by Jon Land
The two men were dropped immediately by his hail of fire, managing a harmless volley each. But the gunshots would certainly bring the force of hundreds descending upon the field. Outfighting or outrunning those numbers was impossible. Outwitting them was something else again.
Blaine fired a trio of bursts into the distance beyond the ridge. Then, faking panic, he grasped his rifle tight and sprinted back in the direction he had come from. A last-second thought made him dive to the ground near the two men he had shot. His hand found the wounds of one and came away thick with oozing blood. He smeared it over his forehead and half his face, then wiped the remainder on his green pants for still more effect.
He ran from the field, eyes gazing back with forced fear, one leg dragging theatrically behind him.
Floods of men were rushing toward him, led, as expected, by the bereted leaders.
“Help me! Help!”
Blaine struggled to reach them, eyes darting more feverishly than ever over his shoulder.
“Stay down!” he screamed in warning. “Stay down!”
Most of the charging men hit the turf and rolled. A few of the bereted leaders held their ground. Blaine collapsed at their feet. He was struggling for breath and made sure they saw the blood running down the side of his face.
“How many?” one of the men in a beret asked.
“I don’t know,” Blaine wheezed. “Six maybe. I couldn’t tell. They took us by surprise from over the ridge. They seemed to be everywhere.”
“How are they packed?”
“I don’t know,” Blaine huffed.
“How are they packed, I asked you? Get a hold of yourself, soldier!”
The bereted leader grabbed Blaine and shook him at the shoulders.
“I dunno, I dunno. …”
“I said, get a hold of yourself!”
Blaine gazed vacantly at him. “They’re packed heavy. Automatic weapons.”
“Get to sickbay,” the bereted leader told him, and then signaled his men to move on.
McCracken hobbled off in the opposite direction. He had bought himself time, but that did nothing about an escape route. And now he was moving away from the airstrip. Wait! The motor pool where the heavy equipment had been stored! He could grab a jeep or truck from there and drive it to the airfield.
Blaine quickened his pace just a bit as more uniformed men streaked by him. Any moment now the leaders surveying the field might realize there had been no assault, that they had been fooled. He had to reach the motor pool before then.
He reached the macadam surface of the complex and straightened up. Suddenly his pace was that of a sprinter making fast for the motor pool. Shouts and screams started up behind him. He heard footsteps pounding the pavement and glanced back to see men rushing at him leveling their weapons.
Blaine turned all the way around and fired a spray to his rear which scattered most of the soldiers giving chase. Hundreds of others were rushing back from the target practice field. His ruse was obviously up. A jeep would do him no good now, would only delay the inevitable. But a tank …
He lit out at top speed toward the neat row of tanks.
The machine gun in the guard tower opened fire, and Blaine dodged behind the side of a building to escape the bullets. The gun had him pinned, an easy target for the many troops sprinting back toward the complex. He had to move now. In the amber light of the early evening Caribbean sun, Blaine focused on a tank at the end of the row. He had been in plenty of M60s over in ’Nam; they were powerful but cumbersome machines which took a minimum of three men to operate. Recently, though, many had been updated with computer technology, so it was possible for only one man to drive the tank and fire it. McCracken could only hope these M60s had been part of that lot. If not, the best he could hope for would be to do plenty of damage with its big gun until they got him.
Blaine sprinted out from his hiding place and dared the bullets to hit him. He ran in a zigzag to make it difficult for the tower machine gun to lock on to him. But now the troops were roaring back and fanning out in commando fashion to enclose him, not realizing yet what he was headed for.
Bullets chimed off the tank’s steel flesh as he reached it with a final leap. He vaulted behind the gun turret for cover, popped open one of the hatches, and plunged in headfirst.
He landed hard and rose immediately to close the hatch and lock it down. Bullets continued to ricochet off the steel outside, some clanging harder than others. Blaine switched on the cabin’s lights and moved to the dashboard. He blessed his luck; all the gauges were digital, indicating this was one of the updated tanks.
The control panel was on his right, and he hit the M60’s master switch. Then he pressed the starter button and the diesel engine began to hum. The pedals beneath him were similar to those found in a car, the left being the brake and the right the accelerator. There was a T-bar located directly in front of him which took the place of a steering wheel. To his right and up a little was the weapons range and targeting indicator with readouts displayed on a miniature television screen. The digital counter above it read “3,” meaning three rockets were stowed in the big gun. A button within reach of the T-bar would launch them, so he could drive and fire at the same time. The machine gun firing buttons were also within easy reach, and as he shifted the gear lever into low, Blaine couldn’t help but be amazed by this wonder of modern ballistics.
Still, three rockets would be little more than a distraction. The chances of his getting off the island suddenly seemed extremely thin. The bullets chiming regularly off the tank’s exterior reminded him he couldn’t stay inside forever.
McCracken swung the T-bar hard to the right to make the M60 go left to clear the motor pool. He headed it straight toward the largest congestion of troops, going right into the teeth of their offensive. He pressed his eyes tighter against the rubber eye holes that functioned like a submarine’s periscope. He saw the troops backing away unsurely, retreating under the onslaught of the monstrous vehicle. The M60’s top speed was perhaps thirty miles per hour, but McCracken kept it slow for more maneuverability. An explosion to his right shook the tank, and Blaine adjusted his viewer to include a wider scale.
