Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River

by Dane Hartman

  Harry didn’t move. He remained very calm, which was not easy under the circumstances. “You haven’t answered my question. You answer my question, I’ll leave.”

  “No!” She virtually screamed the reply. “No! No! No! I did not compromise Turk. I don’t know what Turk’s up to, I don’t give a good goddamn. If there are any leaks, those leaks aren’t coming from me. Those leaks are headed in the other direction.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “What do I mean? I mean that the only people Turk completely trusts, the only people he will ever confide in, are his superiors.”

  “In Washington?”

  “Sacramento, Washington, wherever, I don’t know.”

  “Kilborn tell you that?”

  “Kilborn doesn’t tell me shit. But he implied as much. Now will you leave?” She was still flushed and trembling, but most of her anger had been spent. She was tired, just tired.

  Harry was beginning to perceive the connection: Turk was undermining himself every time he called Washington to let his office know what he was planning. Harry suspected that Washington then in turn alerted Kilborn and set him in motion. The question was why.

  “Are you leaving?” Her voice intruded on his thoughts.

  Yes, he said, yes, he was leaving. He pulled himself out of bed and dressed, conscious the whole time of her vigilant eyes. Though her rage had abated, she still looked like she might pounce on him, given the slightest provocation.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” he said, reassuring her.

  She wore a doubtful look until he was all the way downstairs and at the door.

  Not knowing what else to say he bade her good night.

  “Good night,” she said. It was like a retort. She tried slamming the door. The door didn’t cooperate. It wasn’t a door made for slamming. Too heavy.

  Harry had left his borrowed Olds a block away. It was an ingrained habit never to park exactly in front of the place he was visiting. It appeared that the car was where he was going to spend his night after all.

  He had made himself as comfortable as possible, squeezed into the back seat, his jacket doubling as his pillow, when he heard a rapping at the side window.

  The problem in this town, he thought, was that no one lets you get a decent night’s sleep.

  Opening his eyes, he gazed blurrily at the window, which was so obscured by the rainwater collected on it that he could make out only the form of a person, not the features.

  Pressing his face against the pane, he saw who it was.

  It was Elsie, standing there, still wearing only the sweatshirt, getting very wet.

  He unlocked the door to let her in. Her hair was so drenched that it was practically matted to her face. She brushed away enough strands so that her face was visible. “Come back.”

  Harry shook his head. “I was just getting comfortable in here,” he said.

  “You don’t understand. I blew up. There wasn’t any reason to fly off the handle like that. I apologize.”

  “I don’t want your apologies.”

  “What do you want?”

  He grabbed hold of her and pulled her wet chilled body down onto the seat with him, shutting the door at the same time.

  “I want you,” he answered her. “I want you.”

  The exact timing of the invasion might have been a secret, but the preparations for it certainly weren’t. Russian River was a small place and there was simply no way to conceal from view the small army of police officers, deputized volunteers, and federal agents that was assembling both in front of the county-seat courthouse and inside state police headquarters located fifteen miles south of town. Nor could even the most unobservant individual fail to note the growing armada of half-tracks, four-wheel-drives, jeeps, and logging trucks reconditioned to serve as troop transport. In addition, two new Sikorskys had been brought in to replace the one shot down over Rain Mountain. Throughout Wednesday afternoon they sat under guard on the grounds of a public park ordinarily used by children on sunnier days.

  Arms from all over the state, mainly M161As and AR15s, were being collected in the armory belonging to the state police. They were to be distributed to the men just prior to the launching of the invasion.

  Overhead, as the afternoon went on, it was possible to hear the faint drone of the spotter plane as the pilot made his final reconnaissance flights over the region.

  In the town’s two restaurants and two bars, agents and detectives and people who’d been deputized twenty-four hours before traded stories and speculations about the day and hour of the invasion strike. Everyone reckoned that it would have to be soon. If there was any delay, they’d move into the mountains and find all the growers had split—along with their harvests.

  Rut there were others who pointed out that the weather was so dismal, with intermittent rain and overcast skies, that the strike would have to be postponed. Otherwise, the entire force would simply get bogged down.

  In the courthouse, the federal circuit court judge was approving successive John Doe warrants as fast as he could. Periodically, he would take a break and go for meditative walks in the rain.

  The preparations for such an enterprise were so enormous that the work had spilled out of the windowless office Turk and Davenport were accustomed to. Tables with more maps and enlarged photographs lined the corridors, and offices that were regularly given over to routine civic functions had been appropriated by a variety of federal, state, and local authorities.

  It was difficult for Harry to tell whether Turk was really in charge of this or that he thus far had just not run up against anyone to countermand his instructions because of the general confusion.

  In any event, he was more exhilarated than Harry could ever recall seeing him. That he’d barely slept made no difference; the adrenalin flowed in his veins and his eyes were alight with the anticipation of finally having his dream fulfilled.

  He was constantly briefing people, handing out orders and advice, always with enthusiasm. He sounded giddy when he spoke, like a child who has been set loose in a candy store a little too long.

  Spotting Harry, he rushed over to him. “I’m glad you could join us.”

