Alpha and Bravo were hard men. They had been to the schools and made the jumps. They had fired the courses. They had earned Noncom rank, special badges, and shoulder patches. Some of their training had been in classrooms, but most was field craft. They believed themselves to be warriors. They included in their missions the hunger to hurt or destroy enemies of their country. To date, neither had seen combat.
Both men looked younger than their ages. Their youthful appearances had been useful in their current role of well-off American boys accompanying an older man, probably a relative, on a lengthy camping and fishing expedition up the jungley river that eventually wandered close to the rarely used airstrip they now looked across.
Theirs had been the tasks of getting the operative they called Charlie into position, and it would be their job to see that he safely returned to his desk with photos and tapes of the bad guys meeting.
Alpha appeared to think for a short minute before speaking. "We would have to be quick, and Charlie would have to be already gone."
Bravo again understood. "Charlie would hear any shooting, and he would suspect us."
"We could claim they got excited and started shooting each other."
Bravo snorted. "Like word of what really happened wouldn't be all over Mexico in about five hours? We couldn't kill them all, Alpha."
"No, but we could get the important ones."
And that, both men knew, was what their quiet evaluating and barely spoken scheming was all about. They paused, each weighing the suddenly arrived at proposal. The concept was outlandish, and the risk was monumental but instantly understood by both.
They would simply shoot the hell out of the bad guys and disappear into the jungle. It sounded simple, but if the smash and grab sort of plan tripped them up, theirs would be long and agonizing deaths.
Every man has dreamt of a moment to valiantly destroy his enemies in a blasting, smashing, fusillade, while escaping unharmed and unsuspected. Those yearnings, a hunger to accomplish something both heroic and decisive, are experienced by most. They are usually idle dreamings that are never attempted.
Bravo questioned, "You willing to lose your career over this, Don? Bad guys will eventually figure it out, and whoever survives will be offering big money for our names. We wouldn't be exposed or court martialed because there will be no useful evidence and probably more than a little silent approval. No one would want Americans connected to the slaughter, but in the end, we would be shown the door without even a thank you."
Alpha stirred uncomfortably. "God, we would do the world a tremendous service."
Bravo was again disdainful. "The next guys in line would take over before these carcasses got cool."
Alpha's voice was flat. "If we don't do it, I would regret my failure as long as I lived."
"And if you do shoot these bastards into rags, you will likely regret it for the relatively short time you stay alive."
Bravo snickered almost aloud. "If you shoot, I've got to join in or you won't have a prayer. I'm sorry you mentioned the idea. God, Alpha, you get me into the damnedest situations."
Alpha's response was quick. "I've been thinking about it ever since we got here. I want to shoot them as badly as you do, but you are right. If we shoot, the earth will move for us, and even without proof the military and whatever agency Charlie works for will suspect they have two crazies on their hands."
Alpha shrugged. "I am getting out, anyway. I'm going to become a medical doctor."
Bravo said, "So you always claim."
He again snickered softly. "We'll likely end up as professional hit men employed by the mob for big money."
They lay silently before Bravo added, "How do you figure we should do it, partner?"
Don Byrne's heart jumped. He heard the "should" when the word might have been "could." He felt his nerve ends tingle. Bravo was willing.
Tom Shepard was always willing, but to try this went far beyond anything either had seriously contemplated. It was light years beyond anything they had even read about.
Soldiers did not shoot civilians because killing them would be good for humanity—period. But few soldiers, sailors, or marines—much less law enforcement officers—would ever have the enemy sitting unsuspecting and vulnerable right in front of their rifles—with no higher authority within hundreds of miles.
It was worth considering that few similar situations would include a partner that could be trusted. In years past, another soldier, or another cop, was the best witness to an unofficial solution. Then, warriors supported one another, but times had changed, and these days, everybody rushed to rat out the other in hope of getting ahead or covering their own tender butts.
Byrne and Shepard thought alike. They saw through the other's eyes. Their sense of duty and honor was old school. Alpha trusted Bravo, and the trust was returned. If they acted, and powerful questions were later raised, each would deny, deny, deny. Neither would falter.
