twenty-millimeter cannon swing into place. Colonel Ben Lutler positioned the cannon as the EWO slaved it to the IR sensors.

  Captain Head bypassed the standard five-minute warm-up and punched the main rotor engine after a ninety-second surge. The rotor caught, causing the Black Hawk to vibrate.

  Three minutes later they were in the air, a hundred feet over the top of the jungle. Gould kept in communication with Mother Hen. The MC-130 vectored them in to the south, but warned them to stay away from the house in the middle of the clearing.

  Head looked over to Gould as he pulled his night goggles down. “Tell Zaz to break out the miniguns. The hoist will have to wait.”

  Bruce quit trying to pull Adleman along. He positioned himself under Adleman’s right armpit and lifted, carrying the man.

  Bullets whizzed by, zinging into the ground and sending up sharp splashes of mud. Bruce tried to keep low, but the vice president threw off his center of gravity.

  Step, slide. Step, slide.

  Bruce squinted up, out of breath.

  The jungle was still a hundred yards away.

  Bruce dropped Adleman to the side and swung the M-16 around. The house looked too close. He hadn’t gone anywhere.

  He pulled back the safety and took a knee, aiming the automatic rifle towards the bobbing shapes that came toward him.…

  Lightning. Thunder.

  The sound nearly bowled him over. It came in a long, drawn-out zzzziiiipppp, trailing red light behind it.…

  And it came again.

  Bruce fell back onto his buttocks, stunned. The sound struck again, peppering the area in front of him. Screams came from the house—around the corner and to the far left. Zzzziiiipppp—the sound echoed throughout the clearing, rolling back and forth.

  A Vulcan cannon! Someone was covering him, either from a gunship or a helicopter. The bullets rained down from above at an unthinkable rate, so fast that the ear couldn’t discern an individual round going off. It sounded like one long shot, two- or three-second bursts at a time.

  Bruce found himself breathing hard. He took a moment to allow his chest to slow down, then turned to Adleman.

  The vice president lay on his side. His head rolled listlessly; mud covered most of his body. Bruce put an ear by Adleman’s mouth—he was still breathing.

  Bruce swung the M-16 over his shoulder, secured it, then straightened. He dragged Adleman to his knees and managed to get the vice president over his shoulder. Bruce took an unsteady step, then started for the jungle. He moved as quickly as he could, but now he didn’t look back.

  Captain Head brought the MH-60 Black Hawk around in a tight bank. Gould kept his head glued to the infrared and terrain-following radar, calling out the altitude. There were no obstacles to worry about twenty feet above the tree line. As they approached the fire zone, Gould continued to rely on the electro-optical instruments.

  The clearing they were vectored to was lit up brighter than a centennial birthday party.

  Gould scanned the clearing while Head lowered the craft to prevent them from being seen. They were two hundred yards away. Bolts of Vulcan cannon fire erupted from the MC-130 orbiting four hundred feet above them, inside the clouds.

  Head clicked the mike. “Mother Hen, Fox One. Do you copy our location?”

  “Rog, Fox One. Don’t get any closer.”

  “Rog. Ah, the pickup, Mother Hen. Looks pretty dangerous, even with your cover. Do you want to call in a strike?”

  “Negative, Fox One. We’re saving Maddog—some friendlies might be in the house.”

  Head thought for a moment. He saw sporadic gunfire bolt across the clearing then stop, as the MC-130 trained its cannon on the sniper.

  Head clicked the mike. “Do you have a visual on Assassin?”

  “Ah, we think so. They’re heading for the south side of the clearing. Can you pick up?”

  Head watched the firefight continue. The Combat Talon was doing a damn good job, but there were too many bullets flying. Maybe if the bad guys could be diverted … out in the open the Black Hawk would go down in seconds. Assassin needed to reach the jungle.

  “Negative on the pickup, Mother Hen. What about the Fulton?”

  “Can you drop it?” Head clicked over to the intercom. “Zaz—the Fulton Recovery hardware ready to drop?”

  “Rog-o, Captain.”

  Head flipped back to the ops frequency. “Rog, Mother Hen. We’ll do a quick pass and drop it on the south side.”

  “Do it to it.”

  Head clicked his mike twice, then said to Gould, “Make sure Zaz gets it right the first time. We aren’t going back if he misses.”

