Marshall dropped down on the fleeing ’51 like a hawk on a pigeon. When he had closed the distance to killing range and finally locked his target on the elusive Mustang, he smiled and pulled the trigger of the devastating Gattling gun.
Cody, the iceman, waited until the last second before Marshall fired, then snapped the stick back and to the right and all but stalled, practically stopping in mid-air.
Marshall had never been in combat. He was a good National Guard pilot, but certainly not a great aviator. Unfortunately for him, he was up against a man who made the airplane a part of him—whose body fused with the metal, the leather, and the instruments. Cody’s lack of fear and his natural, intrinsic understanding of flight made him closer to a bird than a man. Cody Joe was as good as they got.
Marshall was concentrating so much on the kill that he was amazed when he pulled the trigger and two things happened: First, a millisecond before the murderous cannon fire erupted from the belly of the Falcon, Cody’s plane broke hard to the right and arched upward. The fusillade of projectiles passed harmlessly under the P51. Secondly, Marshall, being inexperienced, came in too hot and realized too late that he was overshooting the Mustang, screaming right by and below it. An experienced war pilot would have hit the afterburners and been in Louisiana before the man in the ’51 had a chance to think about it. Marshall did just the opposite. He chopped the throttles and hit the air brakes in order to slow the plane and bring it around quickly for another shot. That was exactly what Cody had hoped he would do.
When the jet passed beneath the Mustang, Cody slammed the throttles to the firewall and hit the water/alcohol injection system switch for that powerful burst of additional horsepower and speed. The big Rolls Royce engine whined and Cody dropped onto the tail of the slowed F-16 at over five hundred and forty miles per hour, his machine guns relentlessly hammering out a tempo of destruction for the trapped jet and its careless pilot. The few moments that Marshall used to slow and control the speeding aircraft were fatal. As he banked out, the ’51 closed on his left rear quarter and hammered the plane with a line of .50-caliber bullets from stem to stern. The glass in the cockpit shattered as the huge machine gun rounds impacted and tore through, slamming into Marshall and bouncing his body like a man attached to a live electric wire. A red mist filled his vision, and as the calm darkness of death crept over him, his last thought was: Who the hell was that guy? The jet rolled over and began a gliding trajectory toward the far mountain where, seconds later, it buried itself in a ball of smoke and flame.
That guy was William J. Cody, Jr., probably the finest light plane pilot in what was left of the United States of America. And as he did a victory roll across the cloudless, blue, Arkansas sky, he realized that even for a man as accustomed to living his fantasies as he was, he had just experienced the nearly impossible challenge—and had come out on top. Cody howled like a wolf and rolled the plane again, just for the sheer hell of it.
CHAPTER 21
A jubilant Travis and Cody returned to the homestead to find the preacher and the sensei sitting on the steps of the front porch. One look at their faces, and Travis’ excitement evaporated. “What’s wrong? Where’s Christina? Where’s Todd?”
The preacher looked up, his eyes filled with apology. “They hit the place while we were gone. Travis, I’m sorry. Will was killed, and they shot Carlos and left him for dead. They must have taken Christina and Todd with them.”
Travis felt tentacles of fear wrap around his insides and squeeze. Perhaps for the first time, he was fully aware of the width and depth of his love for those two people. They had taken his family. His family. At the thought of them being harmed, he was consumed by a coldly murderous detachment. He would get them back, and he would kill Rockford or anyone else who stood between him and those he loved.
Travis looked down at the preacher. “How long ago? What happened?”
“All we know is what Carlos was able to tell us, son. He’s sleeping now, and lucky to be alive. Seems they shot him as he ran for the back of the house. The bullet only grazed his head, but it was enough to knock him out, and he tumbled down the cliff in the back. Like I said, it wasn’t a real bad wound, but it bled a lot. He musta looked dead, layin’ down there on the side of the hill, with his forehead all bloody, so they left him. We found him and bandaged him up. He’s a little dizzy, but he’ll be okay.
