Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  Three men jumped into the back of the truck as the van, its side door standing open, pulled up hard against the doorway. They started throwing bags of money into the van.

  Baylor, still dazed by the crash, pulled himself with both hands to the doorway of the cab.

  “Got a mask for me?” he gasped.

  The shotgun swung up a foot from Baylor’s face. He saw the flash, felt the gale of heat sear the flesh from his face, but he never heard the blast.

  “Sorry, soldier,” a voice muffled within the gas mask said. “Fortunes of war.”

  He rolled Baylor’s body over and took the computer, modem, and cellular phone out of Baylor’s pockets.

  High above them, a tramp flopping in a deserted third-floor loft was shaken awake by the explosions. He peered fearfully over the sill of the window and looked down into the middle of the block. He saw smoke bombs attached to light poles, spewing swirling eddies of smoke in the middle of the block. Suddenly, a van burst out of the man-made fog and screeched around the corner. The tramp cowered below the windowsill, afraid that he’d been seen. Cautiously, he rose up and looked back down at the street.

  The smoke slowly dissipated and he saw below him the crippled armored truck, its back doors lying in the street, and two men sprawled beside it. One had no face.

  CHAPTER 4

  JANUARY 12, 3:30 P.M., ROCKY MOUNTAIN TIME

  Near a peak of the rugged Bitterroot mountain range, a solitary man perched on a snowmobile, studying the slope below him through binoculars. He knew and loved the sounds the cruel wind would make as it swept past him down the steep mountain slope toward the pass, moaning over the rocky tor, whistling past sharp stalks of high winter grass, crackling through the bright green shrub brush and pine limbs in a half-mile-wide bay of pines, then bursting free of the trees, gaining momentum and howling across a steep, snow-deep meadow, churning up wisps of flakes in its wake.

  He panned the glasses down into the pass, following the road south as it curved slightly for a couple of hundred feet, then made a sharp turn due east for several hundred yards before cutting south again. The road had been cleared but the wind brushed it with fresh snow from the slopes. It was a desolate and forlorn V-shaped chasm between two mountain ranges, beautiful in its seclusion.

  A moment later the unnatural roar of a second snowmobile drowned out the wind. It swept over the crest of the mountain and pulled up beside the first. The two men, both dressed in white camouflage suits, their faces snug behind ski masks, huddled against the cruel gale.

  The first man pushed his tinted snow goggles onto his forehead and studied the sky. The sun was dropping below the mountain peaks, and behind the mountains gray clouds were boiling up.

  “Getting dark,” he said. His breath steamed through the round mouth hole in the mask. Bits of ice ringed the hole where his breath had condensed and frozen.

  “What’s the matter, Dad, too cold for you?”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  The boy smiled and followed the older man’s glance. “Gonna get us some more snow,” he said.

  “Yep. Let’s take a pass through those pines.”

  “Okay. I’ll take the high side along the ridge. Maybe we can spook us a buck.”

  “Meet you at Widow’s Peak.” The father laughed. “Keep an eye out for rangers—and try not to shoot me.”

  “I was gonna say the same.”

  “Getting pretty frisky for a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Yeah.” The young man laughed and spun off, whipping the machine sideways and sending a geyser of snow over his father. He headed up the sharp incline to the top edge of the pine stand.

  The father headed down the side of the mountain. The slope was so steep he leaned hard into the hill to keep it from sliding out from under him. He guided the machine along the lower edge of the forest and twisted the throttle, expertly skirting the trees before stopping at the edge of a precipice. A hundred yards below him was the first curve in the road. He moved quickly, first tying a length of heavy rope around one of the larger pines and dropping it over the edge. He took a small square packet from one of his saddlebags, stuffed it in his jacket, then dropped quickly over the side of the cliff. He slid down about fifty feet, carefully studying the face of the cliff, and abruptly stopped next to a flat niche in the rocks. The package was wrapped in oilskin and sealed in a plastic Baggie. He lodged the package carefully in the niche and then took a small tube about four inches long from his pocket and twisted it into the package. Then he pulled himself back up the cliff.