  “Right.” Gould spoke quietly into the microphone, talking with Zaz in the back. Head drew in a breath and wheeled the Black Hawk around. Seconds later, they were headed straight for the mouth of the beast.

  Bruce dumped Adleman on the ground, then dragged him a few feet into the jungle, watching out for his leg. The vice president had fainted from the pain. Bruce scanned the area for Pompano and Yolanda, but didn’t see them. God, he prayed that she was all right.…

  The vice president was breathing, and that was all that mattered at the moment. Except for Yolanda.…

  Keeping a lookout through the brush, Bruce pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Mother Hen, Assassin.”

  “Good to hear from you. How’s Lonestar?”

  “Salubrious and copacetic. We’re ready for pick up.”

  “That is kind of hard right now, Assassin. Can you move back to your original drop-off point?”

  Bruce glanced at Adleman. No way.

  “Negative on that idea. Can you pick us up here?”

  “South side of the clearing?”

  “Rog.”

  “Ah, a change in plans. Your friend Fulton is dropping in. Will Lonestar be able to ride the balloon?”

  Bruce exploded. “Negative! Get a chopper down here!”

  “Can’t do that, Assassin. Too much activity. You’ll have to go the Fulton route.”

  Bruce fumed. He said reluctantly, “Rog on that, Mother Hen.”

  “I say again, can Lonestar handle it?”

  Bruce glanced at Adleman. “Rog.”

  “Are you near the pickup point?”

  “Rog.”

  “Glad to hear that. You’ve got some friends sitting at thirty-seven thousand waiting to help you out. After they make their run, you get that balloon up so we can get Lonestar outta there, ya hear?”

  “Rog.”

  “Have you spotted that HPM weapon they’re supposed to have?”

  Bruce shook his head. “Negative. But I can’t see the front of the plantation house.”

  “Okay. Let us know if you find out.”

  Bruce waited a minute before switching the walkie-talkie off. In the distance, gunfire broke through the otherwise peaceful night. The yells had subsided as the Huks conserved their energy for the hunt.

  “Ready, ready—now! Captain Head yelled into the intercom. Zaz grunted, then pushed the bulky package overboard. The yellow tarp covering the device flipped over in the air as it fell the fifty feet to the ground. As soon as the package was off, the Black Hawk returned to the relative safety of the trees, away from the clearing.

  Captain Head didn’t find a place to duck to the ground, but a distance of a quarter mile from the plantation seemed sufficient protection.

  Now it was up to Bruce.


  The package hit the ground with a thud. It bounced once, then took a roll toward the jungle before stopping. Bruce spotted it as it fell.

  He hesitated a moment, then slipped out from the cover of the jungle, dragging his right leg. The rain had slowed, increasing the visibility. He could now make out the plantation house in the center of the clearing. Bolts of minigun fire sizzled the ground, keeping the area clear. No one shot at him—he started to feel confident that things were going to work out.

  Bruce tore into the package. He pulled out a carefully folded balloon, unwrapped the fabric and spread it out on the ground.

  Next came the helium canister, then the harness and a long wind of thick cord. He swung the harness over his shoulder and grabbed the cord. Bruce attached the cord to the balloon and unwound it, backing up toward Adleman. Every two feet, tiny infrared sources lined the cord. The IR would make the line visible to the approaching MC-130 when the balloon was in the air.

  Bruce backed up to the jungle, and then dragged Adleman by the arms into the clearing. His bandaged hands were soaked, and in the dim light Bruce could make out red stains that seeped through the material.

  Bruce struggled with the harness, pulling it over Adleman’s limp shoulders. He laid Adleman on the ground and straddled the vice president’s stomach, grunting to get the harness fastened. Rolling off, he pulled out the walkie-talkie.

  “Mother Hen—ready for pickup.”

  “Rog. Inflate when ready. We’ll have to come around from the south, so you won’t be covered for about a minute. Will you be able to get through the jungle for a Black Hawk pickup?”

  “Yeah. Just hurry.”

  Two clicks came over the radio. Bruce hobbled back into the jungle and pulled out the M-16. He snapped in a fresh cartridge of bullets and made off for the balloon.

  The MC-130 continued to hose down the clearing. Bruce couldn’t see anything move—the gunfire from the ground had almost stopped.

  The quietness should have cheered him, but instead it made his gut churn. Pompano had demonstrated his ability of getting through the jungle undetected, and if that indicated the Huks’ capabilities, Bruce was in great danger.