The first consideration had to be—could they actually do it? Bluffing or holding off a bandit or two was one thing, but they had not come prepared for infantry-type combat. They each had one magazine of, who-knew-how-old, lousy ammunition. Could they open up with their sorry-assed Kalashnikovs, that they had been handed but had never even fired, on the mobsters and actually kill the leaders while getting their own butts safely away? The risk seemed huge, but if they could? Alpha sensed his pulse quicken.
Alpha believed that getting away would be almost easy. The gangsters they were looking at were urban men. Their shoes were low cut and highly polished. Their clothing was expensive with jewelry showing. Haircuts were carefully barbered, and once-muscular hands had become soft. These men could not chase down he and Bravo through the thick undergrowth.
A full magazine each into the unsuspecting loungers and they could disappear into the barely penetrable jungle. Then to their boat where Charlie would be waiting and back to casual fishing their way downstream—just innocent North Americanos on vacation.
Alpha was always the planner, and Bravo liked it that way. Don Byrne thought in novel ways that appealed to Shepard's quirky personal outlook. Together they made an effective team—which was why they had been chosen for this intelligence and reconnaissance mission.
Alpha kept his voice soft and his eyes on Charlie. "We would have to . . ." He quieted as the Mercedes driver climbed from his seat and drew a heavy package through a rear door. The armor-wearing driver humped his load to the bosses' long table, and as if it were an offering, laid the package before his masters.
A knife slit the tightly wrapped package and bundles of tightly packed American one hundred dollar bills almost exploded onto the table.
There was coarse laughter and money packs were handed around. Bodyguards received theirs, and Bravo's voice was hoarse in Byrne's ear. "Where's mine?"
Alpha groaned, "Right over there on the table beside mine, Tommy-boy." The car driver returned to his vehicle and the loud talk resumed among the men of importance.
Bravo whispered, "That money was packed by a kitchen trash compacter. There must be a million bucks spread out there."
Alpha's voice remained soft. "Does that change anything, buddy?"
"Not for me, Alpha. You got any useful ideas?"
Alpha had ideas. They were simple shoot and run plans, and they would have to do. For another long instant, he weighed the value of what he and Bravo intended. For them, any rewards would be in knowing they had hammered the big guys. They would never be able to admit participating in whatever they began.
If Charlie chose to disbelieve their explanations or preferred to report his almost certain suspicions to higher authorities, so be it. Their defense would be to deny everything with astonishment that they could be doubted, and that often worked.
Byrne wished they could mull things over, to weigh and consider, but this, they would have to do now—the way most battles went down, seize the opportunity, then fast, furious, and deadly wide-open action. Alpha hungered to lay every round he
had into these worst of the worst. With Bravo shooting hard and fast, they could do it. Byrne judged it was time to begin.
Alpha's explanation to his partner was swift and simple. "We head Charlie back to the boat while we hold here to provide his safe withdrawal."
Bravo's nod and grin were wolfish.
"Once he is well away, I'll slide over close to that car. We don't want the guy in the vest flanking us. I'll open the action by shooting him through his open window. When I fire, you start on the main men—full auto, Bravo. This isn't ammo saving time. Empty your rifle and get out fast."
Byrne said, "I'll dump my own magazine into them. Then I'll hop behind the wheel of the Mercedes and meet you where our route-in joins the main road. You pile aboard, and we will haul ass down to the river bridge."
Bravo's humor was tight-voice. "God, I love detailed planning like yours, Alpha."
"You'll get out at the bridge and get down the hill to the boat." Alpha paused for a thoughtful instant.
"Get there fast, Bravo. I'll remind Charlie to wait for us with the motor running, but he might not be steady when he hears shooting.
"Take the boat down to that point about a mile downstream. The one where the big log is jammed into the bank." Bravo nodded recognition.