  His son was waiting at Widow’s Peak—the south end of the woods where the forest funneled to a point and ended at hard rock.

  “See anything?” the young man asked.

  His father shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a living thing up here. It’s too damn cold.”

  “I didn’t even see a rabbit track.”

  “Let’s head home.”

  The father turned his snowmobile and headed off through the trees with his son close behind. They had gone almost to the end of the pine stand when the older man suddenly raised his hand. He slowed, and then stopped and rolled off his snowmobile into the snow. His son followed.

  “What—” the boy started to say, but his father held a finger to his mouth. He reached into a leather rifle holster and slid his rifle out. The gun was fitted with a silencer. He crawled about twenty feet through the snow, stopped behind a fallen tree, carefully laid the barrel of the rifle on the stump, and sighted through the scope. He focused it. Four hundred yards away he followed another snowmobile as it roared out of another stand of trees below them and to the north.

  The boy took out his binoculars and sighted on the figure. He crawled beside his father and said, “Whatcha doin’, Pop? That’s Floyd.”

  “Quiet up,” the father snapped under his breath.

  The boy leaned closer to his father and said in his ear, “Floyd’s not gonna bother us.”

  The father recognized the Forest Service logo on the side of the snowmobile and the number 6 above it. Chip was right, it was Floyd Tracy. He moved the cross hairs up until they were steady over the ranger’s heart. His hand tightened a bit, taking the slack out of the trigger.

  “What’re you doing?” his son whispered frantically. “He’s our friend, he knows we’re not poachers.”

  The boy’s mouth went dry. He lay in the snow watching the barrel of his father’s gun panning slowly as the ranger waded through the snow and scanned the mountainside through binoculars.

  The father’s mind was racing. If he sees us, do I take him out? What will I do with him? What will I tell Chip?

  The boy nudged his father and whispered in his ear.

  “Over to the left at the edge of those trees. That’s what he’s looking for.”

  The father swept his gun sight north. Trudging knee-deep through the snow was an enormous eight-point buck. It was taking its time, sniffing the air with its ears twitching, nibbling on the low foliage in an adjacent pine stand.

  “Beautiful,” the father whispered. He swung the gun back and watched Floyd through the scope. Okay, pal, go home, he said to himself.

  The ranger swept his glasses across the face of the mountain one more time, then remounted his snowmobile and roared off to the north.

  The buck, startled by the sound, bounded through the snow, heading up the slope. The young man turned on his side in the snow and rested on one elbow.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  His father did not answer. He rose to his knees, took one more look below him, and said, “Okay, he’s gone.”

  “Why were you pulling down on Floyd?”

  His father slid the rifle back in its holster.

  “You told me never point a gun at anything unless you plan to shoot it,” the boy continued.

  “Hell, I was just having some fun, Chip. Practice makes perfect.”

  “Remember when you caught me aiming at one of Mr. Henderson’s chickens with
my .22? Was the day after I got it—my first gun— and you locked it in the rack for two weeks. That’s what you told me. ‘Don’t ever bear down on anything unless you plan to shoot it,’ you said.”

  “That was four years ago. You got some memory, Chip.”

  “Some things stick with you.”

  “Gonna take my gun away from me?” the father said, and chuckled. The boy thought for a moment and said, “Nah, I ain’t big enough yet. Maybe next year.”

  They both laughed as they stood up and brushed the snow off their clothes.

  “Tell you what, we pick up that buck’s tracks and you get first shot.”

  “That’s all there’ll be, one shot. One shot and he’s gone.”

  “Better make it good, then.”

  “Better find him first,” the boy said.

  “I’ll go down behind him, drive him up the ridge toward you. Be sure to use a silencer, don’t want to start an avalanche up here.”

