Texas Showdown at-3

by Don Pendleton

  The helicopter's pilot got the rotors turning. Pardee leaped through the side door. He slung his M-16 over his back and moved into the door gunner's seat. As the other soldiers filled the Huey's interior, Pardee checked the swivel-mounted M-60.

  Rotor blast blew the cut-brush camouflage away, creating an open circle in the midst of the "overgrown" airfield. Dust clouded around the helicopter, then the earth dropped away and the hangars and landing strip revolved beneath them. The second helicopter lifted away.

  Pardee spotted the plane. He flipped up the M-60's rear sight and jerked back the cocking lever to chamber the first .308 round. "Close on them!" he told the pilot. "Come up on their left side."

  The helicopter gained on the small plane. The Piper dived, zigzagged. The helicopter closed to four hundred yards. Pardee squinted through the rear sight, fired a burst, not bothering with the elevation adjustment. Soldiers leaned against their safety straps to fire their M-16s. Hot brass flew everywhere.

  "Save your ammunition, jerk-offs!" Pardee screamed at them. He saw the plane soar upward. Guessing at the distance, Pardee fired, holding the trigger back. He followed the climb of the Piper, saw sparkling glass fall from the plane. He still held the trigger back until the M-60's belt kinked, jamming the weapon. As he pulled the belt straight, he saw the Piper dive, wings wobbling.

  Smoke trailed from the small plane's engine cowling. The helicopter closed to within a hundred yards as the plane straightened out. Then veered. Pardee saw a flat stretch of desert ahead. The Piper dropped its flaps to lose speed. It would land on the open stretch.

  Pardee flicked up the M-60's safety. He turned to his soldiers. "Ready for some good times? We're going to have some prisoners to play with!"

  * * *

  Paxton smelled gasoline and excrement. Numb with shock, he pushed at the weight against him. His hands sank into something flesh-hot. He opened his eyes for the first time since seizing control of the stricken plane and landing it in textbook perfection, his breath held throughout. He found himself looking directly into the empty skull of the pilot. Three-zero-eight slugs had taken away half the man's head, exposing the sinuses and membranes of the skull's interior, as if for some medical display. The sprayed brain clotted on Paxton.

  Shoving the horror away, he turned to Navarro. Jagged metal cut him. "Lieutenant...you alive? We got to get out. The gas tank's burst."

  The helicopters roared over them. Paxton glanced out the window, saw them touching down in a storm of dust. "Lieutenant! We have to get out! The helicopters are landing. And those soldiers aren't United States Army. They'll come and finish us."

  Navarro sucked air. His face was white with pain and blood loss. He cupped his hands over a gut wound. Intestines showed. His voice trembled as he spoke. "You go. I stay. I have my pistol."

  His face twisting with pain, Navarro found the Browning Double-Action. Paxton took the pistol from his bloody hand.

  "The first shot would ignite the gasoline."

  "Then go. When they come, I shoot."

  "No way, kiddo." Paxton looked down at his short leg. Shards of plastic and bent aluminum hung out of his ragged pant leg. "My phony leg's all shot to shit and I don't have a crutch. I need you for the three-legged race."

  "What is a three-leg race?"

  "A joke, kid. A joke." Paxton looked outside, saw soldiers in khaki— and rust-camouflaged fatigues approaching. A voice bellowed: "Take them alive! Alive, you hear me, jack-offs!" Paxton recognized the voice. He turned to his wounded friend. "Hold on. I think I can work something out." Then he shouted out the window: "Hey! Pardee! Guess who you just shot down?"

  * * *

  Wrapping duct tape around his shattered plastic leg, Paxton watched Pardee leaf through his notes and photos on the three federal agents. Pardee studied an eight-by-ten blow-up of the three men with Hal Brognola.

  "This fourth guy is a federal? You positive?"

  "Go back a few pictures — that one. That one was taken in Washington, D.C. Look on the other side, there's a photo cut out of the Washington Post. Read the caption. Compare the names and faces. You tell me if he's official."

  "Oh, man. Have we been had."

  "They infiltrated your operation?"

  "Worse. The commander's covering for one of them. Don't know why, but he is."

  "The commander? Who is he?"

