“And just why are we going down there?” Coop asked, playing the spoiler as usual.
“He’s asked for our help in positioning and training his troops to slow or stop the advance of the rebels’ armies,” Ben said. “And I’ve agreed to send him our best people at staging guerrilla warfare.”
“And if I may ask, sir, why are you coming with us?” Harley said, a questioning look on his face. “Aren’t you needed here to coordinate the defenses against Osterman’s troops?”
“I’ve reached an agreement with President Osterman, and she’s going to call off her Army in exchange for our providing her with the new vaccine against anthrax,” Ben said, aware that his team knew nothing of his talk with the president of the USA the night before. “Therefore, since I’m doing nothing but sitting on my butt here in this office, I’ve decided I need some time in the field before I go terminally stale.”
“An agreement with Sugar Babe?” Coop asked, screwing up his face. “Do you think you can trust her to keep her part of the bargain?”
“Not usually, but in this case I’ve got the UN. monitoring her troop withdrawals. If she reneges on the deal, we’ll have plenty of warning.”
“So, once again, we’re going to Mexico to baby-sit the Army and pull their fat out of the fire?” Jersey said with disgust.
“Not only their fat, Jerse,” Ben said, “but ours as well. Dr. Buck tells me he needs a couple of weeks before the vaccine takes effect. If we let Loco and Bottger steamroll over the Mexican Army, they’ll be able to get within range to send their BW to our borders before our troops are fully protected.”
“So, we don’t have to kick their butts single-handed?” Harley asked. “We just have to slow them down a bit?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Ben said. “We also need to buy some time while Striginov gets the 505 Bat moved further down into western Mexico and McGowen gets the 502 situated and dug in in the eastern half of the country.”
Mike Post knocked on the door and entered Ben’s office. “Ben, I’ve got the latest intel info for you on Loco’s and Bottger’s movements.”
“Go ahead, Mike.”
“Bottger’s mercenaries are headed up the west coast toward Mazatlan, while the troops under Loco are moving rapidly toward Tampico on the east coast.”
Ben spread his hands. “There you go, guys. We don’t have a minute to waste. Get ready and we’ll move out in an Osprey at 1400 hours.”
* * *
As the Osprey descended from fifteen thousand feet through heavy cloud cover in its final descent toward Durango, Mexico, Ben and the team started to get their gear ready for a quick exit of the plane.
Suddenly, the pilot banked hard to the left and pulled the nose up until the plane was dangerously near stall speed.
“Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot yelled over the intercom. “We’re under heavy attack by three Kiowa gunship helicopters.”
“Shit!” Harley Reno said, dropping his duffel bag and ripping a cargo-hold door open as he tried to keep from being thrown from his feet.
He reached into the closet-sized space and began to dig out parachutes stored there. As he grabbed them, he pitched them over his shoulder to Hammer. “Everybody get one of these on,” he yelled over the roar of the Osprey’s twin engines as the pilot jigged and swerved to avoid the fire of the Miniguns that could be heard even over the engine noise.
Ben’s team quickly slipped the chutes on, and pulled their Uzis over their heads to let them hang by straps across their chests in case they had to bail out.
The Osprey shuddered under the impact of hundreds of 20mm shells as one of the Kiowas dived on the plane as it made a sweeping turn to the left. The right engine burst into flame and the plane nosed down. After the pilot feathered the engine so the prop wouldn’t be as much of a drag, he clicked on the intercom.
“General Raines, there’s no way I can climb high enough to avoid the choppers with only one engine. You guys better bail, and bail fast!”
Harley pulled the emergency release handle on the rear door, and the pilot added, “We’re about fifty miles north and west of Durango. Looks like some heavy jungle down there, so you should have plenty of cover after you land.” He didn’t add, “If you don’t impale yourself on a tree coming down.”
Harley let the door fly off its hinges, torn away by the slip-stream wind, and pumped his fist in the air. “Come on, get the lead out!” he shouted over the noise.
One by one, with Ben going last before Harley, the team dived out into the early evening dusk and tumbled toward the jungle below.