On the tower a man stood poised with a bazooka, a second behind him sliding in another shell. Blaine slowed the tank to a crawl and switched on the automatic targeting device.
A set of grids with numbers alongside appeared on the screen before his eyes. He kept adjusting until the guard tower was in the grid’s center.
The man holding the bazooka went into his crouch.
Blaine pushed the red firing button.
Impact thrust him back against his seat and halted the tank’s progress. Blaine watched through the viewer as a blur shot out toward the guard tower, turning it into an orange fireball spraying metal and wood everywhere.
The digital rocket counter clicked down to “2.”
McCracken aimed the tank around to where most of the troops were dispersing. He dabbed at his brow and decided his next and last targets would be the greatest concentrations of men. Perhaps in the confusion he might slip away. Perhaps—
Wait! Confusion, that was it! The ultimate in confusion had to be created if he was to escape. Blaine gave the accelerator pedal more pressure and reached over the T-bar for a pair of buttons. The tank’s front-mounted, twin machine guns responded by cutting down those troops brave enough to chance a rush at the iron monster.
He swung the M60 to the left and angled it for the storage hangar he had come from originally. He had just come in line with the front of the building, when an armor-piercing shell ripped into the side of his tank, spraying dust and debris into the cabin. The smell of burnt metal and wires flooded his nostrils.
“Come on, baby,” McCracken urged out loud. “Hold together for just a little longer. …”
The tank seemed to hear him and obey, limping forward with one tread crippled as more explosions outside battered Blaine’s ears. He swung the turret in the direction they were co
ming from and fired the big gun quickly without taking proper aim. The shell landed short but bought him the last seconds he needed.
The counter clicked down to “1.”
He crashed the M60 through the hangar’s heavy doors, rolled right through them with the turret swinging back to the front. The T-bar shook in his hands and he had to twist it in crazed patterns to compensate for the crippled tread. The targeting scope was equipped with infrared, so even in the darkness he had no trouble locating the corner he remembered the crates of grenades had been stored in. With the tank struggling forward, knocking crates from its path, Blaine fired his last rocket.
The results were immediate. And spectacular.
That entire portion of the building went up in a blinding fireball, the intense heat and flames reaching out to consume box after box of other explosives and ammunition. Blaine was out of the M60’s cabin an instant before the flames reached his area, and he rushed away as they licked at his back. An explosion catapulted him through the air and he felt himself strike the floor as another blast ripped out the wall before him. With the onrush of flames serving as his cover, Blaine crawled back outside. On the base there was total havoc. Order had collapsed. Troops ran in every direction with no idea of what they should be doing in such a situation. The commando leaders were shouting commands, but it was useless. Explosions kept sounding in the storage hangar, which had become a formless mass of construction tumbling in upon itself to be swallowed by the raging flames.
McCracken’s face was charred black and he was bleeding superficially in a number of areas. As he moved through the chaos, he saw many others who looked much the same, especially those who had followed orders to battle the fire with hoses bearing insufficient pressure. Then, above it all, a voice crackled over the loudspeaker.
“Attention all personnel! Attention all personnel! Prepare immediately for evacuation to Newport com-center. Repeat, prepare immediately for evacuation to Newport com-center. Trucks will begin leaving for the airfield in five minutes. Trucks will begin leaving for the airfield in five minutes.”
They were abandoning ship, Blaine thought. I’ve accomplished that. And destroyed a prime weapons cache to boot.
Newport com-center …
What in hell was that? No matter, McCracken figured, it’s my chance for escape regardless.
He burst through a barracks door, where men were feverishly packing gear, and found an unoccupied bed and foot locker. In the near darkness and confusion no one took much notice of his features through the grime and blood that covered them. He would be fine so long as the bed’s true occupant didn’t make an untimely return.
Blaine redressed in shapeless green fatigues and rummaged around their owner’s foot locker to find sufficient packing for a duffel bag as the others were doing. He would do everything just as the others did. They were his ticket off the island.
He moved from the barracks, duffel bag in hand, with the second rush of men through the door. The fire was now totally out of control. It had spread to neighboring structures in the face of facilities utterly inadequate to fight it. Blaine ran toward the trucks near the motor pool and hurled himself into the back of one. Its darkness soothed him. Feeling cocky, he extended helping hands to the last of those who crowded in the back and shoved around to find seating space. A number gave up and settled on the floor. McCracken managed to find a spot on the bench way in the back near the truck’s cab.
The truck rumbled to a start, lurched forward in one grinding lunge, and then another. The engine, not yet warm, resisted, but the driver pushed the machine until its gears ground in protest. Blaine followed the path they were taking as best he could through the open tailgate. It was smooth-going through the length of the complex until they reached the hardened dirt road that would lead them to the airfield. Blaine recognized its coarse feeling from the trip in and found it little more comfortable outside a crate than inside.
His fear of being recognized as an impostor had evaporated by the time the caravan of trucks reached the airstrip. Enough eyes had met his and turned away routinely to convince him that where the darkness and grime stopped being his ally, he was aided by the fact that these men had apparently remained strangers to each other through their training.