Alpha said, "I'll go a bit beyond the bridge and run the car off the road somewhere. I'll meet you at the point, and we will just float on downstream like the fishermen we really are."
Bravo was nodding agreement, but his thoughts were churning. Alpha had a quick mind, and his plan was exactly the kind of get in, shoot, and get out that Bravo would prefer. By God, they could do it.
He began thinking through how he would swing his rifle across the backs of the table occupants. Through their backs? Of course. This was not a Hollywood, high-noon duel.
He would concentrate on the three big men and their sons, but he would be shooting right through the bodyguards, which meant that he had to take his time and be certain that he nailed each one he wanted and did not pass over any.
Of course, Alpha would be pouring his twenty rounds into the same nine people, but the worst way to handle a machine gun was to blast into a pack of men. Shooting into a crowd tended to have a few individuals ripped and the rest barely touched. Pick each target but get on with it was the right way.
There was another important detail. They had to kill the men they shot at. Wounding would amount to nothing. Forty rounds between them? Whew, that was not much ammo. In conventional war it took thousands of rounds to kill a single enemy—but forty would be enough because the targets were in the open, and he and Alpha knew how to shoot. Surprise would be on their side, and they would be concentrating.
What else should he evaluate? What else should he worry about? Nothing else, Bravo decided.
Alpha would get the car, and they would drive off. If Alpha couldn't get the Mercedes, they would outrun any possible pursuit—but Bravo doubted there would be anything serious from those surviving. What would they pursue? All they would see was jungle, and all they would hear would be their ears ringing from their own fast shooting—and perhaps the engine of their rapidly departing Mercedes.
Well, maybe there was one last worry. He wondered for the one-thousandth time since they had started the mission whether the worn and weary Kalashnikovs they had been handed would really feed and fire on full auto? AK47s were noted for their dependability, but it would have been nice to have zeroed-in a little and better yet to have fed a magazine or two through the old Russian rifles.
If the AKs would fire, the targets would be hit. The range would be less than seventy yards, and there would be no serious return fire before the single magazine was emptied. Who needed sights under those conditions?
Good God in the morning! What had they talked themselves into?
Bravo believed he was ready to go.
Alpha tapped on Charley's boot sole, and the man jerked as if poked by a spear. When Charley hunched around, Alpha said softly, "Time to go, Charley."
The spook's eyebrows shot upward, and Alpha added, "There is something going bad. I can't tell what it is, but we must not get caught in it."
Charley's relief dominated fear. The agent had had all he wanted of physical misery and mental tension. He had film and sound. He was willing to go. All he had needed was an excuse and a little shove. Charlie nodded and began folding his antenna and squiggling backward closer to his security team.
His whisper was coarse and fearful in Alpha's ear. "What is it? What is wrong?"
Alpha pretended worry. "We can't tell, but something is going to explode out there. We can feel it coming." He paused and ominously added, "That is what we do, you know."
Across Charley's body, Bravo's smirk was wolfish, but his headshake suggested personal embarrassment with his partner's contrived explanation.
Charley, however, needed no further urging. He crammed equipment into pockets, and Alpha had to hurry his directions.
"You edge back to the road and move fast down it to our boat. Bravo and I will hold here for a few short minutes to make sure that we are not followed. The last thing we need is someone on the bank shooting at us while we are floating away." Charley's body shuddered. The man really was about done.
Alpha gripped Charley's shoulder to focus the spook's attention. "When you get to the boat, start the motor but hold tight to the dock. We don't want to arrive and find you floating ten feet out of reach." Alpha squeezed hard. "Wait for us, Charley. No matter how long it takes, wait for us."
Charley was nodding, but he was also scrabbling out from under Alpha's grip. Bravo shrugged his shoulders and looked to his rifle. Alpha watched the agent slither from view before moving tight against his partner and speaking into his ear.
"God, he is shaking like an aspen. Don't waste time getting to the boat, Tommy. I don't want to try walking out of here."
Bravo said, "You get the car, and I'll be waiting for you. I figure I will arrive almost as fast as he will. How long a lead shall we give him, do you figure?"