Their last sight of the Osprey was of it angling down, trailing smoke from its engine, two of the Kiowas following and continuing to strafe it with Minigun fire.
As they floated on the air currents, pulling on parachute strings to try to stay together in a close formation, the third Kiowa banked steeply and arrowed at them, its Miniguns winking in the darkness as it tried to shoot them out of the sky.
All of the team jerked their Uzis around and began to fire back at the helicopter, catching it off guard as it drew nearer and nearer. It got close enough for them to see the Plexiglas in front of the pilot spiderweb under the impact of hundreds of 9mm bullets from the machine-guns, and then it turned turtle, smoke pouring from its turbines as it fell to the earth below, a giant fireball erupting and lighting up the night as it impacted in dense foliage.
Luckily, no one in the team was seriously hurt upon landing, though Anna suffered a severely sprained ankle, which Jersey had to tape up from the first-aid kit in her pack.
Ben gathered his team around him and consulted his compass. “Looks like we need to head south by southeast if the pilot had our bearing correct.”
“Shit, just what I was looking forward to,” Coop complained, “another fifty-mile march through snake-infested jungle.”
“Look on the bright side,” Hammer said with a grin. “At least they’re not sending somebody to pick us up from a plane crash with a sponge.”
After the Osprey exploded and fell burning to the ground, the pilot of the lead Kiowa radioed Sergei Bergman in Mexico City.
“Sir, we’ve just attacked and shot down an American Osprey heading toward Durango.”
“Excellent, Jurgen,” Sergei said.
“One thing, sir. Six or seven men ejected from the plane before it went down, and the pilot was on the radio to his base, saying General Raines was in the group and calling for air support.”
“What is your location, Jurgen?” Sergei asked, sounding excited at the chance to get Ben Raines.
“Approximately forty-three miles north-northwest of Durango.”
“Can you intercept Raines and his men?” Sergei asked.
“No, sir. We burned up most of our fuel in the attack on the Osprey. We’ll be lucky to get back to base as it is.”
“Come on home then. I’ll send another team,” Sergei said, signing off.
He put the radio down and rang Bruno Bottger on his private line in his quarters.
“Sir, one of our Kiowas just shot a plane carrying Ben Raines out of the air.”
“Is the son of a bitch dead?”
“No, sir. He and several of his men managed to bail out of the plane. But I’ve got his exact location.”
“Send a team after him immediately. This is too good a chance to pass up, Sergei.”
“Yes, sir.”
THIRTY-THREE
Former Navy SEAL Sergeant Gerald Jones listened to the air whisper through his black parachute as he guided it down with the aid of hand stirrups toward a starlit opening in the jungle. Eleven highly skilled assault troops came from the inky skies above him as their cargo plane, a C-130, swept back to the north at low altitude, staying off Mexican radar as much as it could, flying just above the jungle treetops at dangerously low levels after the chutists made their jump from higher altitudes.
Jones hit the ground, rolling, gathering his chute cords as soon as he came to his feet. All around him, men in
black shirts with blackface greasepaint hit the meadow, tumbling, making as little noise as possible despite heavy packs, automatic rifles, and explosives.
“Down safe, so far,” he heard Corporal Bill Woods say in a whisper, collecting his parachute only a few yards from where Jones landed.
“Yeah. So far, so good. Get the men in those trees at the edge of this clearing. Make sure everybody’s got his chute, so there’s no telltale sign of our landing. Any son of a bitch drops so much as a cigarette butt an’ I’m gonna kill him myself. Pass the word around. The Mexicans may have patrols out looking for Raines too. We can’t let ’em find a goddamn thing.”
“Right, Sergeant.” Woods hurried off into the night to get the assault team together.
Jones gathered his black chute, dragging it from the meadow to a tangle of palm trees. They were on a special assignment for Field Marshal Bruno Bottger, to find where Ben Raines and his men had landed when they bailed out of a plane, and to kill him and everyone with him. The orders were to take no prisoners, but Bottger wanted Raines’s head to prove he was dead.