  "A candy ass named Furst. You wouldn't know him. He's never worked Latin America. Playboy warrior."

  A soldier rushed into the room with a sheet of paper. He went to Paxton. "Good news, sir. Your man's going to be okay. They got him to a hospital in Madera. The doctor said he'll live through the gut wound. And the leg wound's a simple through and through. No breaks or compounds. Here's the address of the hospital and the name of the doctor."

  "Thank you..."

  "Now get out," Pardee sneered at the soldier.

  Paxton laughed. "Same old Pardee."

  Leaving the photos, Pardee went to the broken window viewing the airstrip. "Who knows what those federals are doing up there? I can't risk flying back until after dark. And I can't risk the radio. If Furst is in it with them... well, thanks a lot, Paxton. I'm up shit-creek. But at least I know it now."

  "Hang it up," Paxton suggested. "Take your men and helicopters south. I got a job for you. Thousand a week in El Salvador, popping college students who think they're revolutionaries. Easy money."

  Pardee grinned, all the scars on his face standing out. "Thanks for the offer. But tonight, I give myself a promotion. Commander of the Texas Irregulars. Thousand a day, and a million-dollar bonus if I make my kill. And I always make my kill."

  * * *

  Even as the Mexican plane passed over the base, Gadgets finished the last of the transmitters. Each the size of a credit card, Furst studied them, held them up to the light to peer at their tiny components. He closed his hand around all five.

  "I could have made them smaller," Gadgets told him. "But I just don't have the equipment here."

  "Perfectly all right. You will be monitoring these until I return?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll make tapes."

  "Good. I have to greet our distinguished guests."

  Furst gave him a quick salute, started out the door, stopped. "We are on the same team, are we not?"

  "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

  "I mean, now I'm with you and Marchardo and Lyons."

  "Lyons? Who is Lyons?"

  Furst laughed, rushed down the steps to his Mercedes. Gadgets bolted into action. All day he had raced against the clock to finish the transmitters that Furst had requested. Now Furst had his transmitters. But Gadgets had not had the time to make the receivers. He rushed through the assembly, glancing at his watch from time to time. He needed the first receiver in only minutes, so that he could monitor Furst's conversations with the others from the first word.

  Ten minutes later, he had the first unit. He slipped on his headphones and listened. He heard noises and muffled voices. "Idiot!" Gadgets muttered. "Take it out of your pocket!"

  But then he realized the voices were distant to the "bug." He heard a car door slam, heard greetings in English and Spanish. Frantic, Gadgets searched through the clutter of his worktable and found a jack-cord. He tore open the package of new tape cassette recorder and jammed in some batteries. He set the cassette machine to record the conversations as he assembled other receivers, one for each miniature transmitter.

  The conversations continued, in English and Spanish. They talked of "the revolution," of "freedom from socialism." They discussed careers, experiences. When one man spoke, all the others went quiet. Gadgets guessed him to be the leader of the Mexicans as the others deferred to him and called him "El Rojo."

  "Presidente."

  "Jefe." He told them that his first duty upon arriving at Mr. Monroe's home was to "console his distressed sister." She had radioed to his plane, asked him to put her ahead of the affairs of state. And after all, he will be too busy the next day to visit with her. So if the gentle
men will excuse him...

  Gadgets listened to the sounds of the group arriving at the Monroe estate. As they left the limousine, he heard the voice of the young Dr. Nathan:

  "... forgive Mr. Monroe for not greeting you personally, but his pulse developed an irregularity earlier. So I gave him a sedative. A full night's sleep should restore him. He will greet you gentlemen tomorrow morning."

  They entered the house. Availa Monroe met her brother with tears and joy and Spanish too quick for Gadgets to understand. El Rojo excused himself. His voice and his sister's faded away.

  Switching on his other receivers, Gadgets heard their voices in the study. He started another cassette machine to record their Spanish. From the near-hysterical tone of Availa Monroe's voice, Gadgets thought there must be a serious problem. He heard sobbing, muffled words, and El Rojo's calm and consoling tone. Then silence.

  He turned up the volume of the receiver. He strained to hear wood knock on wood, something clatter, then footsteps crossing the room. The two transmitters captured every small sound. Then he heard what he guessed to be a door bolt locking.

