Into the Guns (7 page)

“It's my pleasure,” Mac lied, as she took a seat at a small conference table. “What can I do for you?”

Wylie was direct if nothing else. “Don't be coy, Lieutenant. You know what I need . . . And that's fuel.”

“The vast majority of the training center's fuel was taken east,” Mac reminded him. “But yes, I have some. Not enough to solve your problems though . . . And, once orders come in, we'll need what we have.”

“That's the same line of bull you gave me last time,” Wylie said as he stared at her. “When will those orders come?”

“I don't know.”

Wylie placed a pair of beefy forearms on the table. “Let's be honest, Lieutenant . . . The whole country is belly-up! So there's a good chance that those orders won't arrive. And, while you sit on that fuel, the citizens of Yakima are suffering.”

“I'm sorry,” Mac replied. “I really am. But let's keep this real. Yakima would run through my fuel in less than a week. It's a drop in the bucket compared to what you need.”

Wylie had just opened his mouth to speak when Cobb entered, carrying a tray and two cups. “There you go,” she said cheerfully. “Please help yourselves to cream and sugar.”

Wylie thanked her and waited until Cobb had left the room before speaking again. His eyes were like chips of coal. “Listen, Lieutenant . . . I'm tired of playing footsie with you. Either you give 80 percent of your fuel to Yakima—or I'll send the police over to take it away from you.”

Mac stood. Her voice was cold. “I would advise against that, Mr. Wylie . . . If you send your police to attack Vagabond, we will kill them. And who will protect you then?”

And with that, Mac took her jacket and left the office. Cobb looked concerned as Mac strode past her, and both soldiers stood. Mac paused to let them gulp the rest of their coffee before leading them to the stairs. The meeting was over.

In the wake of the face-to-face with Wylie, Mac had no choice but to put her tiny command on high alert. An observation post was established on the east side of the freeway, some of the platoon's fighting positions were reinforced, and command-detonated mines were placed at key points around the perimeter.

But after three days without an attack, Mac began to relax. Then, on the fourth day, something remarkable occurred. The clouds parted—and the sun appeared! Mac felt better, and so did her troops, all of whom shed at least one layer of clothing—and went looking for opportunities to work outside. Even the normally dour Dr. Hoskins had a smile on his face.

So morale was up when the distant drone of a plane was heard, and the soldiers peered into the sky. All they could see was a dot, and
a momentary glint of reflected light. Eventually, the dot morphed into a single-engine plane. It was boring in from the west, and that alone was enough to raise Mac's spirits. Maybe, just maybe, someone had been sent to replace Captain Hollister! And that hope grew as Omata broke the news. She was tracking the plane with a pair of binoculars. “It has air force markings,” she said, “and it's turning our way!”

The sound of the engine grew louder as Mac turned to Peters. “Get on the horn,” she told him. “See if you can make contact.”

Peters entered the Flight Control Center as Omata continued to eyeball the incoming aircraft. “It's a T-41 Mescalero,” the pilot said. “I learned how to fly in the civilian version. Uh-oh . . . I see what could be bullet holes.”

Peters was back. “The pilot isn't responding, Lieutenant.”

Mac turned to Evans. “Find Hoskins and take some people down to the airstrip. Roll the crash truck. The pilot could be wounded.” Evans shouted orders as he ran.

Now Mac could see the white-over-blue prop plane more clearly as it circled the base. “He's checking us out,” Omata observed, “trying to make sure that we're military.”

That made sense given current conditions—and Mac continued to watch as the plane turned into the wind. “He's going to land,” Omata predicted, and she began to run. Mac was right behind her.

The runway had never been long enough for anything other than light planes. That was one of the reasons why Vagabond had been redesignated as a heliport. But Mac figured that if any plane could land there, the Mescalero could. The trainer was about fifteen feet off the ground as the women arrived at the edge of the runway.

Everything looked good at first, and Mac thought the Mescalero was going to make a textbook landing, when the right wingtip came down. It hit the ground, threw the plane into an uncontrolled loop, and razor-sharp pieces of metal flew through the air as the
prop shattered. The officers hit the dirt, and metal screeched as the fuselage skidded to a halt.

