Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“It’s not just the rifle, Mickey. I’ll be using a rocket-powered titanium bullet that is still in the experimental stage. We were testing it at 29 Palms when this mission popped up.” He arranged his radio, made the Excalibur ready, and covered it with a clean, soft cloth to keep out the fine dirt until it was time to use it. “I appreciate you taking time off from your druggies to help out this morning.”

“Always happy to help kill an American terrorist.” The Mexican captain in the black beret grinned, and his bright teeth flashed beneath the mustache. “The guy sounds like a real asshole.”

“That he is, my friend. That he is. But he has two women, one of whom is Beth Ledford, a good friend of mine, and we have to rescue them.”

“Aha. A pretty señorita?”

“Actually, she is pretty. A little blonde with a nice figure, but we’re just friends. Beth is a helluva fighter, can shoot better than you, and is going to join Task Force Trident.”

“Then she certainly sounds worth saving. Afterward, we can perhaps have a celebration?”

“You always have women on your mind. Just concentrate for now on popping this tango, OK?”

“Of course. Or course. This Beth Ledford; she is a little blonde, did you say?”

BILL CURTIS KEPT HIS van within the speed limit on the interstate highway as he passed through the agricultural fields of the fertile Imperial Valley, and the smell of fertilizer and chemicals hung heavy on the night air. Huge sprinkler systems hissed from pipes. He was in control. The women were immobilized in the back, wrapped in dynamite, and gagged, behaving themselves. He would have the sun at his back when Swanson came through the big dunes and into the kill zone. He would be up high, with the advantage of looking down on the approaching man, who would be helpless. The explosive device was buried at the turnoff where he would leave his van, and Curtis had planted two additional dynamite caches along the little path up the steep, shifting side of the sand dune. At that point, there would be nothing Swanson could do to stop him.

He looked at the digital clock on the dashboard and saw that it was almost four thirty in the morning, which meant it was seven thirty at the Space Center; according to the published schedule, the Mars astronauts would be boarding the command module of the rocket about now. Coming up on T minus three hours. He pressed the scan button to see if a news report might be picked up out in the desert night. Radio reception was tricky in this bowl of desert that was below sea level, and getting clear signals from commercial stations was erratic.

Curtis found a talk show whose host specialized in the weird and bizarre, including coverage of aliens and UFOs, for his listening audience of night owls. He had been refereeing an argument for the past hour between experts about what kind of life existed on Mars, and if it might be hostile to humans.

“Well, guys, this is really interesting, and our lines are on fire, but I want to bring everybody up to date here. The wire services are reporting from the Cape that the Mars launch has been scrubbed!” Excitement rose in his voice. “A NASA spokesman has just announced that during the final safety check this morning, several heat-resistant tiles on the reentry vehicle were found to be defective, and the America will not fly until the problem can be corrected. A news conference will be held later. Well, guys, this is a stunner. No launch this morning! What do you think, Dr. Lerner?”

Bill Curtis slammed on the brakes, and the tires locked and the van skidded to a jerky halt with the right wheels off the pavement. He bashed the steering wheel with both hands and shouted every obscenity he could think of, got out and stormed around, waving his arms in frustration, then beat hard on the side of the van. A passing motorist gave him a curious look, then sped away. The damned Mars mission was off! How? What? They would go through the rocket piece by piece now and find the detonator. Ohhhhhh, damndamndamn. His groan was deep and guttural, and his stomach was in such sudden pain that he leaned over and vomited bile onto the pavement. He collapsed beside the back wheel, leaned back, and drew in deep breaths. Failure again. First the bridge, then his exposure as a traitor, and now this. The tiles story had to be a lie. He didn’t know how but was certain that Swanson was involved in foiling the rocket plan, too. The double strike on the United States had evaporated. Blood surged through his veins, and he felt like killing somebody.

KYLE SWANSON SWEPT THE 40-power spotting scope slowly over the empty sands that would turn into a cauldron within a few hours as temperatures soared to over 100 degrees, occasionally kissing 120 plus. On most summer days, the cooked little towns in the Imperial Valley were among the hottest places in the United States. The dunes folded away, one after another for forty miles to the north, and when the hot, heavy winds kicked in, the incredibly wrinkled landscape would rearrange itself into brand-new trackless, bumpy wastes, and sand would fill the air and turn the world tan and blot out the sun.

“Headlights,” he said and handed the scope to Mickey. Without the increased magnification, the lights were a mere dot in the darkness to the naked eye, but when Kyle brought up the Excalibur, its 20-power scope brought everything back to clarity, adjusting to night-vision mode. “He’s late. Only thirty minutes until sunrise.” The darkness was already thinning as a new day crept toward the valley.

The hump of the huge dune hid the new arrivals, but the flanking teams had clear views and gave step-by-step reports as Bill Curtis parked south of the small bridge at the intersection of the All-American and New Coachella canals, part of the desert aqueduct system. He killed the engine and pulled his two hostages from the back of the van, cut the manacles on their ankles, and made each carry some gear as they climbed the dune, following the little flags dimly visible at their feet.

The snipers had all lasered the top of the target dune earlier with infrared beams, and Swanson had locked the exact distance into Excalibur’s internal computer. “Windage?” he asked and was told there was no change. A recurring light breeze had been recorded sweeping through the valleys between the dunes every seven minutes, and the timing had remained constant. Mickey was keeping track of the time, and just as expected, the faint wind eased down through the depressions right on schedule.

“We’ve got another seven minutes of clear air,” he whispered, as though his voice might be heard two and a half miles away. In the big scope, he saw the man come to the crest of the faraway ridge with the women beside him. Then the women sat down, and the man stood tall. “Everybody stay still,” Mickey called. “He’s doing a sweep of the area with binoculars. Good. He’s done. Jesus, Kyle, he didn’t even look this way.”

“Of course not. He’s overconfident and careless. This is Mexico, and he drew a mental boundary on threats at the border. He has not factored in the danger to himself. What’s that he’s doing?”

“Shit. It’s a beach chair! The son of a bitch has unfolded a beach chair and has plopped his ass down in it, like a king on a throne. A hostage is tight on each side.”

Swanson brought the picture to perfect clarity in his own scope. Hunh. The elevation calculation was still good; Kyle’s hide was fifty feet above the target, and he figured a plus three. His aim point would be the base of the neck, right above the shoulders. Not much wiggle room left and right, but better margin of error up and down, and Swanson did not plan on missing anyway. Not this morning.