But suddenly the unit commander was aware of another noise, this one coming from high above him.
He looked up and was terrified to see that while their attention had been drawn to the single locomotive, a jumpjet had managed to maneuver right above their position.
And now it was starting to descend.
The Aden gun pod carries a powerful 25mm cannon, capable of firing at an astounding rate of fifty shells a second.
What’s more, the shells themselves were capable of great destructive power due to their iron sheeting and their long, slender length. More suited to piercing metal, one cannon shell could literally cause a man to explode if it hit him full in the chest or abdomen.
The Harrier jumpjet that had suddenly appeared in the midst of the Tongue of Fire teams carried two Aden guns. Stunned by the jumpjet’s sudden appearance, the flamethrower teams were ironically frozen to their spots. They were not equipped with SAM weapons; few of them even had rifles. So they could do little else but watch in horror as the Harrier went into a hover only about twenty-five feet above them. The plane’s pilot expertly dipped its nose, at the same time putting the jet into a tight, quick 360 degree turn.
That’s when its Aden cannons opened up.
Because of the velocity at which a 25mm cannon shell traveled, they tended to ignite anything they hit, due to the tremendous friction upon impact. The massive barrage of cannon shells that rained down on the hapless fire teams seemed to almost seek out the barrels of gasoline, the fuel-clogged hoses and the flamethrowers themselves as targets.
Suddenly it was as if the earth had opened up and let a little piece of hell poke through its surface. There were flames and explosions everywhere within the radius of the Harrier’s deadly circle. The conflagration became so intense that the flamethrower teams’ fire-resistant suits burned up like tissue paper. Men screamed as they watched their own skin melt away from them. Others tried to flee, but they couldn’t escape the instantaneous firestorm the Harrier’s cannon shells had created. Still others simply let the flame roll over them, succumbing to the fire that they had so many times created as an instrument of death.
“My God, what have I done?” the Tongue of Fire commander cried out as the flames engulfed him. In the eternal instant before death, a strange truth came to him: White or black, all men die the same way. Therefore, they all must live the same way, too….
When the rest of the Freedom Express rolled through the area ten minutes later, the ground on either side of the half-mile curve was still smoking. All that remained of the Tongue of Fire soldiers was a scattering of bones and pools of sticky burned skin.
The train quickly passed by the instant graveyard and continued its journey west.
Chapter 54
MICHAEL CROSSBOW HADN’T EATEN in more than two days.
Yet, his stomach felt full and he had no thirst. His reflexes, if anything, were sharper than before, and his eyesight was nearly as good now at night, as it was during the day.
Such were the ways of a ghost.
He had been atop the mesa fortress for almost thirty-six hours, returning the same way he and Hunter had first come, that was, hand-over-hand up the formation’s craggy northern side. Hiding out on top of the plateau had been fairly easy; the Burning Cross soldiers used the jagged collection of rocks on the mesa’s north end—the place called the Spines—as a sort of garbage dump, and Crossbow had found numerous places to hide out during the day in amongst the junk.
He spent this time observing what he could of the enemy’s activities. Then, once the night fell, he crawled out of the trash and resumed his one-man haunting of the mesa top.
For the most part his dangerous mission to disrupt the Burning Cross from within was working very well. The fact that many of Devillian’s men believed the mesa to be spooked in the first place had turned out to be an unexpected plus for him. Anytime a mysterious fire broke out, or a sentry was found missing, the superstitious/drug-paranoid Burning Cross soldiers tended to blame the mesa’s ghost, and not a saboteur hiding out in their midst.
Ruining the fort’s food supply had served as a major disruption for the enemy. Contaminating their water supply had also resulted in many sick enemy soldiers over the past three days.
But facilitating the kidnapping of Studs Mallox had been Crossbow’s greatest task so far—though he had had some help. A troop of Bad River’s Piutes had been moved several days before to positions near the mesa itself, completing the grueling trek to the Ring of Fire desert on horseback in an unbelievably short amount of time. Their mission was to attack any resupply effort attempting to reach the mesa overland, and already they had destroyed one convoy and had driven another away. These braves had proved very helpful in spiriting the Skinhead leader far enough away from the mesa to the place where he was picked up by one of the Cobra Brothers.
Yet, Crossbow had run up against two factors he could do nothing about: One was trying to assassinate Devillian himself—a job that was virtually impossible due to the fact that the cross-eyed white supremacy leader very rarely emerged from his heavily guarded mansion headquarters. The second disappointment had to do with the mesa top’s anti-aircraft defenses. Try as he might, Crossbow could not locate a central point from which the fortress’s multitude of SAMs and AA guns were controlled. Destruction of such an elusive target—perhaps a fire control house or a computer bank—would have made a United American air strike on the Burning Cross base a less-than-suicidal possibility.
