Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Both women were up and running as the crash truck roared in to foam the wreckage. Omata was the first to duck under the left wing and jerk the door open. A man was slumped over the controls, and as Mac got closer, she saw holes in the roof.

Omata cut the pilot free from his harness and began to pull him out. The seat was soaked with blood, and the pilot was clearly unconscious as they lowered him to the ground.

Dr. Hoskins arrived seconds later, closely followed by Obbie. “Good work,” the doctor said. “Now get the hell out of the way.”

Mac and Omata backed away as the man was lifted onto a stretcher and carried to the waiting Humvee. “Shit,” Omata said feelingly. “Did you see that? The poor bastard had at least two holes in him.”

“Hoskins will patch him up,” Mac predicted, and hoped it was true. “Search the cockpit. Recover what you can. Maybe we can figure out who this guy is—and what he was up to. We’ll meet in Flight Control thirty from now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Omata responded. “I’m on it.”

Mac spent the next half hour supervising the cleanup, with help from Peters. Then she went up to Flight Control, where a number of items were laid out on a table. The collection included an AWOL bag, a laptop, a cell phone, a folding knife, a wallet, and some pocket litter.

“I got some of this stuff from Doc Obbie,” Omata explained. “And the rest is from the plane. The pilot is an army unmanned aerial vehicle operator named Staff Sergeant Nick Esco. He’s stationed at JBLM.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Good work. Is that all?”

“No,” Omata said as she pointed to a pink envelope. “He had a girlfriend named Karol.”

“Had?”

“She dumped him two weeks prior to the meteor strike.”

“And she told him in a letter?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“What a bitch… All right, find your boss and tell him I would appreciate a low-level reconnaissance of the area.”

Omata’s face lit up. ‘You’re clearing us to fly?”

“Yes, I am.”

Omata produced a whoop of joy and nearly bowled Evans over on her way out of the building. He looked at Mac. “Why so happy?”

“She gets to fly.”

Evans shook his head. “Rotor heads… They’re crazy.”

The Apache lifted off half an hour later, circled the base, and went looking for trouble. That was useful, but the true purpose of the mission was to keep the pilots sharp and to boost their morale.

Shortly after the helicopter’s departure, Mac went to check on Sergeant Esco. The dispensary was well lit, and the air was warm. Hoskins was sitting in the tiny waiting room drinking a cup of coffee. He nodded. “Thanks for the power… I could operate by lanternlight. But I don’t want to. A bullet punched through Sergeant Esco’s right thigh, and another was lodged in his right buttock. Both projectiles came up through the bottom of the cabin. No wonder he crashed… The poor bastard was bleeding to death.”

Mac sat down. “And now?”

“And now he’s all patched up,” Hoskins informed her. “Obbie’s with him. He’s a good hospital corpsman, by the way… You’re lucky to have him.”

“We are,” Mac agreed. “Although we call them medics.”

“Who cares?” Hoskins responded. “He’s good. That’s the point.”

“Roger that,” Mac said. “I appreciate the feedback. So when can I speak with Sergeant Esco?”

“When he wakes up,” Hoskins said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Good,” Mac replied. “And thanks… We’re lucky to have you as well.” And with that, she left.

Mac was sitting in the Flight Control Center fretting about the unit’s quickly dwindling supply of food when she heard the helicopter clatter overhead and come in for a landing. If it hadn’t been for the MREs stored at Vagabond, the platoon would have run out of food weeks earlier. It was a perplexing problem, and one that became increasingly acute with each passing day.

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and a blast of cold air flooded the room. The generator was off, and the stove provided what warmth there was. Evans sat with his back to the rest of the room. He said, “Hey, close the fucking door,” before turning around to look.

“That’s ‘close the fucking door,’ sir ,” Peters said with a huge grin.

“My bad,” Evans conceded, as Peters trooped in. “I should have known. Only a pilot would be stupid enough to leave the door open.” Peters flipped him off, and both men laughed.

“So what’s going on out there?” Mac inquired.

“Not a helluva lot,” Peters said, as he plopped down. “Unless you’re into mining trucks.”

“Mining trucks? What kind of mining trucks? And where were they?”

“ Big honking mining trucks,” the pilot replied. “On the other side of the river. They’re parked next to a convenience store. Omata has gun-camera footage, but we’ll need some juice in order to show it to you.”

Evans looked at Mac, she nodded, and he left. Once the generator was purring, it took five minutes to download the footage. There wasn’t much to see at first… Just some widely separated homes. Then the helo crossed both the freeway and the Yakima River. That was when four gigantic trucks became visible. Metal canopies jutted out over their cabs, and as the Apache circled, Mac saw that a steel balcony was mounted on the front of each vehicle.

Pickups looked like toys compared to the big beasts, and people were like ants, as they ran in every direction. And that raised an important question. Why would people run unless they had something to hide?

Mac had seen such trucks on TV and knew they were associated with open-pit mines. But there weren’t any open-pit mines nearby. None that she knew of. And that raised a second question: Why were the big mining machines parked next to a convenience store located a short distance from Vagabond? Then it came to her. The ore haulers were part of Wylie’s plan to attack the base! Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “Can you give me some magnification? I’d like to have a closer look at the cabs on those trucks.”

Omata could and did. The video was grainy but sufficient to confirm what Mac already suspected. By welding steel plates to the balconies that fronted the truck cabs Wylie’s people had been able to provide the drivers with a modicum of protection. Was the armor thick enough to stop a .50 caliber slug? Probably. Could the Apache destroy the haulers with Hellfire missiles? Of course. But what then? What armament they had for the helicopter was already hanging on it. And once that was gone, the unit would be SOL if faced with an even greater threat.

Plus, there was the weather to consider. Mac was well aware of the fact that a lot of things can go wrong when an attack helicopter is forced to fly below five hundred feet, and visibility is limited to a couple of miles. And the clouds were moving back in. Evans was staring at the video. “Holy shit… Those bastards are getting ready for war.”

“Yes, they are,” Mac agreed. “It looks like they plan to roll in, crash through the fence, and level the base. Then they’ll take our fuel. Wylie was serious.”

Peters stared at her. “So what are we going to do?”

“We’ll attack,” Mac said without hesitation. “We have no choice. Now they know that we know—so they’ll come for us as soon as they can.” She turned to Evans. “Get everyone ready… I want to roll by 0400.”

Evans was on his feet. He looked grim. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he was gone.

There was a lot to do, and when the pilots left, Mac was all alone. You’re an idiot, she told herself. You should have sent patrols across the river. The fact that the weather cleared, and the rotor heads saw the trucks, was dumb luck.