  “Oh, I’m just keeping to the shadows and watching.”

  In this chaos, it was not hard to maintain a low profile.

  “Good enough. I hope you’ll be joining us up in the mountains. Even if you are no longer acting in an official capacity.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Turk offered Harry a broad, meaningless smile.

  “But there’s one thing that concerns me.”

  “What’s that?” Clearly Turk did not want to hear anything that would disrupt the inexorable progress of his invasion plans.

  “The whole goddamn town knows you’re going tomorrow morning.”

  Turk’s smile wasn’t so meaningless this time. “Is that so?”

  “That’s what they’re saying in the gin mills. It’s a good bet that’s what they’re saying up in the mountains.”

  “Ah, that is exactly how I want it. That is perfect.” He lowered his voice, glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. “You see I made sure that that rumor was spread.” He paused, then clarified his purpose: “Confuse the enemy.”

  “Confuse the friend too?”

  “That’s the only way. The truth is we’re moving out tonight. Six o’clock sharp.”

  “Weather report says it’s supposed to rain hard tonight. Might make it kind of messy, if you know what I mean.”

  “If I worried about the weather, I’d have to wait till spring. The hell with the weather.”

  Then Turk turned and went back to his beloved topographical maps.

  The weather might be easy for him to dismiss now, Harry thought, but it would prove more difficult to ignore once they all got out into it.

  Harry wandered about town for the next hour and a half, watching the action with more than a little amusement. In
spite of all the commotion, it did not appear as though very much was actually being accomplished.

  Towards three-thirty in the afternoon a chauffeur-driven Mercedes sped up Van Buren and double-parked in front of the courthouse. Harry stopped where he was and waited.

  Suddenly, two local police officers emerged from the courthouse, followed by Turk.

  The passenger in the Mercedes got out and waited until Turk approached him. The two greeted each other and shook hands.

  Harry was familiar with the visitor. It was the same man he had seen yesterday in San Francisco with Kilborn. He had on the same coat, and he was still carrying his umbrella. This time the umbrella made sense.

  Harry found Davenport a few minutes later and asked him who this distinguished arrival was.

  “Howard McPheeters.”

  “Am I supposed to know the name?”

  “He’s top brass from Washington. Our superior officer. He’s come to take charge of the operation. I thought you knew that.”

  “No,” said Harry, wondering at the connection. “Nobody tells me anything.”

  C H A P T E R

  E i g h t

  By the time the invasion force pulled out—forty-five minutes late—the weather was even worse than it had been that afternoon. When there wasn’t a drizzle, there was a downpour. The helicopters and the spotter plane would have to remain grounded at least until the next day.

  Turk was undaunted. He rode in one of the four-wheel-drive pickups that contained several transmitters. He used them to communicate with the other units that composed this unlikely caravan. Turk wanted Harry to ride with him. He seemed anxious to demonstrate to his guest that he was not the blundering ass he might have been mistaken for originally. “Besides,” he said, “I’d thought you’d like another chance at Charlie Mountain. Maybe we can get those cocksuckers who shot us down.”

  Harry wasn’t certain that another chance at Charlie—Rain Mountain in the geography books—was exactly what he had in mind. But he knew this exercise couldn’t fail to be interesting, whatever the result. He had learned that McPheeters was far away, back at the courthouse where he was supposed to be, coordinating the movements of the strike force.

  “What do you know about this McPheeters?” Harry asked.

  “Howard? He’s reliable, very efficient, a formidable personality,” Turk said, sounding very sure of himself. “Why do you ask?”

  “I wouldn’t trust the man.”

  Turk was brought up short. One of the transmitters had come to life. It was Davenport, who was in command of the units moving in the direction of Alpha Mountain.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Harry, then lifted up the speaker. “This is Xanadu One. What is it, Frank?”

  “We have a stall. A truck is trapped in the mud.”

  “Well, get it untrapped.”

  “We’re doing our best, Turk. There’s a man coming up from town to free it.”

  “Can you go around it meanwhile?”

  “That’s the thing, Turk. It was one of the lead trucks. And you know how the road is, especially with this goddamn rain coming down. We’re just going to have to wait here for a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  “As soon as the guy from Maxie’s Garage gets here. Half an hour, I don’t know. Maybe forty-five minutes.”

  “Shit. All right, do the best you can.”

  Already, twenty minutes out, Turk’s elaborately contrived two-pronged advance, directed at Lunar and Rain mountains, thought to be the two likeliest redoubts of the marijuana business, had become bogged down in the mud.

  Harry felt it poetic justice that an operation requiring millions of dollars and sixty men armed to the teeth should have to rely on a mechanic from Maxie’s Garage to get underway.

  Turk was so furious over the delay that Harry decided not to antagonize him with such a gratuitous comment. Instead, as delicately as possible, he asked him if McPheeters had concurred in the scheduling of the invasion.

  “No objection at all. We were perfectly in accord. I don’t know why you say I shouldn’t trust him. I’ve worked under him for years.”

  Turk clearly was not about to allow anything to interfere with the consummation of his dream. No matter what Harry said, the only voice he was ever going to listen to was his own.