Both women were up and running as the crash truck roared in to foam the wreckage. Omata was the first to duck under the left wing and jerk the door open. A man was slumped over the controls, and as Mac got closer, she saw holes in the roof.

Omata cut the pilot free from his harness and began to pull him out. The seat was soaked with blood, and the pilot was clearly unconscious as they lowered him to the ground.

Dr. Hoskins arrived seconds later, closely followed by Obbie. “Good work,” the doctor said. “Now get the hell out of the way.”

Mac and Omata backed away as the man was lifted onto a stretcher and carried to the waiting Humvee. “Shit,” Omata said feelingly. “Did you see that? The poor bastard had at least two holes in him.”

“Hoskins will patch him up,” Mac predicted, and hoped it was true. “Search the cockpit. Recover what you can. Maybe we can figure out who this guy is—and what he was up to. We'll meet in Flight Control thirty from now.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Omata responded. “I'm on it.”

Mac spent the next half hour supervising the cleanup, with help from Peters. Then she went up to Flight Control, where a number of items were laid out on a table. The collection included an AWOL bag, a laptop, a cell phone, a folding knife, a wallet, and some pocket litter.

“I got some of this stuff from Doc Obbie,” Omata explained. “And the rest is from the plane. The pilot is an army unmanned aerial vehicle operator named Staff Sergeant Nick Esco. He's stationed at JBLM.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Good work. Is that all?”

“No,” Omata said as she pointed to a pink envelope. “He had a girlfriend named Karol.”

“Had?”

“She dumped him two weeks prior to the meteor strike.”

“And she told him in a letter?”

“That's affirmative.”

“What a bitch . . . All right, find your boss and tell him I would appreciate a low-level reconnaissance of the area.”

Omata's face lit up. ‘You're clearing us to fly?”

“Yes, I am.”

Omata produced a whoop of joy and nearly bowled Evans over on her way out of the building. He looked at Mac. “Why so happy?”

“She gets to fly.”

Evans shook his head. “Rotor heads . . . They're crazy.”

The Apache lifted off half an hour later, circled the base, and went looking for trouble. That was useful, but the true purpose of the mission was to keep the pilots sharp and to boost their morale.

Shortly after the helicopter's departure, Mac went to check on Sergeant Esco. The dispensary was well lit, and the air was warm. Hoskins was sitting in the tiny waiting room drinking a cup of coffee. He nodded. “Thanks for the power . . . I could operate by lanternlight. But I don't want to. A bullet punched through Sergeant Esco's right thigh, and another was lodged in his right buttock. Both projectiles came up through the bottom of the cabin. No wonder he crashed . . . The poor bastard was bleeding to death.”

Mac sat down. “And now?”

“And now he's all patched up,” Hoskins informed her. “Obbie's with him. He's a good hospital corpsman, by the way . . . You're lucky to have him.”

“We are,” Mac agreed. “Although we call them medics.”

“Who cares?” Hoskins responded. “He's good. That's the point.”

“Roger that,” Mac said. “I appreciate the feedback. So when can I speak with Sergeant Esco?”

“When he wakes up,” Hoskins said. “I'll let you know.”

“Good,” Mac replied. “And thanks . . . We're lucky to have you as well.” And with that, she left.

Mac was sitting in the Flight Control Center fretting about the unit's quickly dwindling supply of food when she heard the helicopter clatter overhead and come in for a landing. If it hadn't been for the MREs stored at Vagabond, the platoon would have run out of food weeks earlier. It was a perplexing problem, and one that became increasingly acute with each passing day.

Mac's thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and a blast of cold air flooded the room. The generator was off, and the stove provided what warmth there was. Evans sat with his back to the rest of the room. He said, “Hey, close the fucking door,” before turning around to look.

“That's ‘close the fucking door,'
sir
,” Peters said with a huge grin.

“My bad,” Evans conceded, as Peters trooped in. “I should have known. Only a pilot would be stupid enough to leave the door open.” Peters flipped him off, and both men laughed.

“So what's going on out there?” Mac inquired.

