Don Pendleton - Rolling Thunder

The boy backpedaled as the chopper’s rotor wash swept over him, flattening the grass around him. Even before the Skycrane had set down completely, the pod doors swung open and the Spanish troops crowded the opening. Once the landing wheels had touched ground, the men piled out, crouching over as they made their way clear of the rotors. Two of them beelined to the boy and began to question him; the others, most of them armed with MP-5 subguns, quickly fanned out in all directions, seeking out the enemy.

“Those lads don’t waste any time, do they?” McCarter deadpanned as he killed the engines and unstrapped himself from the pilot’s chair.

“Reminds me of us,” Manning observed, still scanning the surrounding meadow. “I still don’t see the guys.”

“I don’t like it,” McCarter said, worry creeping into his voice. He reached for his holster, drawing a 7-round, .380 ACP EA-SA Compact.

Once they’d deplaned, McCarter and Manning made their way to the two soldiers interrogating the shepherd boy. One of the men was the unit’s leader, Captain Raul Cordero, a tall, ruggedly handsome officer with dark eyes, thick brows and an equally thick mustache that only partially obscured his pronounced harelip. He was fluent in seven languages, including Basque and English.

“He says they fought off the BLM, but one of your men was shot a few times in the side,” he reported to McCarter. “He says his father is ill, as well.”

“Where are they?” McCarter wanted to know.

“There,” the boy interjected, pointing in the direction of the shaded stone hut.

“The wounded man,” McCarter asked the boy. “What does he look like?”

“He is African,” the boy responded. “He was shot in the side. We can’t stop the bleeding.”

“Go ahead and check it out,” Manning told McCarter. “I’ll get a couple stretchers.”

Cordero told his subordinate to lend Manning a hand, then followed McCarter and the boy toward the hut. On the way, McCarter had the boy once again describe what had happened. He found out that Hawkins was with James, but that Encizo had last been seen chasing after an ATV carrying some kind of large wooden crate.

“I’ll take the bird back up once we check on things here,” McCarter told Cordero.

Once they reached the hut, the boy led the two men around back. There, Calvin James lay at the base of the rear window, several yards from the man the boy’s father had shot. Hawkins was crouched behind James, pressing a blood-soaked towel against the black man’s rib cage. Nearby, the old shepherd sat with his back to the stone wall, hunched over slightly, his ashen-faced glistening with perspiration. He fanned himself with his beret, barely able to muster the strength to look up at his son.

“I’ll check the old man,” Cordero told McCarter.

McCarter nodded, then crouched alongside Hawkins. James was unconscious, lying on his side, arms and legs stretched out at odd angles.

“How does it look?” he asked Hawkins.

Hawkins shook his head. “He got nailed twice, maybe three times. Must’ve hit something, because he’s bleeding out on me. We need to get him looked at, quick.”

“Maybe being stuck with that Skycrane was a good thing after all,” McCarter muttered.

“What’s that?”

“I flew in in a Sikorsky,” McCarter told him. “It’s outfitted with one of those OR pods.”

“Decent,” Hawkins said. “Did a medic come with you?”

McCarter called over to Cordero. “Is there a medic in your unit? My guy needs surgery. Probably a transfusion, too.”

Cordero nodded, removing his palm from the old shepherd’s forehead. “Yes, we have two medics. One is the best field surgeon you could ask for.”

“Good,” McCarter said. “I have a feeling he’s going to get a chance to prove it.”

Rafael Encizo slowly extended his right foot toward the base of a scrub brush growing out of the side of the cliff. Once he made contact, he eased his weight onto the limb. It felt capable of supporting him, so he lowered himself a few more inches, transferring his right hand to a narrow crevice.

He was moving at a snail’s pace and had only been able to climb ten yards down the sheer incline. The mountain goat had long since retreated from the cliff’s edge, but Encizo was committed to his downward course. Several times he’d heard the ATV, and though it was hard to judge its whereabouts given the acoustics of his gorgelike surroundings, he held on to the hope that he’d managed to outdistance it earlier and would be able to intercept the driver should he come his way.

As he continued his gruelling descent, sweat stung Encizo’s eyes and blood began to trickle from a score of places where he scraped himself against the rock. His hands and wrists were beginning to ache, and he could feel blisters forming along his fingertips. But he kept on, maintaining his focus, taking care not to rush and risk falling.

Finally he’d made it halfway down the precipice. Pausing to catch his breath, he listened intently. Suddenly his spirits rallied. The ATV now sounded as if it were headed his way. Reinvigorated, Encizo moved sideways along the cliff face, seeking out the concealment of shadows cast by a stand of tall pines lining the mountain ridge behind him. Once he reached the shade, the Cuban stayed put and waited.

Moments later, he spotted the vehicle, raising a cloud of dust as it slowly navigated its way downhill toward him. The driver’s attention was on the trail, which was barely visible beneath a layer of loose rock and wild grass.

Encizo remained still, clinging to the rock with both hands and feet. Reaching for his gun was out of the question; it would only blow his cover and make him an easy target. He was faced with another dilemma, as well. The ATV was coming to a fork in the trail. If the driver kept to his right, he’d pass directly under Encizo. If he went left, however, he’d disappear behind another outcropping and likely make his getaway before the Phoenix Force commando could reach the ground.

“Come on, baby,” Encizo whispered as the driver slowed to a stop at the fork. “Come to papa…”

Encizo’s plea, however, went unanswered.

After a moment’s hesitation, the driver of the ATV turned left and soon passed from Encizo’s view. The sound of its laboring engine began to fade, as well.

“Dammit,” Encizo cursed.

Disheartened, he once again resumed the arduous task of making his way down the cliff. Once he reached the bottom, he figured he’d have no choice but to retrace the Jeep’s course back to the meadow. Provided James and Hawkins had managed to neutralize the enemy, they’d have to wait and hope McCarter and Manning would swing by in time to try to intercept the ATV before it came down out of the mountains.

Encizo hadn’t gone far when he stopped again. He glanced over his shoulder and stared incredulously at the split in the trail. For whatever reason, the ATV had backed up and reappeared at the fork. After shifting gears, the driver slowly turned right and headed Encizo’s way.

The Cuban was no longer in the shade. He froze in place, woefully exposed, as the vehicle approached. Thankfully, the driver was too busy trying to steer his way around fallen rocks to look up. The man was in his late twenties, with shoulder-length hair spilling out from beneath his red beret. He cursed loudly as one of the front wheels rolled over a large rock, jostling the crate behind him. The container had already shifted more than a foot to one side, and the driver had to put the ATV in Neutral momentarily, then rise up in his seat and shift the load so that it was more evenly balanced. He tightened the shock cords slightly, then got back behind the wheel and drove on, eyes once again focused on the trail.