Charlie was rooted to the spot of floor he was on and didn’t make a move to follow the captain’s orders.
“Charlie! Move, goddamn it!”
Finally, his paralysis broke as he ran for Marla and then they both quickly disappeared.
“Helena, you skedaddle, too, you’re too big a target.”
Wilcox flinched when he heard the old woman as she chambered a round in her twelve-gauge shotgun.
“You shove it up your ass, Dar Wilcox. This is my property and I don’t plan on seein’ it shot to pieces.”
The captain shook his head as he took a deep breath. On his way to the door he tried to figure out just what in the hell he was going to say to the largest armed force he had seen in the territory since the Canadian army held maneuvers in this area over ten years ago. He didn’t like the feeling of his shaking as he opened the front doors and stepped out onto the porch.
“You men,” he shouted as he took what he hoped was a stance of authority in front of the six heavily armed men who stood in a straight line facing the store, “you’re in violation of Canadian law for illegal automatic weapons and destruction of government property.”
He watched the men as they made no move. They acted as though he hadn’t said a word. Then he felt Winnie step out on the porch and take a position beside him.
“Damn it, boy, I wanted you to stay in the store. The less they know the better.”
“I have a feeling these boys wouldn’t care if there was a Canadian regiment in there with us, Cap.”
Wilcox knew the corporal was right: these men were killers and he was just lying to himself if he thought otherwise. He felt foolish for what he had said to the men already . . . like they would just lay down those horrible-looking weapons and come quietly.
One of the camouflaged men stepped forward of the others. He brought the AK-47 up and rested the wood stock on his hip. He was now only about a dozen yards from the storefront.
“The man and woman who left the store through the back way are now in our custody. Your radio has already been destroyed, both in your helicopter and the aerial for the store. There will be no magical rescue for you. Lay down your weapons, and only what needs to be done will be done.”
Wilcox knew immediately that Helena was right, the man spoke with a thick Russian accent. His dull expression told the Mountie that this man had been through this, or something very similar before. The man’s eyes never once moved, as the others behind him also stood motionless.
“We have men on the way here, we’re not alone,” the corporal said as he held his small nine-millimeter outward with both hands, still pointed low, but pointed forward nonetheless.
The man in front of the line half turned and spoke in Russian. Before Wilcox knew what was happening and even before he could react with a scream of warning, one of the men quickly raised a rifle and with blinding speed fired one shot. The round hit Corporal Winnie Johnstone in the forehead and threw him backward one step until his momentum slammed him against the wooden wall of the front of the store where he slumped and then fell over dead.
“I will not ask again,” the man said.
“My God, my God . . .” Wilcox said as he lowered his weapon to his side.
The man in front of the line of killers frowned once more and then shook his head. He then quickly gestured at someone Wilcox could not see. As he watched, Charlie and Marla were led from around the back of the store, in between it and the icehouse. Marla looked angry as a seventh man held her arm and with the other pushed Charlie out in front of them. Without hesitation, the man who had spoken, raised his AK-47 and fired a three-round burst into the chest of Charlie Kemp, who just stared as if he were dumbfounded by his sudden death. He finally went to his knees and then to the ground face first.
“Ah!” Wilcox screamed at the same time as Marla.
Charlie managed to roll onto his back and look up as the man holding Marla pulled her by the hair. The man with the AK-47, its barrel still smoking stepped up to Charlie and raised the weapon one last time and fired one round into his face. Then he turned away with no expression and looked at Wilcox.
“I said, drop your weapon. You see what happens when I am forced to give an order twice.”
Wilcox tossed the nine-millimeter out onto the gravel. Then he didn’t know what to do, raise his hands or keep them lowered.
“Thank you,” the large crew-cut Russian said and raised the AK-47 one last time and fired another three round burst into Wilcox from twelve feet away. One of the rounds hit the plate-glass window and it shattered. Helena screamed and then rushed out onto the porch. She saw Dar Wilcox and tossed her shotgun away as she went to his side. The captain of Jackson’s Bluff RCMP Station 12 was dead as she kneeled beside him.