  Continuing work on the last receiver, he listened for further conversation. There was none. But what he did hear made his hands stop their frantic work.

  He heard gasping, frenzied breathing, small cries. The sounds of passionate, even violent sex.

  17

  Parting the plastic slats of the office's Venetian blinds, Gadgets looked across the base street to his workshop. No one moved on the street. He raised the hand-radio he had purchased that afternoon, keyed the "transmit" button once, paused, then three times again quickly. It was their code for "Lyons, Gadgets calling." The hand-radio looked exactly like those issued to the sentries and platoon leaders. Gadgets had modified the three new radios to not only transmit and receive on the frequency of the mercenary radios, but also on a far-distant frequency for Able Team. Unless examined closely, the modification would not be detected. Gadgets repeated the click code.

  "Holy Mother of..." Blancanales swore. Leaning over the office desk, he rewound the cassette for an instant, listened to a section again.

  "They can't be brother and sister," Gadgets commented, watching the street.

  "Who cares. You didn't understand any of this talk? Nothing?"

  "They talked too fast for me."

  "Here comes a translation," Blancanales told him He alternated between the cassette machine's Play and Pause button, translating: "...the old man can't make love like a man... what he makes her do is disgusting...

  "Then El Rojo talks. Her sacrifice will soon be rewarded... the assassination of the President of Mexico by gringos will enrage the people of Mexico... there will be war, there will be rebellion in the barrios of the United States... the fascist gringos can't use their atomic weapons against their own cities, against a country so close to their own... in one stroke, we will create a People's Republic of Mexico and regain the territories stolen from our forefathers...

  "There it is," Blancanales concluded. "Then they make it on the floor. These people are totally off the edge, no doubt about it."

  "People's Republic of Mexico?" Gadgets marveled. "A commie takeover of Mexico triggered by Americans assassinating... Oh, man. Lyons, where are you?"

  "What time does Grimaldi come down?"

  Gadgets glanced at his watch. That afternoon, when he spoke long-distance to Grimaldi at Stony Man, he had arranged for the ace flier to HALO (high altitude low opening) in a parachute drop on the east side of the foothills overlooking the mercenary base. He would then hike over the hills to a position near the base and wait for a signal. He would bring rations and water for three days.

  "He'll be dropping any minute now," Gadgets told Blancanales. "Might even be down already. Where's Lyons? Hey, there he is."

  Slipping out the door, Gadgets whistled. Lyons jogged across the street. He followed Gadgets into the office.

  "Why you over here?" he asked.

  "I took this office for all my receivers," said Gadgets. "Can't have Furst walking in on this — or anybody else. Rosario, tell him what we got."

  "Incest and international communism. Total mind blow." Blancanales went on to describe the taped conversation and sexual encounter.

  Lyons laughed. "These people are unbelievable. But I believe it! If you ask me, I say it's time to shut this crazy camp down. We got El Rojo and his generals up there, Monroe's up there, Furst too. Any word from Grimaldi?"

  "Soon," Gadgets answered. "But what about Pardee? Furst said he's the one who does the 'interrogation.' Pardee must've been the one who killed the two federals. We can't let him get away."

  "Stopping the war's more important," Blancanales countered.

  "The demonstration is tomorrow," Gadgets continued. "We could hijack that super-shooter Huey rocket ship, get them all at once."

  They heard the throb of helicopters. The sound blasted over the base. Lyons grinned: "The gang's all here."

  * * *

  Leaning against the safety strap, Pardee saw the executive jet below him on the airstrip. He shouted into the intercom: "Pilot, don't land! Proceed to the Monroe estate. Buzz the field's radioman, connect me."

  The Huey banked and left the airstrip behind. Through the intercom's headphones, Pardee heard the hiss of radio static.

  "This is the airfield. Is there a problem, Captain Pardee?"

  "That the Mexicans' jet I saw? On the strip?"

  "Yes, sir. Came in an hour ago."

  "Where's Furst?"

  "Commander Furst met them. They all drove to Mr. Monroe's..."

  "Pilot! Pilot..."

  The radio clicked off. The pilot's voice returned. "Yes, sir."