No one seemed quite sure where General Raines was, despite the best intelligence General Bottger’s men could gather. They knew he’d bailed out forty-three miles north-northwest of Durango, but that was four hours ago. He could be almost anywhere in this stretch of jungle by now.
Jones had only heard about Raines . . . he’d never seen him in the flesh. But if all went as planned, he would get his first glimpse of Raines as a dead man, a bullet-riddled corpse, or a pile of pulpy flesh and bone if an RPG got him first. Jones’s team carried enough firepower—RPGs, rocket launchers, and other explosives—to blow Raines out of a bunker dug halfway down in the Mexican soil. While other assault groups in the past had failed to get Raines, Jones harbored no doubts he could accomplish his objective, and he’d said so to General Bottger and his second in command, Sergei Bergman himself, even though he harbored a lingering dislike for the German leader. Bottger was the kind of madman anyone could hate, a real lunatic. But the pay was good with his advancing armies.
Jones’s men were veterans of other wars, regional conflicts. Older, seasoned, experienced, they would not make the same mistakes made by the younger mercenaries Bruno Bottger seemed to prefer. The hotshot Russians had been particularly stupid in the south, allowing a Mexican band of Special Forces troops to close a circle around them, blowing them to bits in less than ten minutes when the mercs under Captain Zubov walked into a deadly trap.
A figure came dashing toward Jones. As a reflex, the sergeant swung the muzzle of his AK-47 up, ready to blow the man away unless he identified himself with a code word.
“The men are in position, Sergeant,” Corporal Lloyd Davis said, out of breath. “We’re waiting for orders.”
“You forgot the goddamn code word, Davis!”
“Parrot! Parrot!”
“Raines and his group must be over that way. Fan out in a line, Davis. Pass the word down the line, and this time, remember the goddamn code word!”
“Parrot, Sergeant.”
“A mistake like that can get you killed, Davis. Don’t make it again.”
“Should I leave two men back as a rear guard, Sergeant Jones?”
“Of course, you damn fool. How many times have we been through this drill? Send McKinney and Smith back. They know what to do.”
“But, Sergeant,” Davis stammered, “Bill McKinney can’t see a damn thing in the dark.”
Jones turned back to Davis with his jaw clenched. “Corporal McKinney can smell an enemy at a hundred yards. Never question my orders again. I picked Bill McKinney myself, because he doesn’t make dumb mistakes . . . like forgetting the goddamn password on a mission.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Sorry. I’ll pass the word down the line right away.”
Jones forced himself to relax. Davis was right. Mckinney’s eyesight was failing some. But a soldier with experience didn’t need to see like an eagle to know who to kill, or when. Davis was too young, too green, to understand. Davis had been his last choice for the Blackshirt mission, when no more experienced men were available.
Corporal Woods came back with his automatic rifle slung from his shoulder on a leather strap. “The men are ready to advance, Sergeant.”
“Move out. But tell them to be careful. Raines has six or seven men with him, according to our intelligence reports. We probably won’t be able to see much of them because of this thick jungle. Look for any lights, and listen for the sound of machetes clearing a path through the jungle. They make just enough noise that, on a quiet night like this, we should be able to hear them if they’re moving. And tell everyone to be on the lookout for an ambush. Raines is no dummy, and he’ll know we’re coming for him.”
“How can we avoid an ambush in the dark, Sergeant?”
“You can’t, you idiot, but have the men spread out so if they open fire on us, we won’t be all bunched up together. Now get moving. We don’t know exactly how many of them to expect or how well armed they are, except they were evidently able to bring down a Kiowa with whatever weapons they were carrying. They may even have some land mines with them, so watch where you step, and for God’s sake be quiet.”
“I’ll get the word down the line, Sergeant. But land mines are gonna be a problem. We don’t have any sweepers, to keep our backpacks as light as we could. Maybe we should have brought at least one.”
“We have no choice but to gamble, Corporal. If somebody steps on a mine, then all hell’s gonna break loose. We will have lost the element of surprise.”
“What about dogs, Sergeant? You think they might have dogs?”