  The father threaded his way through the trees, led on by the pointed tracks. Finally he saw the tan animal zigzagging his way through the trees, bounding through the snow. He stayed twenty or thirty yards behind it, glancing occasionally up the hill.

  Above him, Chip, too, saw the buck and sped up, weaving past trees until he got ahead of it. He stopped, jumped off the buggy, and pulled his rifle out. The deer was running up the hill about thirty yards from him. He laid the barrel of the rifle against a tree, tracked the running stag, picked him up, and set the cross hairs on its chest. Then he yelled, “Whoop!”

  The deer, startled by the sound, stopped for a fatal instant, its ears twisting toward the sound. The boy squeezed off his shot, watched the deer jerk, its eyes looking terrified. It backed up a step or two, then its hind legs gave out. It thumped down on its haunches. The front legs collapsed and it crashed forward in the snow.

  His father came up through the trees and stopped beside the fallen animal. Chip joined him.

  “Straight to the heart.” His father leaned over and felt the body of the deer. “This guy’s been eating well. Must be four hundred pounds.” He looked over at Chip, his eyes crinkling as he smiled under his mask. “We’ll be eating venison steaks for the rest of the winter.”

  From the storage space under the seat of the snow buggy, Chip took out a folded canvas tarpaulin and together they spread it out on the downhill side of the deer. They slid one edge under the carcass, then hoisted and shoved until it was well wedged under the dead animal. Then they rolled the deer over onto the tarp. They folded the tent over it and tied it in several places with thick rope, then attached tow lines to the back of both snowmobiles.

  “We gonna dress it out tonight?”

  “No,” the father answered. “We’ll put it in the meat shed. I have a meeting at the church.”

  As they mounted their snowmobiles, the father reached out and touched his son’s arm. The boy looked over at him.

  “Beautiful shot.”

  “Thanks,” his son said proudly. He paused and added, sarcastically, “When I aim at something, I shoot it.”

  “Big shot,” his father said as they cranked up their machines.

  They headed up the slope toward the back side of the mountain, towing their prize behind them.

  CHAPTER 5

  JANUARY 12, 10:15 P.M., RMT

  The driver of the olive-drab eighteen-wheeler leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the windshield. Large snowflakes battered the truck, and the windshield wipers merely turned them to slush. He could barely see the Humvee fifty feet in front of him. His relief driver was studying a map that was stretched across his legs. He had a narrow halogen flashlight between his teeth.

  “We’re comin’ up on that pass they told us about, Sarge.”

  “Call Riley and advise him. Tell him we can just barely see his tail lights.”

  “Roger.”

  “Jesus, why the hell did they send us down this road?”

  “They said it was gonna be clear,” the young PFC answered.

  “So much for GI fuckin’ weather forecasters.”

  The Army convoy was delivering a cache of arms and ammunition from an armory outside Spokane, Washington, to the air base at Mountain Home, Utah. The route would take them into Missoula, Montana, then south on U.S. 93 into Utah to Interstate 84. The trip from Missoula south took them through the Bitterroot Valley. The road was defined to the west by the towering Bitterroot Mountains, a ragged border between Montana and Idaho, whose ten-thousand-foot peaks were often faced with sheer granite walls. To the east the Bitterroot River bordered the road, and beyond it were the glistening peaks of the Sapphire Mountains. Rugged country.

  The road coursed due south until sixty miles south of Missoula, where it took a sharp ninety-degree jog to the east for about the length of a football field, then turned back south again. The dogleg was known as Lost Trail Pass, an historic, narrow, V-shaped chasm between the Bitterroot and Anaconda ranges, discovered in 1804 by Lewis and Clark in their search for the Northwest Passage. On a clear day the valley would have been a picturesque leg of the drive. But a front had unexpectedly shifted, and now, in the middle of nowhere, a winter storm was upon them. In the dead of night the storm had reduced their progress to thirty miles an hour. The trip, which should have taken eight hours, was going to take twelve or thirteen—if they did not have to stop.