The leader of the group gestured for the man holding Marla to take her to the old woman.
“Finish this business and let’s get back to camp, we have wasted enough time here.”
The man smiled and then started pulling Marla toward the store.
“Wait,” the man said as he held up a hand. Then he cocked his head to the right as if he were listening for something. “Throw both of them in the freezer and then come back out here.”
The man stood with a struggling Marla squirming in his grasp waiting for an explanation.
“Move, you fool, we have company.”
As the men listened, they heard the sound of an aircraft as it approached from beyond the bend in the river. The leader, Gregori Deonovich, saw something that made him blink. An old-fashioned seaplane, the likes of which he had not seen since he was a child came around the bend in the Stikine, its large wings tilting so far over that it looked in danger of hitting the rushing river only thirty feet below it.
“Take them inside. We may need them if something unexpected comes of this.”
The man ran, dragging Marla with him and then he gathered up the old woman with surprising strength.
Without shouting one order, Deonovich sent his men scattering. They immediately took up firing positions but he knew they had moved too late as the Grumman seaplane fell lower to the river—he couldn’t believe his bad luck, the plane was going to land at the fishing camp. He actually saw the man piloting the old craft wave a greeting, and then lower it as fast as he had raised it.
“Bring that aircraft down!” he shouted.
Suddenly, five automatic weapons opened fire on Alice Hamilton’s antique Grumman, and as they emptied magazines into the plywood frame, the Russians became more than happy as they saw large pieces of wood flying off the seaplane as it started falling for the river below.
Deonovich smiled as he knew the plane couldn’t maintain its integrity with the large caliber rounds slamming into it.
“Sorry, my friends, this is the wrong day to come and fish this end of the river.”
Ryan released the autopilot with little fear. He had disengaged the new system Alice had installed several times during their long flight just to get a better feel for the ancient Grumman. Will Mendenhall, suffering from a severe backache and stiff neck from his rotten sleep in the cabin, had gratefully spelled Collins to keep Ryan company on the last leg of the flight into the fishing camp.
“Well, here we go, hang on back there,” Ryan called out as he reduced power to the two Pratt & Whitney engines. The Grumman started to ease itself from the sky as Jason watched out of his side window at the approaching Stikine River far below.
“Damn, that has to be the most twisted river I’ve ever seen. You sure you can land this thing without cracking up?”
“Come on, man, when a navy pilot can’t land on water, something’s wrong, wouldn’t you think?” Ryan said, smiling as he pumped down the hydraulic wing flaps while using his other hand to turn the large rudder. “It’s not like we’re coming into a hot LZ or anything.”
“Hey, I thought you only landed on carriers. Have you ever landed in the water before?”
“No, in the navy we call that crashing,” he said as he agai
n looked out of the side window and saw some men on the riverbank below. He raised a gloved hand and waved, and then he saw what those men were carrying and dropped his hand. As the Grumman made its shallow dive, there were several loud thumping noises.
“What in the hell was that?” Will yelled over the loud engines.
“Take evasive action, Ryan, we’re taking ground fire!”
Mendenhall heard the call from the rear cabin and knew it was Captain Everett who had shouted, but at first he couldn’t comprehend what he said.
“Did he say . . . ?”
Before Will could get the whole question out of his mouth, heavier caliber rounds slammed into the windscreen, and then he heard some more pinging and whacks coming from the two engines above.
Ryan struggled to add power to the two engines and started pumping the flaps back as the seaplane started to rise back into the air. He managed a look out of the side window, a single bullet passed through the glass and just missed his head, but it did tear the twin throttle controls on the upper control panel out of his grip as they both sheared off and went flying into Mendenhall. The engines were now at full power and unless Ryan cut the fuel off, they would crash into the trees or the river at full speed.