“Carlos said about thirty or forty of them came out of the woods on the run. They shot Will as he headed for the house to warn Chris. She musta’ put up some kinda’ fight. There were two of them dead in the living room and one dead on the front lawn. There was one more in the kitchen, but it looked like Ra got him.”
At the mention of Ra, Travis panicked again, knowing that the animal would die before letting them touch Chris or the boy. “Ra, where is he? What happened to—?” Just then, the dog came through the front door, moving a little slowly, and favoring his front paw. Ra limped over and nuzzled Travis gently, almost as if he sensed the tragedy in the air. Travis breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the great, black animal, realizing once again how expansive his family had become.
“Somehow they locked Ra in the cellar,” the preacher continued. “Close as I can figure it, they must have knocked him down there after he attacked the guy in the kitchen. He’s got a good lump on his head but it looks like he’ll be all right.”
Cody put his hand on Travis’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, buddy, I’m really sorry. Whatever you want to do, whatever needs to be done, you know I’m in.”
The preacher stood up. “Travis, I’m sure I don’t have to say it, but the sensei and I are ready when you are.”
Behind him, the sensei, who was still sitting on the porch, got up. “Travis—all of you—we want the same thing, but now is not the time to go off unprepared. We need information. We have to know where they are, and what to anticipate. Cody, do you think your man in the camp can get us this information?”
Cody paused before answering. “He missed it on this one, and I’m sorry. But given the circumstances, my bet is, he’s going to know exactly what’s happening now.”
“Very well,” said the sensei. “Then return home and make sure your property is secure. Contact your man. Get the knowledge we need as quickly as possible and call us on the van radio tomorrow morning.” The Japanese turned to Travis. “Trust me, my friend, and try to remain calm. We can only succeed if we prepare intelligently.”
Travis sighed and looked up at the afternoon sky. “I know you’re right, Sensei, but at this moment all I want to do is get in that van, drive into Rockford’s camp, and rip his heart out with my hands. Right now, I need a large dose of your Oriental calm.”
“It is there inside you, Travis. Simply go to the well and draw it up. The lives of Christina and the boy depend on your actions. Remember that.”
Travis took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay, Cody, get going. Find out what you can, and we’ll monitor the radio tomorrow morning. Get us what we need to know.”
Once again, Cody grasped his friend’s shoulder. “We can pull this off, Travis. Trust my old instincts. We’ll get them back, I promise.”
“Thanks,” replied Travis with a wan smile.
Travis’ old friend ran to his Jeep and was gone.
The three of them went inside, and the preacher made a pot of their precious coffee. They talked for a while, then Travis went to check on Carlos.
When he opened the door, Travis saw Carlos was awake. He was propped up on some pillows, looking out the window, a bandana-like bandage wrapped around his head. The Cuban turned a little too quickly and winced as Travis walked over.
“Carlos, mi amigo, how are you?”
“Bien, Jefe, I be okay, just a little dizzy.”
“Good. I’m glad. You didn’t see what happened to Christina and Todd, did you?”
“No, Jefe. They shoot me and Will first, then they take the house. Lo ciento. I’m sorry, Jefe. I did not protect them.”
“It�
��s not your fault. You did your best. We’ll get them back.”
“Sí, Jefe, if we have to shoot every one of them goddamned sons- a-bitchees!”
“Yeah, every last one,” Travis said, who reached over and patted Carlos on the back. “You just rest today, amigo. We’ll need you soon. I’ll make sure you get some supper, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Gracias, Jefe.”
Travis stood on the porch a half hour after sunset and looked out across the darkening valley. Torn by conflicting emotions of rage and fear, he gazed for a moment at the little cherry tree that Will had planted by the side of the house. It stood there in defiance of the darkness, its white petals blossoming, issuing a statement of serenity to the night. A light breeze carried the fragrance of the flowers across the yard and, at that moment, Travis could almost hear the sensei’s calming words and confident voice filling him with peace and strength. Desperation turned to hope, and in the hope he found faith. He raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed that God grant him one last favor—the return of his family.