  "Put us down in front of the house. Direct the other pilot to land downhill, between this copter and the security gate. And connect me to Ralston, the platoon leader in the other copter, now!"

  "Yes, sir." The channel switched. "Ralston here, captain."

  "We got a security problem at the Monroe estate. Listen to me. Soon as we touch down, put your men out in a half circle downhill of the Hueys. No one fires unless we're fired on. But if anyone shoots at us, waste them. Sentries, strangers, our soldiers, anyone — waste them. You heard me?"

  "What's going on?"

  "You don't need to know. Do as I told you. Over and out."

  The helicopter approached the lights crowning the mountaintop. Pardee shouted instructions to soldiers around him. They nodded their understanding as they checked their rifles.

  Leaves and torn flowers flew as the skids scraped the asphalt. "Shut off the engines," Pardee commanded into the intercom. He took a last glance to confirm the deployment of the soldiers from the other helicopter, then snapped himself free of his safety strap and dropped to the paving.

  Furst strode from the entry with a cocktail glass in his hand. Several other men crowded from the door, Lopez in his Savile Row men's fashions and three Mexicans in dress uniforms resplendent with rows of medals and satin sashes. The tallest of the three generals, El Rojo, stood with his arm around his beautiful sister, Availa Monroe.

  "What do you think you are doing, Pardee?" Furst demanded.

  Driving a karate front-kick into the handsome man's gut, Pardee sent Furst flying back. He went to one knee on the choking, gagging man's chest, took the .45 from Furst's holster, slipped it into the thigh pocket of his fatigues, then pulled his bayonet. He saw the Mexicans hurrying to Furst's aid. Pardee put the bayonet to Furst's throat.

  "Back up! This man betrayed us. Tell them, playboy. Tell them about the deal with the Feds."

  "I didn't..."

  "You're lying! I saw the photos. All three of them, they're an elite anti-gang squad. Tell us about the deal with the Feds."

  Furst gasped for breath, then screamed into Pardee's face. "I'll have you shot!"

  Bending down and grabbing Furst by his styled hair, Pardee cut off his left ear. Furst screamed and wailed, thrashing under the huge man's knee. Pardee jerked Furst by the hair and s
lammed the back of his head into the asphalt, stunning him. He put the point of the razor-sharp bayonet to the bloody man's eye.

  "You want to live, pretty boy? Tell us about the Feds! Tell us why you betrayed your soldiers!"

  Sobbing like a beaten child, Furst confessed. "This is all insane, we're working for an insane old man. The Feds have already got us. For murder. For conspiracy. For..."

  Grinning at the man's suffering, Pardee grabbed Furst again, this time by the throat, and lifted him from the ground. He held him at arm's length as he turned to the soldiers.

  "You heard!" Pardee roared. "He's working with the FBI. He betrayed Mt. Monroe and all of you soldiers. This is a court-martial and I condemn this informer to death!"

  Pardee jammed the bayonet into the struggling Furst's groin, ripped up, simultaneously emasculating him and gutting him in one long slash like he was a fish.

  He dropped the dying man and watched him thrash and contort in his blood, in his spilled intestines.

  Pardee wiped the bayonet on Furst's uniform and slipped it back into its sheath. Then he pulled out his .45 automatic.

  "One last thing, playboy. You ain't gonna be a pretty boy in hell."

  Pardee fired three times into the dying man's face.

  * * *

  In the dark office, they heard Pardee issue his first commands as Commander of the Texas Irregulars. "Secure the gates! No one comes or goes. Watch for Luther Schwarz, Pete Marchardo, Carl Morgan. They're federal agents. Take them alive! Pilots, start those engines. We'll be returning to the base in two minutes..."

  Other voices continued, but Pardee's faded as he left the immediate area near the transmitters concealed on Furst's corpse.

  Gadgets spoke into his modified hand-radio. "Can you see the camp, G-Force?"

  Jack Grimaldi's voice came from the tiny speaker. "Yeah, I'm about a mile away. Hey, what's going on? About a hundred lights just came on. It's bright as day down there."

  "No waiting tonight. You got here just in time."

  "So what gives?"

  Lyons activated his hand-radio. "Make it to the road, sir. Don't show yourself until we signal you. Move fast, situation red."