Ryan cursed and tried to look through the shattered glass. What he could make out was several men down below up on the riverbank kneeling and firing into the seaplane.
“We have men on the ground, a dozen feet from the river,” he shouted for the benefit of the colonel and the others in the back.
Jack and Everett beat everyone into action as thirty holes stitched themselves through the plywood hull of the flying boat. Three would have hit Sarah if she hadn’t had two rolled-up sleeping bags piled in front of her; still, the powerful rounds knocked the wind out of her as goose down went flying in all directions.
Collins started throwing camping gear everywhere as Everett joined him, unceremoniously throwing Charlie Ellenshaw into the small aisle. The Grumman lurched and went almost upside down and then righted itself, throwing Jack and Everett off their feet. Jack stood and grabbed the first M-16 from the plastic container that had been buried under the rest of the gear. He threw the short-barreled M-16 over his head, not caring if it hit anyone. Sarah, finally getting her wind back into her lungs, ducked as an arm shot out and took the airborne automatic weapon. As she turned, she saw Henri Farbeaux holding the weapon and then throwing himself over three folded tents as he quickly smashed out one of the small round portholes that lined the side of the aircraft.
“Here, Punchy,” Jack shouted as he threw him another M-16. “I expect you remember how to use one of these,” Collins said as he reached for another just as a red hot round tore through his jacket at the shoulder.
“If I don’t, I better remember damn quick,” Alexander said as he didn’t bother to smash out one of the portholes, but instead sent several 5.62 millimeter rounds through the glass before throwing himself prone and opening up at anything along the fast moving riverbank.
Everett took a weapon and slammed home a magazine. “Jack, I don’t think someone down there is all that impressed with Alice’s plane.”
Collins heard a loud creak and then a bang as one of the engines froze up. When he looked up, he could actually see the holes in the upper cabin where engine parts had blasted through the wood.
“We’re hit!” came a shout from the cockpit.
“Ryan really has a way of stating the obvious,” Collins said as he started slamming the butt plate of the M-16 against the thin marine plywood hull. It only took about six hits before he had a hole large enough for he and Everett to fire from.
“Alright, give ’em hell,” Everett screamed above the damaged engines.
_______
Deonovich was satisfied when he saw the starboard engine of the seaplane burst into flames just as the rising Grumman went flying past at a hundred feet and climbing. The Russian saw large chunks of wood careen into the air as his men continued to pour accurate fire into the old wood of the plane. Then his expression quickly changed as something caught his eye. He knew he must be imagining the sight he was witnessing: The ancient aircraft was actually returning fire. That observation was quickly punctuated and verified by thirty rounds striking the rocks and gravel of the riverbank. Two of his men screamed in shock and fell backward onto the ground, two holes each in their chests.
Deonovich decided that retreating to a covered position was probably the healthiest choice he could make in the next few seconds as the aircraft continued a withering return fire at their antagonists. Whoever these people were, they surely were not your ordinary fishermen.
Ryan was struggling with the dying plane. The river ahead looked shallow in too many places and the bends in the Stikine looked to be too close together for a straight in landing.
“Goddamn it, there’s no place to set this bitch down!” he said through clenched teeth as the wheel assembly started shaking in his hands. “We have to turn around and land in the deepest part of the river in front of the fishing camp.”
“Hey, buddy, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but there seemed to be some not-so-nice people back there shooting bullets at us!” Mendenhall said, feeling really out of place without a weapon; so he did the next best thing—he pulled his seat harness as tight as he could.
“Colonel, I have to come back around, I suggest you clear those people from the beach!”
Collins didn’t answer, he knew Ryan had to do what he had to do and didn’t bother the navy pilot with what he really wanted to scream out—Are you nuts! Instead, he reached down and tossed everyone fresh magazines.