At seven the next morning, Travis had just begun to monitor the radio when Cody’s urgent voice broke the silence. “Travis, come in. Come back to me!”
“I’m here, Cody, what is it?”
“Thank God I got you, buddy! Listen up! Rockford wasn’t in the camp when we hit it yesterday. It was him and his people who killed Will and took Christina and Todd. When he got back and saw what was left of his compound, he had a fit—actually several of them from what I hear. He’s coming for you today with every man he has left, which I figure to be about two hundred and fifty after casualties and desertions.”
“How much time do we have?”
“They’re on their way now, so I figure you’ve got maybe two hours. I’m sending over a dozen of my men for support. They’re all I’ve got, buddy. I’m gonna try to fuel and arm the Fifty-One again, and hit Rockford as he heads toward you. I should be able to change the odds a little, if I can get ready in time. Good luck, amigo.”
Travis paused. “Thanks, Cody. See you next sunrise.”
“Damned right you will.”
Travis put the mike in its cradle and turned to find the preacher and the sensei, along with the wounded but willing Carlos, in front of him.
“So we fight ’em,” the preacher said.
Travis paused, looking at the men in front of him. “Listen, the odds are not good on this one. Even with the people Cody is sending us, we could be outnumbered ten to one. I’m not asking you to stay for this. I want you all to get in the van and get the hell –”
“Save it, son,” interrupted the preacher. “We ain’t got time for no last-stand-at-the-Alamo speeches. This is our home and our fight, too, and there ain’t one of us here who don’t owe you his life. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Travis looked at each of his friends. They nodded.
“We fight them sons-a-bitchees!” said Carlos fiercely.
Travis was once again filled with an elemental, deep-seated pride in the companions fate had provided him. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do: They’ve got to come at us from the front, through the woods and along the road. We’re going to rig up some surprises for them with the grenades we have left—a little something I saw done in ‘Nam.”
The sensei brought out the box of grenades, Travis got some monofilament fishing line and two rolls of duct tape from the shed, then they all headed down the dirt road to the entrance of the property.
Travis paced off about seventy-five feet into his driveway from the main road and found two big trees, one on either side of the drive. With the clear fishing line, he bound a grenade to each tree trunk, about three feet up from the ground. Then he tied the line to the pin of the first grenade, ran it across to road, pulled it tight, and tied it to the pin of the other one. From there they moved about fifty yards closer to the house, where Travis showed them how to set up the second surprise. The preacher kept watch at the entrance of the driveway as Carlos, the sensei, and Travis moved into the woods on both sides of the road, shinnied up each of the larger trees, and taped a grenade to the bottom side of one of the branches. They then tied a piece of fishing line from the pin, which was pulled out slightly, to a large rock, and set the rock firmly in the crook of the branch. The three men did this throughout the wooded area in front of the house. When they finished, Travis sent the other two back to the house. He found himself a protected spot in the woods, near the road, and settled in.
He hardly had a moment to relax before Eric and Derrick, the two huge twins, arrived with a dozen reinforcements. Travis intercepted them before they got into the driveway, had them park their two vehicles on an old logging road that ran across the western end of the property, then escorted them to the house. The men gathered together and discussed their defense strategy, then Travis had the teams lug bales of hay and equipment boxes to be stacked around the house and the trailer for cover. After that, everyone took his position. Travis returned to his viewpoint in the woods.
It took Cody much longer than he had expected to refuel the big plane and rearm the machine guns—so long that even the cool, nearly unshakeable Cody was in a panic by the time he climbed onto the wing and reached for the cockpit bubble. He slid back the canopy, paused for a moment, and turned to one of his maintenance people on the ground. “Get me my gun. You never know when you might need a Thompson.” The weapon was tossed up to him and he casually snatched it out of the air, then jumped into the airplane. Moments later he was off the runway and headed for Rockford’s convoy.
