“No! Belay that order!” Fitz shouted in Stoke’s other window. “We’ll never get a clean RPG shot hanging out here one-handed! Stoke, can you execute a one-eighty in this thing?”
“Hang a U-ey?” Stoke said, swerving to avoid a looming palm tree. “I think I can manage that!”
“Do it!” Fitz screamed. “And come to a dead stop. I want to give Froggy a shot out the back at this fucking chopper. He’s the only one of us with the slightest chance to bring it down!”
“Hold on back there, folks!” Stoke shouted over his shoulder. “We’re going to flip this half-ton heap around backasswards!”
Stoke yanked down hard left on the wheel, locking it, and sent the big truck into a hard drift through 180 degrees. When it had completely reversed directions, he yanked up on the emergency brake. The truck skidded to a stop, throwing up a huge spray of sand.
He was amazed to see that during this maneuver, Fitz had somehow climbed through the window of the cab and was now scrambling over the bench seat into the rear of the truck. He was yelling at Froggy and the two other RPG guys to get ready.
The monster chopper had completed carving its turn and was skimming back over the treetops. It was probably surprising to the pilots to find themselves now approaching from the rear. But the ticking of bullets puncturing the hood and fenders wasn’t exactly soothing to those inside.
“Froggy, you remember where the sweet spot is on these birds?” Fitz was shouting at the back of the truck. “It’s an Mi-38 Heckle!”
“Mais certainement, ze Heckle’s thorax,” Froggy said, getting to his feet. “Right below his gullet.” He unhooked the tailgate, let it fall, and stood up on it, spreading his stance and lining up the RPG tube, right down the throat of the big black bird. He shifted his feet for better balance. The tailgate was sticky with the blood of his wounded comrades.
“Oh, shit! Don’t let him get too close, Froggy!” Fitz shouted, watching the chopper roar toward them at treetop level. Soviet choppers were designed to get hammered and not even change course. There was one small vulnerable spot, though, and Froggy had his eye on it.
“Settle…settle,” Froggy said, the tube on his shoulder, ignoring Fitz and all the lead flying toward him, steady as a rock. He was actually calm at such moments. He knew he was probably going to get shot, and since there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it, he always focused on whatever weapon was in his hand at the moment.
The RPG had a maximum range of 1,000 feet or so. It was designed solely for land warfare. Firing one upwards was enormously dangerous, even suicidal as a few Sammies had learned in Somalia, shooting at U.S. choppers. Froggy, who had been there, knew he was forced to bide his time. The miniguns on the bird were spitting lead, kicking up sand all around the back of the truck. Closing—closing—now!
WHOOOOSH!
The grenade shot out toward the ugly black helicopter, leaving a white trail of smoke behind it. The chopper tried desperately to pull up but it was too late.
There was a small explosion first, just aft of the nose under its chin bubble where its controls were. The chopper veered sharply left. It went into a rapidly accelerating spin. Fitz and Froggy watched, counting the seconds, praying the hit was on target.
There was an enormous flashbang of light and sound as the helicopter became a huge fireball skidding along the tops of the trees. It tilted violently left, its main rotors snapped and went flying, and then there was no trace of it other than the thick black smoke and licks of fire rising from the jungle.
A cheer erupted in the back of the truck, and then they all held on as Stoke jammed the truck into first gear and hauled ass the hell out of there, headed for the beach.
“Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how…” Stoke sang at the top of his lungs. He could see glimpses of the sea now through the palms. There was still sporadic fire coming from all sides, but Hawke and Fitz and the boys in the back of the bus seemed to be doing a good job of suppressing it.
Stoke was driving with one hand now, firing his .45 out the windshield and the driver’s side window. He didn’t have any targets but he liked the general idea of fire coming from all sides of the truck.
Suddenly the truck rocked left. Something had slammed into the vehicle hard on the right. He waited for an explosion—nothing. He looked at the right side door. An unexploded Russian RPG had poked its ugly-ass nose right through his goddamn steel door and stopped! The things were two feet long and there was at least a foot inside sitting there pointed at him!
Shit. He was more surprised than afraid. You talk about lucky. Can’t get no more lucky than a dud RPG coupla feet from your ass. Can’t hang around here too much longer, less luck be running out.
“Stoke!” he heard Hawke say in his headphones.
“Talk to me, brother.”
“The big house coming up on your left, el finca grande. You and I are hopping off there. Make for the trees and drop us off!”
Stoke leaned out the window and shouted at Hawke, who was still firing his HK at anything that moved.
“Fuck you talking about, boss?”
“Pull inside that stand of trees, Stoke,” Hawke said, leaning in the window, grinning his ass off. “You and I have some unfinished business. It might take a while. Fitz and Boomer will get Vicky to the IBS and then out to Nighthawke. Then send an IBS back for us. If we’re not at the rendezvous in half an hour, tell him to go without us.”
Stoke slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop inside a grove thick with palms.
“I knew you’d understand,” Hawke said, smiling.
Hawke then leapt to the ground and ran around to the rear of the truck. He quickly climbed up inside, found Vicky, and whispered something into her ear. She reached up and wrapped both arms around him and he kissed the top of her head and turned away.
“She all right?” Fitz said, climbing down off the tailgate with Hawke.
“She will be,” Hawke said. “I’m sure you fellows will make sure of that.” He looked up at the commandos jammed into the back of the truck and saluted them.
“Well done,” Hawke said, looking each man in the eye. “Remarkable job. Thank you, each one of you, for what you did.” There was silence inside the truck, and Hawke had turned away, when one of the men coughed.
“We know where you and Stokely are going, sir,” Cosmo said. “A couple of us would like to come with you.”
“Make it all of us, mon ami!” Hawke heard Froggy say.
“Thanks, Froggy,” Hawke said, “but we might have a better chance if it’s just the two of us. Besides, I need all of you brave gents to protect the lovely lady. Ready, Stoke?”
“Let’s move out, boss,” Stoke said, and he and Hawke disappeared into the darkness.
There was still sporadic shooting behind them. The fire, though sparse, was getting closer. Hawke heard Fitz shout something obscene as he climbed behind the wheel and the old truck shot forward, spraying sand from the rear wheels, headed for the beach.
Hawke wasn’t overly worried. If anyone could get Vicky safely aboard the inflatable and out to the designated rendezvous with Nighthawke, it was FitzHugh McCoy, Charlie Rainwater, and the incredible band of warriors inside that truck.
55
Five minutes later, Alex and Stoke were a hundred yards from the main finca, hunkered down, well hidden in the scrub palm at the fringe of the jungle.
The place was immense.
Wings extended in all directions, mostly three stories high, some with towers and turrets at least six or seven stories. Towers and parapets and hundreds of yellow lights, oblongs and hexagons, a wonder of golden windows. All was pale stucco, and the many rooftops and chimneys were finished with bright blue ceramic tiles.