  “Jag One to Jag Two, do you copy?”

  “Whatcha want?” a harsh voice snapped back.

  “We got a dead left turn coming up in about ten minutes. Just thought I’d advise. Also we can hardly see your headlights.”

  “We read you. I’ll copy you when we get to the turn,” the radio voice replied. “Holding steady on thirty.”

  “Rodge and out.”

  “Any coffee left in that thermos, Martinez?” the sergeant asked. “Yeah, sure.” The PFC tipped a gallon thermos, leaned it against his foot, and poured coffee into a mug. “Here ya go.”

  “Thanks. Shit, this night is never gonna fuckin’ end.”

  He was wrong.

  Three miles ahead of the convoy, ghost figures dashed through the trees and positioned themselves in the rocks that bordered 93 where it made its jagged path through the pass; specters in white camouflage, white ski masks, and white helmets, moving quickly and with precision. The wind, confused by the snaking mountains, whined past overhead. In the narrow valley it was eerily quiet. The leader was on the north side of the pass. His radio crackled to life.

  “Apache to Monty.”

  “Read.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Read.”

  “No other traffic north or south.”

  “Roger, out.”

  He snapped his walkie-talkie to life.

  “Squads ready?”

  “Ready, One.”

  “Ready, Two.”

  “Ready, Three.”

  “Ten minutes,” the leader said.

  He snapped the walkie-talkie off and handed it to the man beside him, then took a .50 caliber Eagle pistol from its holster and charged a round into the chamber. He could hear automatic weapons clicking in the darkness. He waited stoically, as cold as the weather.

  A few minutes later he heard the convoy downshifting and growling as it approached the sharp curve. He rose up and peered through the trees, saw the lights of the three vehicles a few yards away.

  “On one, launchers,” he whispered into his walkie-talkie.

  He waited until the rear Humvee turned into the pass, then snapped his thumb on the walkie-talkie button.

  “Three, two, one…”

  In unison, two rocket launchers fired their missiles into the front and rear Humvees.

  In the truck, the sergeant and the PFC were jolted by the sight of streaking flame as it whistled from the darkness and ripped into the side of the front Humvee. The Humvee exploded, sending its driver tumbling head over heels into the road. The other three GIs were ripped by shards of metal from the ruined vehicle. In his rearview mirro
r, the sergeant saw the rear Humvee also take a direct hit and burst into flames.

  “Jesus Christ!” the sergeant in the semi screamed, slamming on his brakes.

  Two specters in white appeared from the darkness and leaped on the running board of the truck. The sergeant stared in horror at the white ski masks with their obscene mouth holes, saw the pistols an instant before the two attackers each fired through the side window. The PFC was knocked against the door of the passenger side. The second shot tore through his skull, splashing blood on the window. The first shot at the sergeant hit him in the throat. He gasped and a mist of red blood plumed from his mouth. The second shot hit him in the right eye.

  “Clear,” one of the shooters yelled. The passenger door opened and both bodies were dragged out of the cab as the first shooter jumped behind the wheel of the big rig.

  “Ready to roll,” he yelled into his walkie-talkie.

  The leader walked out onto the road and marched past the rear Humvee as his men swarmed over it and fired shots into the four wounded and dead soldiers in the demolished vehicle. He checked his watch as he walked. Two minutes.

  Excellent.

  Four of the ghost troopers stood over the front Humvee and fired shots into the already riddled men, while another sprayed foam from a fire extinguisher on the wreckage. They quickly dragged the victims out and laid them on the shoulder of the road.

  At the rear of the ruined convoy the bodies of the GIs were also dragged to the side of the road.

  The leader reached the driver’s side of the semi.

  “Roll,” he said.

  The driver put the big rig into gear and drove into the back of the burning Humvee, shoved it off the side of the road, and kept on going.