Sergeant Jones looked at him as if he were crazy. “Dogs? You think they parachuted out of a burning aircraft with dogs in their hands, you idiot?” he whispered in a harsh voice to Corporal Woods.
“Uh, no, I guess not,” Corporal Woods answered, a chagrined look on his face as he swung off at a trot to deliver Jones’s instructions.
The night in these Mexican jungles was as black as any Gerald Jones had ever seen. Not a breath of air moved among the trees. A man could be heard sneezing or farting at five hundred yards, an advantage for his men, and a disadvantage if one of them made a mistake.
Jones waved a silent signal across the grassy meadow. In the blackness of shadows below the forest canopy, darker shapes began to move toward the crest of a wooded hillside, hard to see in the night, harder to hear because these men were well trained in the art of night combat. Jones would allow no greenhorns on his handpicked assault force. Davis had been a necessary exception.
A ripping explosion sent Lloyd Davis into the air like a wounded buzzard, flapping his useless arms like broken wings, his AK-47 erupting in a spray of gunfire.
Men began to shout, in spite of Jones’s order to keep quiet. Someone shouted, “They got Davis, blew him to hell! Shoot the bastards!”
The chatter of an AK-47 filled the night. Another machine gun chattered in the distance, an Uzi by the sound of it, Jones thought to himself as he ducked under a low-hanging bush. Then a man began screaming, “I’m hit, goddamnit, I’m hit! Shoot the son of a bitch!”
Gerald Jones knew things had suddenly gone wrong. Davis had stepped on a mine, and now everyone in Raines’s group must know they were under attack.
Squatting down, Jones cocked an RPG and sent the grenade flying high above the roof of the jungle.
The charge detonated fifty feet in the air, blasting trees and undergrowth with shrapnel. Corporal Woods’s shrill scream echoed across the forest as he sank to his knees, clutching his face with both hands in the brief flash of exploding gunpowder.
“I’m hit! Help me, Sergeant!”
“Screw you, Woods,” Jones muttered. “A paid soldier has to learn how to help himself, you idiot.”
He watched the jungle for signs of movement Other than the fleeting shadows of his own men racing through the woods, he found nothing to shoot at.
The element of surprise was lost, all because Lloyd
Davis was so dumb as to step on a land mine. A voice inside Gerald Jones’s head had whispered that he shouldn’t take a man like Davis along on a mission this sensitive. However, good men were getting harder and harder to find lately, and his choices were nil on such short notice.
Jones’s first priority was to assassinate Ben Raines, at any cost. But how was he to find Raines in the dark like this, with men shooting and dying all around him?
He crept away from the thick palm trunk where he’d been watching the failing assault on Raines and his crew, inching forward, hoping for a shot at Raines. He only knew him by an old photograph General Bundt had shown him, taken years ago when the SUSA was formed.
Staying low, listening to the hammering of automatic gunfire on all sides, he moved toward where he figured Raines and his men must be with all the stealth he could muster. If Gerald Jones could manage one thing well after his years as a Navy SEAL, it was stealth before he made a kill.
He paused at the edge of a clearing less than a hundred yards from the palm trunk, listening, watching, craning his neck to see what was happening to his assault troops. His men were being slaughtered, from the sound of it . . . not that he gave a shit about anyone other than himself. One lesson he had learned over years of fighting was the value of his own life. It didn’t matter a damn who else died. Staying alive was priority one.
A voice behind him spoke. “You looking for somebody in particular?”
Jones froze—he did not recognize the man who spoke to him now—but it could be Private Watts, a Southerner from Alabama who’d stayed back with McKinney.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. “Is that you, Watts?” he asked.
“I’ve been called names. Smith is one of my favorites, but I stopped using it a long time ago.”
A cold chill ran down Jones’s spine. The man talking to him wasn’t Private Watts or any other soldier in his company of Blackshirts.
“Nice shirt you’re wearing,” the voice said, coming from a dark stand of trees only a few feet behind him. “Not one of my favorite colors, black, but it’s a nice shirt.”
Warriors from the Ashes Page 22
