Blood Lies - 15

by Richard Marcinko

  A good gun, but not the sort of weapon you fire from a moving helicopter with much hope of hitting anything.

  “How close can you get?” I asked Chet.

  “I can get you right on top of him,” he said. “The question is, how close can we get without getting shot?”

  The answer was some twelve feet away. Chet ran a straight line as slow as he dared, roughly fifty knots, twisting in from the southeast. I leaned out of the cockpit, holding on to the frame with my left hand while aiming the gun with the right. I missed my first shot, and my second.

  The third time was a charm. The bullet took out part of his skull.

  Such a shame. I’d been aiming for his heart.

  * * *

  About an hour and a half later, with the sun going down, we gave up the search. There was no sign of Ms. Reynolds, on foot or otherwise, north or south of the border.

  Chet set me down on a dirt road outside of Estacion Samalayuca, where the rest of the team was waiting. Our first target, Oja de la Casa, was about four miles away.

  A herd of wild horses looked over at us as we touched down. They seemed not to care about us at all, until one gave some secret signal and they all thundered off, running toward the yellow-red sun as it lipped the horizon.

  It would have made a great beer commercial.

  I considered splitting up and hitting both places simultaneously, but we had a relatively small force to begin with, and I didn’t want to get too overextended. We made up for that somewhat by launching two UAVs, so we could watch each spot. If we saw something happening at the other location, we could change gears and head there. It wasn’t the perfect solution, but it would have to do.

  I’ve mentioned our UAV a few times now without giving you many details. The “Bird” is very similar to the Israeli Skylark—not a coincidence, since ours was made by the same company. It looks like a broomstick with wings. Beneath the center fuselage hangs what looks like a miniature torpedo. The “torpedo” is a configurable sensor pod; depending on what we need, we can hang different equipment on the rails.

  To watch over the houses during the day, the UAVs had been equipped with optical sensors—a fancy-ass name for a video camera, which beamed its signal back to the command center, an oversized laptop with hand controller attached via a USB port. When I arrived, these were just being replaced by aircraft with a night-vision sensor. This pod held your basic infrared camera, though according to the manufacturer it’s anything but basic; unlike most infrared, the Bird’s can see through a light rain. (Interference from raindrops, whether falling or in a cloud, is one of the main deficiencies of most IR gear.) How well this works depends on your definition of light rain, but we weren’t likely to encounter that problem here: there was a cloudless sky above.

  The Bird runs on an electric motor and can stay aloft for about three and a half hours before the batteries poop out and it has to land. Or in actual practice, crash, since I’ve never found one operator on my team who can actually get the damn thing down in one piece. They’re designed to come apart, however, so as long as the crash is at relatively slow speed, it’s not a big deal.

  Launching can be even harder than landing. Junior is our best operator, but even he has trouble getting the damn thing up. (Yes, that was a pun. Sick but unavoidable.) The procedure is something of a cross between boosting a kite and flying a paper airplane, except that it involves considerably more cursing, at least when Junior is at the controls.

  “Sonofabitchingstinkingsuckasspieceofcrap” appears to be his command for takeoff.

  This is usually followed by a nose dive to the ground.

  His first attempt to launch an IR-equipped aircraft to take over the watch on the first house we were to hit was true to form. The plane loped upward, then dove straight to the ground. Junior retrieved the various parts, pushed them back together, then started running.

  “SonofabitchingF-ingstinkingsuckasspieceofshittingcrap,” he yelled before letting go.

  Obviously the extra curses gave more power to the plane. It headed upward, climbing a good twelve or sixteen feet before once more diving into a crash.

  Trace stifled a laugh. Junior tried again with roughly the same results—this time, the wing hit the ground before the nose. After the fifth or sixth unsuccessful attempt, Mongoose went over and took the plane from him.

  “You’re not cursing right,” he said. And with a stream of foul-mouth expletives and other tender encouragements, he hoisted the Bird into the air.

  The aircraft found a current overhead. Its wings fluttered left and right. Then it began to climb into the darkening night sky, following a preprogrammed flight pattern. Junior went over to the control unit and began flying it toward the target buildings. When it was on-station, he commanded the original aircraft to return. We recovered that—as in, picked up the pieces after the hard landing—then mounted up for the op.

  The target building was a one-story, ranch-style house, similar to something you’d see in the States. It was big for the area, but simple even so—maybe twelve hundred square feet, all told. It was less than fifty yards from the old ruins on the other side of the street, a good match for what Mrs. Snowpeck had told us.

  The infrared sensors on the aircraft were sensitive enough to give us readings on three people in the house. Who they were, of course, couldn’t be determined.

  “She’s not there yet, if this is the right place,” said Junior. “They’re too calm.”

  “Unless they’re dead.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Only one way to find out,” I told him. “Let’s get up close and personal.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Shotgun and I drove past the house. The lights were on in the front room—exactly the spot where the three figures were, according to the Bird. We continued down the road, passing a ruined building where we thought Ms. Reynolds had been kept. Made of stone, the structure was one story high. Part of the roof had caved in, but there was ample space to lock someone up.