When Cody reached the area near Travis’ home, he saw the line of military and civilian vehicles only minutes from their destination. He also spotted, to his dismay, another small column of two convoy trucks and a Jeep coming from Alpha Camp. After a final check of the instruments and a quick burst of the guns to ensure working order, he threw the wing over and roared down on Colonel Rockford and his column.
Cody caught them in a long stretch of road about a mile before Travis’ homestead. “Welcome to hell, Colonel,” he whispered as he fell on the column, his machine guns chattering a staccato melody once again. As he streaked by, pieces of pavement disintegrated, vehicles exploded, and men scattered under the bombardment of the huge four-inch bullets. On the second pass, the men fired back from the protection of the woods and granite outcroppings along the road.
Halfway through the second pass, Cody took a machine gun burst through the front underside of the aircraft. The bullets tore into his radiator, taking out all but one segment of his cooling system. They also split a fuel line and, as the high-powered jets squirted the fuel, it splashed across the hot engine and ignited.
Cody had chewed them up badly. At least fifty men were dead or wounded and almost half their vehicles had been taken out, but Cody Joe and his magnificent flying machine were going down. The engine was overheating rapidly and flames were already working their way out of the engine cowling. If he didn’t get down quickly, it would explode and kill him for sure.
Cody kicked the left rudder hard and, with equally heavy stick, threw the plane over the mountain and into the valley as he headed for the flat, straight road below. Unfortunately, the best piece of flat road was occupied by the small column of reinforcements coming from Alpha Camp. Cody backed off and dropped some flaps. It was already getting smoky and hot in the cockpit—he only had seconds.
The officer in the foremost truck of the convoy couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the WWII fighter plane, with smoke and flames belching out of it, coming right down at him. As Cody made his emergency approach five hundred yards in front of the column and fifty feet off the ground, he opened up with his machine guns. Few pilots in the world would have had the composure to initiate a coordinated attack while in the process of making a crash landing in a smoke-filled, burning airplane. Cody, however, was one of those pilots.
The driver of the lead truck slammed on his brakes and gaped in disbelief as twin lines of .50-caliber bullets
ripped up the road in front of him and worked their way into the front of his vehicle. The huge bullets tore through the engine, the cab, and into the gas tank, which exploded in a fiery roar, throwing the destroyed vehicle on its side. Cody hit the road, bounced ten feet into the air, and came down hard a second time as he drew the stick back to lessen the impact. That time he stayed on the road, but he was still moving too fast toward the burning truck and the vehicles behind it. Unable to stop the plane before reaching the immobilized truck, and unable to get far enough off the road to avoid contact, he lost the tip of his right wing to the overturned cab. It slowed him considerably, spinning the nose of the plane away from the oncoming vehicles.
The men in the second truck, a hundred yards back, stared in shock as the smoking Mustang finally careened to a halt. The shock turned to terror as Cody jammed the left rudder and hit the throttle, slowly spinning the airplane around at them while simultaneously firing those devastating machine guns. Bullets danced across the field and onto the road, then into the truck, as the burning aircraft turned. When the stream of bullets reached the truck, Cody stood on the brakes and held the trigger down. The second truck was ripped apart, and exploded like the first, torching the occupants.
There was so much smoke in the cockpit that Cody couldn’t see anymore, and his shoes and the bottoms of his pants were catching fire. He ripped open the canopy and jumped out onto the wing just in time to see a Jeep carrying two officers come bounding around the burning truck and screech to a halt fifty feet in front of him. Without pausing, he reached into the cockpit and grabbed his Thompson. The two men had just begun to stand, drawing their side arms, when Cody opened up from the hip, blasting out the windshield and knocking both men from the vehicle with the heavy .45 slugs. Cody jumped off the wing, ran over to the far side of the Jeep, and threw himself to the ground behind it just as the gas tank on the plane blew.
The New Madrid Run Page 26