  But Harry was fast coming to the inescapable conclusion that the only reason McPheeters might condone Turk’s scheme, however wild or preposterous, would be to ensure its failure.

  The transmitter crackled again. It was a federal marshal who wished to know whether the strike against Charlie Mountain should be put off until the truck in the second column was extricated from the mud so that the two columns might attack simultaneously. Turk informed him that he was putting off nothing.

  From the air—if the weather had allowed anyone to fly up into it—the two columns, the one advancing, the other mired in the treacherous terrain, resembled twin snakes on diverging roads. Each column consisted of maybe ten or twelve vehicles of one sort or another. When they were all in motion the clouds of exhaust fumes that they collectively produced made for a noxious and murky atmosphere.

  And where was the man from Maxie’s Garage? An hour had gone by, and he had not arrived. Davenport’s eradication team, as the invasion organizers called it, remained where it was, motionless in the shadow of Lunar Mountain. The rain storm was growing worse. Thunder rumbled north and west of the mountains, greenish-white flashes ignited the sky, giving the whole landscape a vaguely sinister, phosphorescent look.

  In the green rusted pickup in which Harry and Turk were installed, the radio receivers were filled with voices, some of them recognizable to Harry, others unfamiliar. All sought guidance from Turk. The reports were of more rain through the night. The roads, never in the best of condition, would be inhospitable to a Sherman tank, were such a thing available to the eradication forces.

  Again and again came pleas to pause for the night, to establish a base camp, draw the trucks and half-tracks around wagon-train fashion, and wait for the storm to blow over.

  The more plaintive these requests got, the more heated Turk became in opposition. “That’s playing into their hands,” he would say, referring to the growers who resided deep in the heart of the muddy county. “To delay tonight would be to sacrifice the element of surprise.”

  We’re going to surprise ourselves, Harry thought but said nothing. No, Turk was too far gone. He was absolutely committed to this venture. But if hell couldn’t impede his progress high water just might.

  Another man counseled putting off the ascent on Charlie at least for a few hours. “Maybe it’ll clear enough to send up the spotter,” he said tentatively. “With infrared photography we should be able to gauge our bearings more accurately.”

  Turk wouldn’t consider this suggestion either. “We have all the data we need,” he said. Turning to Harry, he said with evident disdain, “Last-minute jitters. Once we start, once we make our first bust, then you’ll see.”

  See what? Harry wondered. But again he knew enough to remain silent.

  Turk attempted to contact Davenport. “Domino One, this is Xanadu One. What’s happening there?”

  “We’ve got someone working on the truck right now. Just got here.”

  “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “The mechanic they sent out here isn’t sure. He wants to try himself, but it seems to be a bigger job than he expected. He might have to go back into town for more equipment.”

  “Damn. Well, you do the best you can. We’re moving right along here.”

  And they were moving right along, surprisingly enough, in spite of the oozy earth. At times the paved surface of the road could not be seen, there was so much mud strewn over it. And visibility was nearly zero, compelling Turk’s column to slow down to fifteen miles an hour maximum.

  But little by little the gradient of the road became more pronounced. The column was at last proceeding up into Rain Mountain. Yet there was scarce
ly reason for optimism; this was the easiest part of the journey. Soon the road that had led them out of Russian River would disappear, replaced—if the maps could be relied upon—by a network of smaller unpaved roads that on paper looked like so many broken veins in the nose of an alcoholic.

  It was more thickly wooded here, dense with brush and tendril. The ground was cluttered with rocks and overtaken by moss. The most frequent sound, aside from the steady attack of the rain, was the squeal of tires fighting against the slippery surface, gnashing spokes, mud, and stone until purchase was obtained.

  But they continued to make progress, which was more than could be said of Davenport’s column. That one hadn’t moved since early that evening and, given the latest information, wasn’t likely to any time soon.

  It was nearly eight o’clock. The atmosphere was rain and dark, dark and rain, nothing else. The neighboring trees rose like ghosts in the high-intensity headlight beams. Dinner was a few sandwiches and soda packed earlier by one of Russian River’s restaurants.

  “We should be reaching the turn-off right about now,” Turk said, laying his road map flush against the steering wheel.

  And within five minutes his judgment proved to be correct. There, caught in the headlights, was the juncture at which the main road came to an end and divided into two.

  And positioned squat in the middle of the juncture was an abandoned school bus, more rust than yellow, with all the glass gone from the windows.

  With an oath Turk brought his truck to a halt and radioed back that the other drivers do similarly. The last thing he needed right now was for a pileup to develop because someone applied the brakes too late.

  For half a minute Turk sat in stony silence, staring at the obstacle in his path.

  “Well, what do you think we ought to do? Try and ram it out of the way or see if we can get enough men to push it off the road?”

  “Let’s take a look first,” Harry advised.

  And so they got out of the truck and walked over to where the bus rested. The rain soaked them within moments. The two men examined the way the bus was laid across the road. One pair of tires rested on asphalt, the other on mud which meant that the bus was slowly sinking in the rear.