“Not a helluva lot,” Peters said, as he plopped down. “Unless you're into mining trucks.”

“Mining trucks? What
kind
of mining trucks? And where were they?”

“
Big
honking mining trucks,” the pilot replied. “On the other side of the river. They're parked next to a convenience store. Omata has gun-camera footage, but we'll need some juice in order to show it to you.”

Evans looked at Mac, she nodded, and he left. Once the generator was purring, it took five minutes to download the footage. There wasn't much to see at first . . . Just some widely separated homes.
Then the helo crossed both the freeway and the Yakima River. That was when four gigantic trucks became visible. Metal canopies jutted out over their cabs, and as the Apache circled, Mac saw that a steel balcony was mounted on the front of each vehicle.

Pickups looked like toys compared to the big beasts, and people were like ants, as they ran in every direction. And that raised an important question. Why would people run unless they had something to hide?

Mac had seen such trucks on TV and knew they were associated with open-pit mines. But there weren't any open-pit mines nearby. None that she knew of. And that raised a second question: Why were the big mining machines parked next to a convenience store located a short distance from Vagabond? Then it came to her. The ore haulers were part of Wylie's plan to attack the base! Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “Can you give me some magnification? I'd like to have a closer look at the cabs on those trucks.”

Omata could and did. The video was grainy but sufficient to confirm what Mac already suspected. By welding steel plates to the balconies that fronted the truck cabs Wylie's people had been able to provide the drivers with a modicum of protection. Was the armor thick enough to stop a .50 caliber slug? Probably. Could the Apache destroy the haulers with Hellfire missiles? Of course. But what then? What armament they had for the helicopter was already hanging on it. And once that was gone, the unit would be SOL if faced with an even greater threat.

Plus, there was the weather to consider. Mac was well aware of the fact that a lot of things can go wrong when an attack helicopter is forced to fly below five hundred feet, and visibility is limited to a couple of miles. And the clouds were moving back in. Evans was staring at the video. “Holy shit . . . Those bastards are getting ready for war.”

“Yes, they are,” Mac agreed. “It looks like they plan to roll in,
crash through the fence, and level the base. Then they'll take our fuel. Wylie was serious.”

Peters stared at her. “So what are we going to do?”

“We'll attack,” Mac said without hesitation. “We have no choice. Now they know that we know—so they'll come for us as soon as they can.” She turned to Evans. “Get everyone ready . . . I want to roll by 0400.”

Evans was on his feet. He looked grim. “Yes, ma'am.” Then he was gone.

There was a lot to do, and when the pilots left, Mac was all alone.
You're an idiot,
she told herself.
You should have sent patrols across the river. The fact that the weather cleared, and the rotor heads saw the trucks, was dumb luck.

I didn't think Wylie would follow through,
the other her objected.
Plus, it would be easy for a patrol to get cut off that far out.

Excuses won't cut it,
the first voice said harshly.
Get your shit together.
Mac stood. A mistake had been made, and she wasn't going to repeat it.

None of the soldiers slept that night. There were trucks to perform maintenance on, weapons to clean, and a wide variety of contingencies to plan for. The Apache was a good example. Rather than commit the gunship to the fight, Mac placed it on standby. It was her ace in the hole . . . A weapon she'd call on if necessary but only if forced to do so.

At 0305, Mac returned to her quarters to gear up. As she was getting ready, she came across the .9mm “Baby” Glock her father had given her when she graduated from high school. Some of her friends received jewelry, trips, and, in one case, a car.

But her gift was the pistol and lessons at the local range. It seemed stupid at the time—and her friends felt sorry for her. But now, as she prepared to go into combat, there was something comforting about
the way the handgun felt in her hand. Was her father alive? There was no way to know as she slid the weapon into its holster.

The troops were loaded and ready by 0330. But before they left the base, Mac wanted to get one last report from Forward Observer Lin Kho. Private Hadley had been sent along to provide security, and the two of them were hidden in a cluster of trees just east of the convenience store, where they could put eyes on the mining trucks. They were equipped with night-vision goggles, so very little would escape their notice.