Calmed by the intelligent and professional manner of his trusted pilot, Gunther said, "Please explain."
"The Mexican said there was a problem with the radio link. The truth is, there is no radio link."
"What? He has no contact with the force on the ground?"
"The pilot in the plane sees Mexican soldiers and helicopters. But there is no communication with the ground. For what reason, we do not know."
Gunther consulted his topographical map. "If these coordinates are correct, there is a second hill to the east of where the little colonel will land. However, my map does not indicate flat area. If it is possible..."
"My Colonel," the pilot interrupted. "I have the same map. If there is an area three meters by three meters, I can land this aircraft."
Lyons sprinted up a path, his muscles laboring against the weight of his weapons and equipment. At the top, he found himself alone in the brush and weeds. He scanned the horizon. No helicopters, no planes. He waited as the pulse thundering in his ears slowed. He heard no helicopters. He looked down the trail and called out, "Vato! Yaquis!"
"Norteamericano!" a voice answered. "Aqui!"
Faces appeared. Vato and a group of Yaquis already waited. Lyons crawled into the dense matting of stubby brush. The Yaquis lay camouflaged in fighting holes. Domes of lashed-together brush, dry weeds and dust-colored cloth concealed them as they waited for the helicopters. The only openings in the camouflage faced across the canyon, toward the death trap.
Snaking under the camouflage, Lyons took a fighting hole next to Vato and his spotter, where he could serve to relay Vato's instructions to the groups across the canyon. The teenager who would spot the targets for Vato's rifle passed Lyons his FN-FAL para-rifle.
Minute after minute passed. But the helicopters did not come. Lyons and the Yaquis waited, every tension-filled minute an hour.
Through the high-powered optics of his binoculars, Lyons searched the opposite ridge for any discordant element or image as the Mexicans in the helicopters would do before they landed. He saw the uniformed Yaquis in their places. A hundred meters to the north, where brush and dust-colored cloth camouflaged Blancanales and the machine gunners, Lyons saw nothing.
Lyons put down the binoculars and prepared his weapons. Though the Atchisson would be useless at this extreme range, he checked the selective-fire assault shotgun and loaded it. He laid the weapon at the side of his fighting hole, the bandolier of 12-gauge magazines ready. Then he swung out the stock of the NATO-caliber FN-FAL rifle and peered through the sight. Snapping out the magazine, he looked at the top cartridge. He saw a Winchester soft-point hunting round, with the tip hollowed out and filled with some dark substance.
"Que es?" Lyons asked the spotter. He pointed to the tip of the bullet.
"Huvacvena," the teenager told him.
"A poison made from huvacvena," Vato explained. "It causes flesh to die."
His hand radio clicked. Lyons reloaded the rifle and keyed a response. "What goes? Where are the helicopters?"
Through the electronics, he heard Gadgets reply. "The goons are lost! I'm monitoring their frequency. They can't find the landing zone. They keep calling for Lieutenant Colomo to guide them in."
"Don't do it! Don't chance it!"
"Don't sweat it, I won't risk an impersonation. I thought of running over to the village and getting him, but it's a quarter mile each way. And I did a year's worth of running yesterday. Davis parked the helicopter over on the other side of the ridge. It's all camouflaged with cloth and branches and stuff. And guess what I found? Remember the black box radio in the jeep we took from the Popular Liberation Forces? In el ano del mundo!"
"What?"
"You know, Salvador."
Months before, in the mountains of El Salvador's Morazon province, Able Team had decimated a Communist assassination squad. They had captured two jeeps used by the rebel force. One of the jeeps contained a secure-band radio designed and manufactured by the National Security Agency.
"You're jiving me."
"Noooo, not me." Gadgets repeated, "They've got a black box. Just like el numero-uno Nazado Quesada. And us. Hey, wait... they've got a plane up there, I'm monitoring..."
Whistles came from Yaquis. Voices shouted out, "Aeroplano!"
"He's spotted us. Stand by for action. Over and out."
Lyons called into his radio. "Political. You ready?"
"I'm ready," Blancanales answered. "But are you ready for that plane?"
"Ready if you are."
"We're not the ones they'll bomb, Ironman. We're too close to the kill zone. They'd hit their own soldiers. It's you. If that pilot spots you, he'll do a fire-suppression run. If he's got the bombs..."
"Hey, Pol," Gadgets interrupted. "Why else would he be here? They think we're surrounded, right? Watch out, Ironman. If that wing wipe packs napalm... a little dab'll do ya."
Rotor throb thudded through the air.
Looking to the west, Lyons saw two helicopters. A third troopship followed. Lyons turned on his back and scanned the sky. High above them, a light plane spiraled down.
"They are ready?" Vato asked Lyons.
"No problems."
Vato looked up at the plane. Both of them saw the aluminum canister mounted under the plane's belly. Vato's eyes met Lyons's. They knew what the canister contained: napalm. In Nam they'd called it the devil's cocktail.
As the plane orbited at a thousand feet, two helicopters descended to the plateau. The Yaquis in Mexican uniforms waved the pilots down. Dust obscured the ridge as the troopships touched down.
In the dust storm kicked up by the landing choppers, the Yaquis left the ridge, walking slowly and naturally down the trail to the pueblo. Lyons counted the fighters on the trail. His hand radio clicked.
"What about the other helicopter?" Blancanales asked. "Wizard. Any communications?"
"Nothing," Gadgets answered. "I didn't catch everything they said back and forth, but they're not saying anything now. Nothing."
"Ironman, what does Vato say?" Blancanales asked.
Lyons turned to the young man. He saw Vato aiming his Springfield. The spotter spoke to Vato. Vato nodded. He spoke to Lyons.
"There is an officer. A colonel. See him? When I shoot him, tell them to fire the..."
Rotor throb obliterated his words. The third helicopter descended from the sky like a dark-green dragonfly. Vato and the spotter grabbed the cloth and brush and branches concealing them, holding the camouflage before the rotor storm tore it away.
Vato shouted to Lyons, "Tell them to fire the bombs!"
Blinded by dust, the roar of the descending helicopter slamming his ears with mind-shattering decibels, Lyons screamed into the hand radio.
"Fire! Fire! Fire it!"
Across the canyon, the helicopters cut their engines. Dust drifted. Mexican soldiers left the helicopters.
Lyons screamed into the radio again, "Fire it!"
Looking out the Plexiglas windows of the third helicopter, the soldiers of the Fascist International could not have seen their North American and indigenaenemies.
Steel skids crushing their camouflage, the troopship came down directly on top of the fighting holes dug into the hilltop, trapping Lyons and the Yaquis.
The shrieking roar of the rotors above Lyons died as the pilot cut the engines.
Doors slammed open. Boots came down.
19
Blancanales put his face to the earth and clicked the electrical trigger.
Nothing.
Looking at the firing device in his hand, the ex-Green Beret checked the possible problems: the handle, the shorting plug, the safety bail under the firing handle, the wires.