"Shot down by the damn Mexican army!" Lyons cursed. The ex-cop turned to Miguel Coral. "Pardon me for what I said to you. I think I just got my first lesson in Mexican reality."
"Shades of gray," Blancanales told Lyons. Then he spoke with Coral in Spanish.
Gadgets joked with Davis. "See, man? In moments of crisis, you got to keep your cool. Did you see any smoke? Did you see any fire? Save your adrenaline for when things get serious."
"Serious? Those wings've got two-hundred-plus gallons of jet fuel in their tanks. One short, one spark and it could've been instant cremation."
"Pol, you got that map?" Lyons asked, cutting the argument. "Looks like it's time to hike."
"With all that crap?" Davis pointed to the shipping cases they sat on. "You won't get a mile. While you're dragging your precious luggage through the desert, those Mexicans will be looking for the plane. And all we've got to defend ourselves with is my .38."
Gadgets exchanged glances with his partners. Lyons gave a quick cynical laugh. Blancanales pulled the wadded navigation chart from his sports coat. As Coral and the ex-Green Beret searched for the correct sector of the chart, Blancanales suggested, "Give our pilot friend a demonstration."
"Observe, my friend, and you will learn the way of the Wizard."
Throwing open the lid of the trunk, Gadgets revealed several plastic boxes. He took out box after box, stacking them on the gravel of the dry stream-bed. A step away, Lyons emptied his trunk. Through the thin translucent plastic, the pilot saw tools and equipment in some boxes, cartridge magazines in another, clothing in one. Stenciled words identified the contents: Electronic, Survival, 5.56MM/9MM/EXP, Armr, Socks and Underwear, Money, Junk Food. The last box had a red cross and First Aid stenciled on the lid.
Gadgets pushed up the sleeves of his bloody sports coat and showed the pilot his empty hands. Then he reached to the bottom of the trunk. He pulled out an OD internal-frame backpack, complete with shoulder and hip straps, compression straps and Velcro seals. Gadgets zipped open the compartments. He pulled out green-and-black splotched camo fatigues. Then he slipped the plastic boxes inside the pack. Each plastic box fit perfectly.
"I mean, do we got our act together? El perfecto..." He pointed to his OD pack and his green-and-black camo suit. "Except that I've got the wrong color camouflage."
To the side, Lyons stripped off his sports coat, shoulder-holstered Colt Python and white shirt. He threw the street clothes into the empty trunk and put on a black long-sleeved fatigue shirt and black fatigue pants. He slipped into the shoulder holster and pulled the strap tight. He left on his gray slacks but changed from his neoprene-soled street shoes into black canvas-and-nylon boots. Like his clothes and boots, he also preferred black nylon for his backpack.
Then they opened their "guitar cases." Lyons strapped on a black web belt and a bandolier. He took out his Atchisson full-auto assault shotgun. He checked the weapon, then snapped in a magazine. An extra barrel for the Atchisson — a fourteen-inch "urban environment" barrel — and a Colt Government Model .45 automatic disappeared into the backpack.
From his case, Gadgets took almost identical web gear, but his belt carried a Beretta 93-R fitted with a silencer. He slung a Colt Automatic Rifle, with a short barrel and telescoping stock over his shoulder.
"Presto chango!" Gadgets exclaimed. "Convertible luggage for convertible dudes. From businessmen to hardcore tourists. Let those Mexicans come. They find us, it's their problem."
Davis stared. "What exactly were you going to do in Culiacan?"
"It's not whatwe were going to do," Lyons said laughing. "It's whowe were going to do."
Gadgets laughed also. "We always carry this, maybe more. Boy Scout motto..." Gadgets looked to Lyons.
They spoke simultaneously, "Always be prepared."
Blancanales pointed to a position on the map. "We're here. The Mexicans are between us and the nearest road back to the coast. Senor Coral suggests we walk to here..." He pointed to a line cutting through the mountains. "That's the Chihuahua al Pacifico. We'll walk there, then ride the train down to Los Mochis."
"How far?"
"A day. Two days."
Lyons shook his head. "Forget it. I only packed a liter of water. Let's kill those soldiers and take a truck."
"It's a one-day walk the other way," Blancanales countered. "And if we don't get a truck, we'll be walking through their territory. If we take the train back, our return will be a complete surprise."
"All right, we take the long walk. Time to move." Lyons glanced at his watch. "We've been on the ground seven minutes. We burn the jet?"
"Why?" Davis asked. "There's a chance it can be salvaged."
"That plane's a wreck. And when the Mexicans get here, they'll know we got out. I want to throw all this luggage..." he pointed to the empty shipping trunks and the guitar cases "...inside the plane and torch it."
"What a waste," Davis said, shaking his head.
"Waste or be wasted," Lyons told him.
Blancanales emptied his equipment cases. As he assembled his gear, Lyons returned to the shattered Lear. The area stank of spilled jet fuel. He threw the cases inside, one by one.
With Gadgets's blood-ruined sports coat, Lyons ran a few hundred meters from the plane. He dropped the bloody coat on the sand. He ran another hundred meters to a gully where insects buzzed around a stagnant pool of water seeping out of the sandbanks. Sliding down the side of the gully, Lyons ran downstream, through swarms of horseflies and turquoise-blue dragonflies. A hundred meters to the south, he scrambled up a rock slope.
He broke off a mesquite branch and swept away his bootprints as he returned to the plane. When he neared the wreck, he walked backward. The Mexicans would find two different false tracks leading away from the plane. Then he swept away his tracks to and from the gully where the others waited.
"Wizard!" Lyons called out as he slid down the embankment.
Gadgets Schwarz braced his CAR on the lip of the gully. "Ready?"
"Light it," Lyons barked.
The CAR popped once in the emptiness of the high desert. A rifle flare arced across the hundred meters of sand and mesquite, the magnesium charge an intense white for an instant. Then the fuel flashed and a ball of flame churned into the sky.
Leaving the column of flame and black acrid smoke behind, the survivors marched north, following the gully through the alluvial fan. A kilometer ahead, the sheer volcanic stone walls of the gorge towered above the desert.
From the mountains, three men watched the strangers and the burning jet. They sprawled in the rocks and windblown sand of a ridgeline. Their clothes matched the dust: simple hand-sewn cotton pants and shirts, colored first with dye, then stained again every day with sweat and dust and sometimes blood. They also wore boots taken from the Mexican army. Rags had been wrapped around the soles and secured with strings.
All of the young men carried rifles. Two wore Mexican army-issue M-16 rifles slung over their backs. The third carried an antique Springfield 1903-A3 bolt-action rifle with a stock carved from wood.
The young men had skin the color of the old rifle's stock, dark like rich walnut or mahogany. Their dark hair fell to their collars. Knives had cut their hair square at their shoulders.