“Roger. Condor, you copy that?”
“Condor copies.”
“Rustler lead’s in hot,” Sean transmitted in calm control.
Weed and Dog circled high above as the two Sierras took trail and offset north to roll in left. Without slowing, they flew by the Puma, and Weed watched a band of M240 fire rain down on the aircraft’s tail boom. Flashes from bullet impacts riddled the boom and the tail rotor slowed.
Perfect, Weed thought. That helo isn’t going anywhere!
Rustler lead then reversed and allowed the opposite M240 gunner to open up on the western tree line as the aircraft roared over the cabin, spitting a stream of fire that ripped through the trees. The trailer came in next and covered the northern tree line in 7.62 fire as the left-side gunner fired over the cabin into muzzle flashes from the south.
“Holy shit!” Weed heard the caller say.
CHAPTER 77
Wilson and the others listened to the approaching rotors with dread. Reinforcements. Keeping his flashlight beam concealed, Wilson checked his clip. Three rounds left. In the corner he heard Father Dan murmuring to Monique as the two Marines, frustrated and fearful, let go with a continual stream of curses from each of their positions, When the Americans ran out of ammunition, they would come, and the able-bodied Marines — and maybe all of them in the cabin — would be summarily executed. He sensed, though, he would be captured and held for ransom. He would be the cause of six deaths, two of them innocent, a fact that would weigh on him the rest of his life.
A ricochet hit Garcia in the forearm. “Mother fuck!” he cursed. In the shadows, Wilson saw him holding the arm as he writhed in pain. One able-bodied Marine.
“Smitty,” Wilson bellowed. “Take Garcia’s spot. It’s heavier there. Doc, pick up a weapon and cover us as best you can to the south.”
The men complied, and the doctor left Jill with Father and Monique. The helo rotors grew louder and louder, and soon Wilson heard a loud brrrrrppppp to the north followed by shouts outside. The helicopter seemed to be right on top of them when a deafening series of staccato pops filled the air. As the automatic guns tore at the trees outside, the human beings behind them screamed. One helo roared over, and then another, with more sounds of high-caliber guns that once again ripped into the trees and the earth around them.
“What the fuck!” Garcia cried as they heard the shouts and wails from outside. Wilson listened, too, and realized the firing had stopped.
The helicopter sound was now to the south, and Wilson sensed they were turning back to them. Were they American? Who else would fire into the trees at these guys?
A shot fired and the bullet exploded into the clapboard, followed by another. Excited shouts outside were unintelligible except for one word: “Weel-son!”
“Sir, here they come!” Smith shouted. If the helos were American, Wilson needed them to come back, now.
Having to lie prone, Wilson could not move about the cabin. “Doc, can you help Smitty?” Wilson barked. Just as the doctor joined Smith at his window, the helos returned and the sound of their rotors and the hum of their engines got louder.
Smith fired off three rounds, and then his pistol clicked. “Dammit!” he cursed. “Sir, I need ammo!” he shouted. The sounds of men outside came closer.
“Here!” Wilson offered, and Smith bounded through the darkened room to retrieve Wilson’s .45. He returned to the window and took a bead on a soldier crouching near the car. The report of the .45 was deafening and flashed in the room. Smith crouched low to avoid the fusillade of bullets that followed. As the aircraft drew near, Wilson sensed them slow into an approach. A gun burst again ripped through the air and sprayed the trees near the cabin, close, dangerously close. They heard a scream outside, and Smith peaked over the sill to see if the man was still near the car. He couldn’t see anyone there, but he did see a soldier fire into the air.
The soldier was then shredded by a rapier swath of hot lead from the M240. The thunderous zipper-like sound exploded in their ears as the helicopter entered a hover over them, its downdraft generating a hurricane of swirling leaves and debris. To further the chaos, high-pressure rotor wash also entered the cabin through the busted out windows. Monique screamed again and bullets flew everywhere.
Outside, Wilson heard someone shout. “Capitán!”
The darkness inside the cabin had turned objects and people into faint silhouettes. Easing himself down, Wilson returned to his spot on the floor near the door and wished he could make eye contact with Father Dan. Continual noise was pounding into his brain: the sounds of the helicopter engines and rotors, the automatic weapons, the shouting, the gunfire outside.
Wilson then heard the crunch of boots, followed by a click.
A miniature sun seemed to explode in the room near Smith. Wilson was at once blinded and stunned.
Weed noted his fuel. Ten minutes. Comparing states with Dog and Cisco, the three of them had the same. Cisco followed the Super Puma until it crossed into the Columbus Channel and headed toward San Ramón. Once satisfied it was no longer a threat, he returned to join his flight lead overhead.
With his wingman Dog trailing a mile behind him, Weed had his eyes padlocked on the cabin. The Rustlers had torn up the tree line, but he could still see sporadic resistance. The first Sierra set down near the cabin, and he watched four objects — the SEALs — scramble clear while the door gunners covered them. The helicopter remained on deck as the other orbited in overwatch. To the east, a few miles away, he saw headlights on the road. Oh,oh.
“Rustlers from Hunter. You’ve got a vehicle comin’ down the road from the east.” He saw a flash from inside the cabin. Fuck, he thought. Hope Flip is okay.
At the same time, Cisco came up on SAR common. “Ninety-nine SAR players, we’ve got multiple slow movers inbound. Twenty miles south!”
Weed snapped his head south. Across the dark body of water, the Venezuelan coastline was devoid of light and barren, except for Río Salta to the west. Further inland, he could make out the San Ramón complex, but saw no aircraft lights. He turned his nose in their direction and let the radar work for him as the data link display was empty. Within seconds, he had formed a plan and transmitted it to the others.
“Cisco, roger. Get a raid count if you can and get above them. Break, break. Rustlers, you’ve got responsibility for the vehicle to the east about a mile. Condor, you monitorin’ this?”
“Rustlers, roger all,” Sean transmitted.
“Affirm, Hunter. Condor has multiple slow movers on the deck. Two-zero-five for eighteen. Heading zero-three-zero.”
“Hunter, break. Cisco, do you have a VID yet?”
“Helos. Looks to be six, maybe more. Lights out. Radar contact, one-eight-zero for twelve.”
Twelve miles! Weed thought. They could be here in five minutes. His radar scanned low and locked something on the nose for fifteen miles. The aspect vector was hot, heading northeast, with an airspeed of 150 knots. His FLIR slaved to the contact, and Weed saw a sleek, thin helicopter coming at him. He selected WIDE and saw many other similar returns.