Everyone in the cabin was tossed to the left side of the plane as Ryan turned the Grumman for everything the old girl was worth. The one remaining engine screamed at full power as the other burned through its wing mounts. The smell of burning wood and its smoke started to fill the cabin and the cockpit. Still, the old seaplane responded as Ryan completed the turn just as the colonel and the others opened up again on the approaching beach.
Ryan knew a catastrophic failure was only a second away when he heard the loud crack of the wing header just above them.
“Oh, shit!” Mendenhall yelled as he heard the same horrifying crack. “That didn’t sound good at all.”
Ryan pushed the wheel all the way forward, bleeding off altitude as fast as he could, even threatening to bury the Grumman’s nose into the river below. They were being raked by machine-gun fire but not at as heavy a volume as before thanks to Collins and the others. However, Ryan knew that was the least of their problems at the moment.
The seaplane flared out, nose up just as its right-side wing float was shot free. It fell off and struck the water and then bounced up into the fire-damaged wing, creasing it along the line of bolts that held it together with the fuselage. The old plywood structure was not meant to sustain that much damage or debris impact, and so, just as the boatlike prow of the seaplane hit the river, the right-side wing let go, shearing off at the cockpit. The seaplane hit and spun in the water, the left-side float hit and dug into the fast-moving river and, even though the Grumman was traveling in the same direction as its southern flow, the float dug in and then tore free, but before it did, it was like sticking a ball bat into a large fan—the plane spun, tearing off the remaining wing and smashing the fuselage into two pieces. As quickly as they had hit the water, the old collector’s item was in pieces.
As Deonovich saw the destruction before him, he stood from behind the tree where he had taken cover. He shook his head at the tenacity of whoever was inside of the destroyed plane. It had been surprising that his antagonists had put up such a quick and terrible defense. He looked around and saw that three of his men were down and one other was injured.
“Remarkable,” he mumbled as he stepped toward the Stikine to watch the debris of the seaplane as it started its run down river. “Utterly remarkable.”
As the Grumman rolled over onto its back, the tail section and most of the cabin spe
d by the cockpit in an out-of-control rush down the Stikine. Inside the cabin, Collins had had the M-16 he was holding smash into his shoulder as he was firing, coming near to separating it. As the water rushed inside, he saw Sarah as she fell from what had been the cabin’s floor. In a flash, he saw the Frenchman grab her and then they both vanished in the rush of water. Collins knew that Sarah could be in no better hands other than his own.
“Charlie!” Everett shouted.
Collins looked around as the cabin slid completely under the rushing water. He still held the M-16 in his right hand as he used his feet to push off of a shattered rib strut. He felt the river grab him as soon as he was free of the cabin. He felt another, and then another person slam into him as he fought to get to the surface.
“Goddamn it, those bastards are still shooting at us!” Everett shouted as he surfaced, and then his words were cut short when he swallowed a mouth full of water.
Jack felt the rocky bottom of the river and tried to gain what balance he could. He felt a strong arm pull him fully back into the water. It was Punchy Alexander; he had both hands free and was pulling Jack as close to shore as he could get. All around them, geysers of water were shooting skyward as bullets from upriver struck all around them.
“Did anyone get Charlie out?” Jack shouted.
“Hell, I don’t know, but if we don’t get to the bank we’re going to get our asses shot off,” Alexander screamed.
As Jack and Punchy gained the shore, he heard an M-16 open up somewhere in front of them.
“That damn Frenchman is fast, him and that little girl are giving us cover fire. Now let’s go, Jack!”
Jack stumbled as he gained the rocky shoreline and fell, Punchy continued pulling him. “It would help if you got up and used that damn weapon in your hands.”
Jack realized he still held the M-16 and quickly rose to his feet just as three rounds narrowly missed his head. He saw Everett start firing from a prone position ten yards away. He quickly aimed at anything that didn’t look like a tree upriver and opened fire.
Primeval: An Event Group Thriller Page 24