That led him to the conclusion that their training had not lasted long and to wonder how many had come before them.
Newport com-center …
What if this destination was one of many spots across the country Krayman’s white mercenary troops had been airlifted to? Blaine had to assume that Sahhan’s PVR cells were already in place in similarly strategic areas. Two separate armies, both prepared to strike, both financed by Randall Krayman. But where was the connection?
The questions and puzzles kept battering Blaine’s mind as he sat in the crowded cargo hold of one of the transports streaking through the sky. He had overheard someone calling out the flight coordinates earlier and thus knew that the Newport of their destination was the one in Rhode Island—quite fortunate since he had spent a month some years back resting and recuperating from an especially grueling mission on the prestigious community’s famed beaches. He remembered the area well enough to suit his needs.
Blaine dozed a few times through the eight-hour flight, which ended harshly on an abandoned airfield at nearly three A.M. The troops stretched and shook themselves awake, trying to beat back the sluggishness the long trip had brought on. Once the plane came to a halt, the men closest to the doors slid them open and let down the ramps. Blaine walked out in the middle of the group and felt the cold air assault him on contact. Paris had been bearable and San Melas steaming, so a return to the unusually early winter cold was shocking. All the troops looked to be shivering. But the bereted leaders shouted at them and pointed them in the direction of a hangar which might have been a giant icebox.
After so long in darkness, even the temporary fluorescent lighting burned Blaine’s eyes. He shielded them as he took his place in line, leaving his duffel bag by his feet and making sure his face was covered. The rows of men were neat and orderly. The troops stood halfway at attention in the cold. Beyond a window crusted with a combination of ice and dirt, Blaine noticed a few of the leaders conferring with a giant of a man wearing a civilian overcoat. Even from this distance, the big man did not look pleased. The men beyond the window dispersed, and moments later a raspy, slurred voice echoed through the hangar over a P.A.
“The unfortunate incidents on San Melas change nothing,” the voice began. “You know what you have to do, where and when you have to meet up. Your weapons are ready for you, along with fresh clothes, cash, and additional paperwork where required. Everything becomes routine from here. Just stick to your orders as precisely outlined unless you hear differently from your station leader providing the proper access code. The abort and regroup signals are uniform nationwide to avoid confusion. Please follow your orders in the days ahead exactly. The time is almost upon us. Be ready and stay alert. That is all.” The troops swung toward the doors at the front of the hangar as if on cue, and Blaine swung with them. He was still digesting the shadowy speaker’s words, when his row began to move in single file toward the exit. There was only this door to pass through and he would be free.
He was almost to it when a hand grasped his shoulder and shoved him around. He found himself looking up at the horribly mangled grin of a figure with only half a face and a gun in his hand.
“I’ve been expecting you, McCracken,” said Wells.
Part Four
Newport
Tuesday Morning to Wednesday Morning
Chapter 19
THE FIGURE RAN through the thickening snow, a furtive eye cast to his rear at regular intervals as if expecting a great beast to pounce upon him. He had run often since coming to these woods years before. His route was never the same, no concrete destination or purpose. He ran mostly when memories of the hellfire grew too near, ran as if to widen the gap separating him from them.
But today was dif
ferent. Today he ran from a sense of wrongness, a feeling that something was out of balance. He was a huge man but his feet made only the slightest impression in the hard-packed Maine snow and his steps produced barely a sound. The old ones had taught him that anything was possible if one achieved balance, that of the spirit as important as that of the body and the world about. The three existed as one, none set into place unless all were. Today all were not.
Because something was coming. Not a great beast with dagger teeth and razor claws; something less defined but equally deadly. He could liken this feeling only to that which often preceded an ambush in the hellfire. He had survived on those occasions by heeding the sense of imbalance when it came, slight tremors which warned him when Charlie was about to spring from one of his innumerable tunnels.
But there was nothing slight about what he felt now. It reached out for him from the shadows, only to dart back when he swung around. Soon, though, he knew it would show itself.
And he knew he would be there when it did.
“It’s been a long time, Wells. Last time we met I think you had your whole face.”
Wells shoved him hard and all at once a half-dozen men with rifles enclosed McCracken. A van skidded to a halt. One of the men threw open the back doors.
“Get in,” Wells ordered.
Blaine started to, but then turned back to the guards.
“Has Pretty Boy here led you on any massacres lately?”
It went back to ’Nam in 1969. Wells and McCracken had been in different divisions of the Special Forces. Blaine had known the war was unwinnable from his first month in. The Viet Cong had built tunnels under the whole country. Troops appeared out of nowhere and disappeared the same way. Traps, mines, ambushes—it was a guerrilla war, the Cong’s war. But Blaine went about his business nonetheless with as much dignity and honor as the circumstances would allow.
His division had come upon the town of Bin Su in early March, and to this day the sight haunted him. The entire town—women and children included—had been slaughtered. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay everywhere, obviously there had been torture and, most hideous of all, a collection of heads had been staked to fence posts, where they had been used for target practice. Every code of ethics had been violated. Someone had to pay.