  “Church is up there to the left,” said Shotgun, pointing down the road.

  “Find a place to park and let’s check the ruins,” I told him. “Let’s make sure there’s nobody there. Then we’ll go to the house.”

  “You think this is the place?”

  As a matter of fact, I didn’t. But I couldn’t explain why, and even though my batting average on hunches is pretty good, now that we were here it didn’t make any sense to simply blow it off.

  Shotgun pulled into a field on the right side of the road about thirty yards west of the ruins. He went in a ways, far enough from the road so a casual passerby would likely miss the vehicle.

  One thing you can’t control on ops in enemy territory—in any territory, but especially places you don’t “own”—is the casual passerby, the shepherd who happens to get lost on the way home and turns up in a place you never expected him to be. Little accidents and incidents that perforate even the best laid plans—the iceberg that just happens to zig when it should have zagged—can end up sinking you.

  Some call things like that bad luck, but you and I both know it’s really Murphy, playing his tricks. You plan for contingencies as best you can—we both knew what we would do if someone wandered across us, for example—but there is always a point beyond which no one can plan: a spaceship full of aliens arriving would have forced us to punt.

  Neither Murph nor a UFO joined us in the field; there were no shepherds and no cars. Neither Shotgun nor I saw anything as we approached the ramshackle building. I had a new toy with me—what I’m calling Gen 5 night vision. These glasses were the next-next generation of night goggles, still under development by some friends at a company I’ve been asked not to name. They were very light, and where most night gear has lens bodies similar in length to binoculars, these were compact, more along the lines of very thick glasses: the barrels were just over an inch.

  One big problem with night gear in the field is weight. Currently the best units weigh in t
he range of a pound and a half; that doesn’t sound like much, but it can feel like a bowling ball after a few hours. (Straps can be another problem—but now I’m getting picky.)

  These glasses weigh about four ounces. They sacrifice a small amount of range compared to standard units, but we could see to roughly twenty yards with excellent detail. The developers still have some bugs they want to work out, but when these finally come on the market they’ll change everything you know about night vision.

  We approached the ruins from the rear, moving quickly but quietly. Junior was watching via the Bird’s feed and gave us occasional updates; according to his screen there weren’t even ghosts nearby.

  Part of the building’s back wall had fallen at some point in the distant past, making it the obvious place to enter. So naturally, we didn’t go that way. Instead, I took a quick look eastward—the side facing the house—then moved back around to the west. I poked my head through an empty window.

  Nada.

  “Place is empty,” groused Shotgun.

  “Keep looking.”

  “I’m getting hungry,” whispered Shotgun.

  “Keep your mind on your work,” I told him.

  “My mind’s there. It’s my stomach I’m talking about.”

  I ignored him. Getting into a discussion about food with Shotgun is like talking about water with Neptune; the conversation will never end.

  The stones that made up the building had been cut at least a hundred years before, maybe two or even three. Whatever had filled the windows was long gone; there wasn’t even a hint of glass, let alone wooden frames. After poking my head in to make sure the room was empty, I eased myself through one of the openings. I’d recovered fairly well from the bumps and bruises inflicted earlier in the day; my body has been battered so much over the years that it starts to think I don’t love it if it’s not taking serious abuse every twelve hours or so.

  I was in a room about thirty feet by twenty. The roof was intact overhead. The floor, hard-packed dirt, was littered with bits of stone and rubble from a wall that ran about two-thirds of the way through. It had obviously been knocked down at some point, though it was impossible to tell when, or even if it had been done on purpose.

  I examined the walls, looking for some sign that the place had been used to hold prisoners. Suddenly I heard Shotgun curse.

  I looked over in his direction just in time to see something scurrying into a pile of rocks at the far side of the room.

  “A rat,” he said. “I’m jumpy. I almost shot the damn thing.”

  He reached for something to calm his nerves—a fresh stick of red licorice.

  I went to the wall at the far end of the room, and worked around it and through the doorway into an adjoining room. My MP5 was in my hand. By now I realized the odds were almost infinitesimal that there was anyone else inside, but that’s exactly what Murphy wants you to think right before he bends you over and butt-slaps you back to reality.

  I hugged the walls and worked around the room, scanning for booby traps and any sign of habitation. I found neither.

  There were two more rooms. They were both empty. There were no chains or ropes or anything on the walls that might have made it easier to keep a prisoner here. No furniture. No chairs. Nothing but dust.

  Once we were sure the place was clear, we went back through the rooms again, looking for a trapdoor or some other indication that there was a basement. We didn’t find any. I don’t think anything bigger than a rodent had been in the building in years.

  Wrong place.

  I was considering whether it was even worth going to the house when Junior warned us that there was a pickup coming down the road.

  I moved up to the front of the building, watching from one of the window openings as the pickup sped down the road. Just as it drew parallel to us, the driver hit the brakes.

  “Shit,” I cursed.

  “See us?” asked Shotgun.

  “Worse,” I said as the pickup pulled into the ranch’s driveway. “Come on.”

