Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

You don’t have to tell me, Cal thought. It was critical to record the location and type of the mines. This one was “antivehicle, radio-controlled number three,” the last of the mines they’d planted on the road. They’d put one right on the turnoff from the main road, another one about halfway down, and this last one right under the compound gate itself; if anything ever managed to ram the gate in, they would blow the hell out of it right there.

They’d laid a dozen ‘AP, CD’-antipersonnel, contact-detonated-mines in an irregular pattern around the outside of the compound. These were the sweet little puppies that exploded as you stepped off them, giving you the cheerful choice of standing perfectly still and getting shot or hitting the dirt with whatever was left of you after the mine blew up underneath you. They also planted twenty-four dummy mines. The only way you could tell they were duds was by stepping off them and seeing whether you were alive or a memory.

The idea was to force any attack into narrow unmined lanes that you had covered with presighted rifle fire. This would equalize the firepower of your small force against your enemy’s larger one. With discipline and training, one good man with an Ml 6 could take care of his own lane while a centrally located heavy machine gun could sweep the entire field of fire. Your best marksmen stayed up in the towers with their sniper rifles and picked off the enemy’s leaders. A good fire team could turn an enemy attack into a debacle in moments. It would take trust, of course. Every man was literally betting his life that every other man was doing his own job. And Cal was going to make goddamn sure that was the case.

“Let’s go up the tower and label the switches,” Mackinnon said. “Then let’s call it a day. I’m beat.”

They’d put in a full one. They’d unpacked the crates of rifles and test-fired half a dozen of them. Then Cal had set the men to assembling and cleaning the rest and they hiked down near the base of the mountain, set up some targets, and started sighting them in. Then Mackinnon took Cal and Randy and talked them through the intricacies of the Schmidt Rubin 31/55 sniper rifle, a Swiss beauty with a bipod stand, capable of delivering a 190-grain bullet with great accuracy at long range. Then he and Cal started the long, sweaty work of laying the mines.

Now they walked back into the compound. The late afternoon sky had turned a sullen, threatening gray.

“Why don’t we put the switch box in the southeast tower?” Cal asked. “That gives us the best view of the terrain.”

“We can put a box in each tower and one in the bunker, if you want. It’s a simple matter of override switches. That way you don’t have to worry about being in one particular place to detonate the mines.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cal said. He was impressed. Mackinnon had put some thought into this deal.

So Mackinnon charged four battery-run toggle-switch boxes and set the frequencies. They taped one into each guard tower and another one into the main bunker room. He showed Cal which switch detonated which mine. By the time he was finished it was dark out.

“Now you can blow the hell out of any ZOG bastard who tries to come in here,” Mackinnon said.

“That’s good,” Cal answered. “We might be needing to any time now.”

Mackinnon’s eyes went flat and cold. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, we have a couple of prisoners who…”

Cal saw Mackinnon’s jaw drop in disbelief and his face flush with anger.

“Prisoners?” Mackinnon hissed.

“Yeah. Couple of prisoners, I-”

“You assholes let me bring these arms into an insecure area?”

“It’s not insecure, it’s-”

“ZOG would put me away for life if they caught me with this shipment! Are these guys cops? FBI? Secret Service? Customs?”

Jesus, the guy is flipping out, Cal thought. He said, “I don’t know who they are. We haven’t really started questioning them yet.”

“Well, we’re goddamn well going to start now!”

Cal saw Bob Hansen walking over with that sour look he got on his face when he didn’t think things were going the way he wanted.

“What’s happening here? What’s the yelling about?”

“Where’s Carter?” Mackinnon yelled.

Cal almost smiled, because he’d never heard anyone yell at Hansen before.

“He’s back at my house, having a rest,” Hansen answered.

“His ass is in the sack and he’s got mine in a sling?”

Cal had to put his hand to his mouth and fake a cough.

“What’s the trouble?” Hansen asked. Cal could tell the boss was starting to get pissed off.

“The trouble is,” Mackinnon said with exaggerated patience, like he was talking to the slowest kid in the fifth grade, “that you guys have let me drive a truckload full of illegal arms into a place the law seems to have targeted. That’s what the trouble is.”

“We’re taking care of the-” Hansen started to say.

“You’re not taking care of shit!” Mackinnon yelled.

Cal saw Bob Hansen go positively pale.

“Where are they?” Mackinnon asked. He looked away, put his hands on his waist, and shook his head.

“They’re locked up,” Cal said. He pointed at the small bunker. “Right over there.”

Mackinnon said to Cal, “Let’s go.”

Hansen butted in. “Now wait just a minute. This is none of your concern. Reverend Carter-”

“You did search them for transmitters, didn’t you?” Mackinnon asked.

“We were about to do that when you came in,” Cal lied. He was some kind of embarrassed, especially because about half of the boys were standing a few feet away watching the whole scene.

He was grateful when Mackinnon turned his rage toward Hansen. “I want my money right now. Then I’m out of here.”

Hansen’s face looked like stone. “Come to the house with me. You’ll get every damn penny.”

“You’re damn right I’ll get every damn penny. But bring it here, to the truck. I’m not walking into any house with you. Half the National Guard might be hiding in there,” Mackinnon answered. He turned back to Cal. “You’re about the only half-competent guy around this place. Will you go with him to get my money?”

Cal looked to Hansen and the boss nodded curtly.

“I want to see these prisoners of yours,” Mackinnon said. “I’ve been dodging these ass wipes my whole life. I can probably look at them and tell you what agency, which office, and how they like their coffee.”

Cal yelled to the gaggle of men who were standing around pretending not to listen. “Jory! Dave! Take him to see the prisoners! Keep your eyes open!”

“I don’t believe this,” Mackinnon muttered as they walked over to the bunker. He reached under his coat, pulled his pistol, and laid it down in front of the bunker.

Dave and Jory stared at him.

“You don’t go into a cell with your weapon,” Mackinnon explained. “What if they grab you and take it from you?”

“They’re chained to the wall,” Dave said. “And Randy’s in there.”

“Then what do you need a gun for?” Mackinnon answered.

They laid their guns down and went inside. Randy closed the door behind them. He turned the light on and Mackinnon looked down at the one man shivering on the floor and the other one a bleeding lump stretched out over two sawhorses.

Then he lost his temper.

Ed’s spinning back kick slammed into Dave’s solar plexus and knocked all the air and most of the will to live right out of him. Dave crumpled to the floor gasping for air, his legs kicking spasmodically like a cockroach set on its back.

Randy pulled a combat knife from his belt and stabbed down at Ed’s neck. Ed shifted to the left, brought both arms up, and crossed them to form an X. He blocked the knife, held Randy’s wrist, turned around and under Randy’s trapped armed, then slammed Randy’s wrist down on his own collarbone. The knife dropped from Carlisle’s hand as his elbow snapped with a dry crack. Carlisle screamed as Ed spun the broken arm around behind his back, held his neck down, and pulled the shoulder out of its socket. Ed kicked Randy in the face, breaking his nose and one cheekbone, and then let him fall to the floor.