Below, Trinidad was green and wooded, with rugged hills. Diplomatic clearance? Sorry. They were there to get one of their own. The embassy pukes could make apologies later. The two Sierras were holding east of the island and waiting for their escort to arrive. With Mother over 250 miles away, they couldn’t reach her. To preclude upsetting the West Indians further, they would have to take Wilson first to the LCS off Grenada, and from there to Coral Sea. Condor broke in with a call.
“Hunter, Condor. Switch base freq minus 65.250.”
“Roger, Condor.”
Using the briefed base frequency number as a foundation, Weed switched up the frequency on the auxiliary radio and listened. After several seconds, he heard a female voice.
“We are with the subject inside the briefed cabin and need backup!”
Weed listened, unable to transmit, unable to ask questions. He nudged the stick to the right to avoid a cloud buildup as his radar continued to search for the helos ahead of him.
“Yes, dammit, a priest and a woman. Estimating twenty enemy outside!”
Weed was monitoring the embassy side of the conversation, and, as the formation continued to descend — they were now passing the briefed cabin location, thirty miles to the south — he built a picture. Inside a cabin with a priest. That made sense from the brief, but the woman’s voice was not American. It sounded Caribbean. Weed needed clarification, and got Condor to come up on the freq. After listening some more, Weed asked.
“Condor, Hunter four-zero-seven. Who are we listening to?”
“Stand by, Hunter.”
Weed then saw some return on his display and bumped the castle switch to lock it. After a few seconds, the symbols stabilized and showed a low and slow contact on his nose for 25 miles, heading south. Weed asked them to verify.
“Rustler, Hunter four-zero-seven has a radar contact. Bullseye zero-six-zero at forty. On the deck, heading south.”
“That’s us, Hunter.”
Weed now “had” the helos, and soon they would be “holding hands.” He nudged the stick again to intercept and called Condor.
“Condor, Hunters are joining on the Rustlers. What luck?”
The E-2, orbiting 150 miles away, also had some good news.
“Hunter, the woman is IDed as an embassy employee. They are inside with Slash one-one.”
Weed was relieved, but only for a moment. Flip was okay, but he — and the people with him — were somehow trapped by an unknown opposition force. With 25 minutes of fuel before he had to bingo, Weed had to get them going, fast.
“Condor from Hunter. We are going to push ASAP. Find out who is outside.”
“Roger that, Hunter.”
As he passed a gray column of cloud, Weed’s FLIR display picked up two white helicopter silhouettes. Weed turned to put them in his HUD field of view and soon saw them as they hugged the coastline, dark dashes against a gray sea.
“Rustler, Hunter. Visual at your right three high. Five miles. Ready to go?”
“A-firm, Hunter,” Sean, in Rustler 612, replied.
“Roger. Expect an OPFOR when we get there.”
“Roger, Hunter.”
So they wouldn’t be detected by the local populace, Weed directed the Rustlers to go feet dry along a deserted patch of coastline at the “heel” of the island. As the helicopters turned west, the fighters overflew them at 5,000 feet. They were able to keep their eyes on the helicopters against the dark green forest while the sun sank deeper.
“Cisco, stay here at angels five. We’re going to three,” Weed radioed the message to his wingman as he continued down with Dog. “This is going to be opposed. Armstrong.”
The Rhinos weaved in a figure-eight pattern to stay above the two combat-loaded helicopters. They were sprinting through the twilight gloom at 120 knots toward the cabin — and trouble.
CHAPTER 76
Jill and the others burst through the door as the Venezuelans stormed up the driveway and fanned out along the tree line. They fired their first shots at the cabin as Garcia took a position at the side window to Wilson’s left, busting out a pane to get a clear field of fire.
The other Marine trained his weapon on Father Dan and a terrified Monique who were crouched near the stove. “They’re okay! They’re friendly!” Wilson barked at the young lance corporal who ignored him.
“Commander Wilson, my name is Special Agent Jill Fischer.” Jill showed her credentials as she introduced herself.
“Have him take his weapon off them!” Wilson shouted, concerned that he was the cause of real danger to these two innocent people.
Jill motioned the Marine to the other side window, turned back to Wilson, and pointed at the doctor. “This is Doctor Woodruff. He can help you with your injuries.” In pain, Wilson rolled off the table and eased himself to the floor.
Slugs ripped into the clapboard from automatic weapons, and Garcia had trouble picking targets in the low light.
“El hombre Weel-son, venga aqui. Ahora!” blared a bullhorn.
“Who are they?” Jill asked Wilson as she punched buttons on her phone.
“You tell me.” He winced as he shifted his weight under Woodruff’s guidance. “We were fighting drug thugs. Don’t know who these guys are.”
“Here they come,” Garcia muttered.
“Weel-son, surrender!” the voice on the bullhorn sounded again. Their helicopters were idling on deck down the road, rotor blades adding white noise in the background.
Jill heard commands in Spanish. “Garcia, can you understand what they’re saying?”
“Ma’am, I’m from Boston. The only Spanish I know is my last name,” the Marine deadpanned as he sighted in a target.
Jill looked at Wilson. “Can you shoot?”
“Yes, I’ve been holding them off. Have most of this clip left, and that’s it.”
“Okay,” Jill said. “Get back up there. Doc, help him.” She turned to the Marines and gestured toward the side windows. “You guys have the flanks. Talk to each other!”
“May I offer a prayer?” Father Dan volunteered.
Jill nodded. “Yes, please do!”
“Heavenly Father, please deliver us—”
A tear gas canister crashed through the window above Garcia and knocked him down. It then bounced on the floor in front of Monique who screamed in fright. Smith grabbed the canister and tossed it out the open window in front of Wilson. As gas wafted through the room, they fanned it from their faces, and those who were able covered their mouths with whatever they could reach. “I can’t see anything! Not enough frickin’ light!” Garcia grumbled in frustration, his eyes tearing.
“Then do your best and shoot!” Jill commanded. “If you can see the helos through the trees, hit them!”
Wilson, back at his perch, peered outside for any sign of movement. If this was his rescue party, they were woefully unprepared. Bullets thudded the cabin from all sides as Jill and the Marines returned fire. The BAR Garcia fired had, no doubt, drawn attention, and he was hosing the trees with burst after burst. How much ammo did he have? Another tear gas canister bounced against the cabin and landed on the porch, the gentle wind carrying some of the noxious smoke inside. They all struggled to function.