Alpha said, "About ten minutes, and I will need most of that to get the car." He made a final check. "Are you OK with this, pardner?"
Bravo grinned, "I'm about to wet my pants, and I will probably forget how to operate this junk rifle. Otherwise, I'm ready to play." He peered through the dense foliage toward the men they were planning to kill. "Just get going before I follow Charley the hell out of here."
Alpha went. He stayed on his belly until he was deeper into the jungle. Then he rose into a hands-and-knees high crawl and made time toward the parked Mercedes.
His plan was simple—get as close as he could, stand up and point the Kalashnikov at the driver's head. He would shoot two shots, turn and empty the rest into the mob at the tables. He would lose a few moments dragging the corpse from the behind the wheel and getting himself in. Then he would back up, spin the wheel, and head down the dirt road to pick up Bravo. Alpha found his breathing ragged, and his palms sweat-soaked. He paused for an instant to dry his hands on his shirtfront, re-gripped his rifle, and mentally braced for the start of it.
The final twenty yards offered no concealment, but Alpha came at the car almost from the rear, and he came fast. He did not run, that could catch eyes, but his walk was quick and the rifle was pointing at its target. The driver might glimpse something in a side mirror, but before he could react, Alpha would be there.
Suddenly, the doubts and trembles were gone. Training kicked in, and Alpha's concentration focused on the head and shoulders of the seated driver. It was important to shoot before the driver could close the window. Shooting through glass would require more time and more shots. Speed was important, and that quick, Alpha was there.
The armor-wearing driver was dozing. Alpha saw his almost closed eyes and the lack of awareness. One shot would do. Undetected, Don Byrne placed the muzzle of the Kalashnikov close to the driver's skull and stroked the trigger.
The rifle's blast struck like detonating dynamite. Instantly dead, the d
river's head was driven sideward, and his skull exploded. The cap he had been wearing struck the ceiling of the Mercedes. Within the car, the shot seemed cannon-like, and Alpha felt splatters of something wet strike his face and neck.
Don Byrne's mind was already leading his eyes toward the crowd at the tables. His ears recorded short, rapidly repeated bursts from Bravo's rifle, and Alpha saw his own Kalashnikov sights appear in his vision.
There was turmoil. Men were falling and diving, tables were collapsing, and guns were appearing. Alpha sought the large, white-shirted figures of the men of importance. He found them, and began his own full automatic, short burst annihilation.
Bravo's rifle silenced, but shooting somehow increased to a thunderous roar. As his own magazine emptied, Alpha became aware of figures clad in camouflaged uniforms charging from the far side of the tarmac shooting as they came, and there were a lot of them. Who in hell? Alpha had no idea.
The soldiers, outlaws, raiders, smugglers, or some kind of contras—who could know—were shooting at everything they could see including the local cooks and waiters—as well as Alpha and perhaps Bravo. A bullet ricocheted from the Mercedes, and Alpha heaved open the heavy door and hauled the driver's corpse from behind the wheel.
Alpha piled in, found the accelerator and shift knob. He jammed the transmission into reverse and fed in power. The huge car backed, but with unexpected ponderousness. A uniformed figure, perhaps forty yards away aimed and fired directly at him through the closed passenger side window. Alpha felt his guts knot, but the bullets splattered ineffectively against the window glass. What the hell?
Alpha braked hard, and the Mercedes halted. He shifted to low forward and slammed the gas to the floor. The big car rumbled ahead—all power but with little speed and bounced heavily over the dead driver.
Alpha was slow getting it, but bullets ricocheting from the car's body woke him. Despite the unexpected appearance of someone's army, their luck was holding. The damnably slow Mercedes was armored!
Alpha got the gears into drive, and his speed picked up. He was away, and unless the strangers rolled a fifty-caliber machine gun out of the woods, he was as safe as in a church. No thirty-caliber rounds would penetrate the protection built into the monstrously heavy German car. Now to find Bravo.
Pardners Page 4