  The driver was out of the truck before we reached the road.

  “Junior, what do you see?”

  “Driver’s got something—damn.”

  “Man or a woman?” Shotgun asked Junior.

  “Could be either.”

  “Everybody move in!” I yelled. “And we want that driver alive. Don’t fuck that up.”

  VI

  Even in my younger days, I would never have been able to sprint the thirty or forty yards from the ruins to the house in the two seconds it took for the driver to get inside.

  I didn’t admit that to my legs or my lungs. I pushed my head down and ignored the stitch in my side, grinding it out with everything I was worth. I left Shotgun in the dust, I’ll tell you that.

  Still, the door was closed well before I got close.

  “We’re going in,” I yelled over the radio between pants for breath. “Shotgun?”

  “Behind you, boss,” he huffed. “Ain’t heard a shot yet. Maybe she’s gonna torture them first.”

  I could only hope.

  Barging through a door without proper backup and preparation is a damn good way to get yourself killed. Hell, even with backup and preparation, door bangers have it rough. But I figured if I was going to save Ms. Reynolds from herself, I had to take a chance.

  What followed wasn’t the carefully choreographed ballet perfected by SEAL Team 6. It did, however, get the job done.

  The door splintered as soon as my foot hit it. I sprang inside, then pushed back against the wall and screamed in English and then Spanish.

  “Hands in the air! Hands in the air! ¡Ahora!”

  I kept shouting. Turning twice, I made sure I had everyone in the room covered.

  I did. The only sound came from the flickering of the birthday candles on the cake in the center of the room.

  We had just busted into a four-year-old’s birthday celebration; the late arrival was mom, just home from work.

  * * *

  The family was exceptionally understanding; they even offered us some cake.

  I made Shotgun refuse; one bite and the cake would be history.

  Nonstop ball-busting was the order of the day as we headed into position for House Number 2. Most of it was mild:

  Gonna be a five-year-old’s birthday this time, Dick?

  Maybe someone’ll pop out of the cake?

  Even the tough stuff didn’t really bother me, though. I always get the last laugh: I sign their paychecks.

  The team snapped back into business posture when we reached House Number 2. We went through the same routine, with Shotgun and I driving by first and checking the ruins.

  These proved more substantial than they had looked from above. The roof material itself was in bad shape, but the broken rafters and truss beams were still substantial. There was also flooring material for an attic, keeping the top of the structure covered. The front door had a pair of thick metal straps for reinforcement, and the few windows were all covered by boards or metal.

  Once again we checked out the area, made sure there was no one nearby, then found a place to park the truck. Tire tracks rutted the field, obscured by weeds. This looked like the place.

  The material over the ruined building was so thick the Bird’s sensors couldn’t see through it. Junior, controlling the aircraft, had better luck with the house. He told us there were two people inside.

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “Could be sleeping,” said Junior.

  “Sleeping or dead?”

  “Can’t tell. I’m looking through a roof. The heat signature is kind of fuzzy.”

  “All right. Keep watching. We’re going to check the ruins.”

  Shotgun and I made a wide arc behind the building before approaching from the rear. It was a quiet night, peaceful, almost silent.

  So quiet, in fact, that I heard the same sickening click Shotgun did when we were about five yards from the ruins.

  “Oh, shit,” he
muttered. “I think I just stepped on a fucking mine.”

  * * *

  The military uses a high-tech airborne system to scout minefields. The devices—officially known as the ASTAMIDS, for Airborne Standoff Minefield Detection System—can be mounted on helicopters, UAVs, and standard aircraft. They work by scanning an area with infrared gear. Because mines are made from different material than the ground around them (duh), they cool down (or heat up) at a different rate, and very sensitive infrared can show them. Under the right circumstances, the mines stand out like sore, uh, thumbs.

  The IR pod on the Bird was not quite as sensitive as the military system, unfortunately. Even so, I had Junior bring the Bird over the area.

  “I can’t see anything, Dick,” he told us.

  “I know what I heard,” said Shotgun. “There’s definitely a mine under my foot.”

  “Did you bend down and look?” asked Junior.

  “I ain’t shifting my weight. Damn.”

  “Relax and stay where you are,” I told Shotgun. “I’ll get you out.”

  “In one piece, right?”

  “There’ll be at least one piece.”

  “Ha. Well, I’m just going to eat while I wait.”

  The next ten minutes passed the way time always does when you’re having a real blast … or are one wrong step away from one. I worked myself over to Shotgun, retracing my own footsteps and then coming back up in his. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled the last yard or so.

  The ground seemed hard-packed and undisturbed. I took out my knife and gently probed—very, very gently.

  “You’re sure you heard something?” I asked Shotgun.

  “I heard it,” he said between chews. He’d taken his emergency can of Pringles from his pants to calm his nerves.

  I looked around for something to replace Shotgun’s weight with. A direct replacement would have been difficult—the boy weighs three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce—but all I needed was enough weight to keep the trigger from lifting. Most mines are set to trigger at five kilograms, or roughly eleven pounds; put at least that much weight on them, and you’re OK.