But eventually the Shawnee determined that there was no central point; the South African technicians who had set up the air-defense system had wisely diversified the fire controls and feeder lines for the dozens of SAM sites, making the whole kaboodle virtually invulnerable to sabotage and thereby thwarting any chance of a successful air raid.
Still, Crossbow was working on one last critical job: the neutralizing of the Skinhead’s F-4 Squadron. Two of the most important components of this task—the kidnapping of Mallox and the subsequent meeting between him and his lieutenant, Duzz—had already been accomplished.
Now, on this night, Crossbow had to deliver the crucial third strike.
It was to his advantage that the Skinheads occupied an isolated corner of the vast mesa top themselves. The fact that they were despised by their Burning Cross allies almost as much as by their enemies worked in Crossbow’s favor. Once the sun went down, none of Devillian’s other troops dared to go near the Skinhead camp for fear they would be snatched and stomped to death by a group of bored Nazis. Even the mesa’s well-equipped sentry force steered clear of the area. And because the Skinheads saw absolutely no reason to deploy guards themselves, Crossbow had little problem moving through the shadows and gaining access to the barbed wire enclosure.
Once inside, he headed for the squadron’s small fuel dump and was not surprised to see that unlike the perimeter of the camp, it was buzzing with Skinheads. Due to Hunter’s strategy of striking at the mesa top’s supply lines as opposed to the mesa itself, aviation gas was becoming more valuable than food or drugs on top of the mesa, and the Skinheads were protecting their juice like gold. But unlike Devillian and his command staff, Crossbow knew the ’Heads were keeping a close eye on their JP-8 in order to make good on Mallox’s secret instructions to abandon the mesa and fly to Mexico City and thus gain his release.
Now, as he watched from the shadows, Crossbow could see the Skinheads were playing their part exactly according to the script, convinced no doubt that anyone who got Studs Mallox to dress up in a mumu meant business. One by one, their F-4’s were being pushed to the fuel dump to have their tanks filled. The terms of Mallox’s release hinged on the fact that the Skinhead squadron would have to be in Mexico City by noon the next day. This meant the entire twelve-plane unit would have to start preparations to launch from the mesa shortly after dawn to make the eleven hundred-mile journey south in time and do so either without letting Devillian on to what was happening, or ignoring the terrorist leader once he learned th
e ’Heads were bugging out.
How the Nazi pilots handled Devillian was not Crossbow’s concern; everything from doing nothing to an all-out battle within the Burning Cross was possible. Right now, all the Shawnee had to concentrate on was the ’Heads fuel supply.
He watched the refueling operation for two hours, not moving, barely even breathing. By silent calculations, he determined that it took nine and a half minutes to push a Phantom into position, another twenty to fill its tanks and then another nine to get it out of the way. Yet he knew that the procedure would have to be repeated again the next morning—though in quicker intervals. The warming time for a cold F-4 engine was a half hour and used up as much as a fifth of a tank of fuel. This meant that when the F-4’s were started up for real at daybreak their tanks would have to be refilled for the flight to Mexico City.
And it was this necessary topping-off procedure that played right into Crossbow’s plans.
As was typical of operations like this one, the Skinheads were more concerned about getting the job done quickly rather than doing it securely. Therefore, the guards surrounding the ’Head fuel dump were not walking the line or even guarding anything. In fact, they were pitching in to push the F-4’s into position next to the large fuel pump, and then pushing them out of the way when the fueling was complete. What they should have been guarding—the small semi-elevated fuel storage tank and the nine-inch fuel hose that ran from it to the fuel pump—was virtually ignored.
Instinctively knowing when to move, Crossbow made his way to the back of the fuel tank and ducked underneath one of its support bars. Working in the nearly pitch-black conditions, he withdrew a small rubber tube he’d been carrying very gingerly ever since arriving on the mesa top. The tube contained a highly concentrated amount of a rare chemical called titanium oxide. Just where Hunter had dug up the stuff, Crossbow had no idea. But being an MIT grad with a minor in chemistry, the Shawnee knew what the titanium oxide—TO for short—could do when mixed with jet fuel.
Moving slowly and carefully, he retrieved a syringe from his utility belt and expertly filled it with the TO. Then he found a weakened spot in the nine-inch fuel hose and injected the chemical into it. Once this was done, he refilled the syringe and repeated the procedure. It took him twelve injections to use up the titanium oxide, coincidently one injection per Skinhead airplane.
Once the TO was expended, he buried the syringe and the tube and slowly moved out from under the fuel tank and back to his original position near the refueling operation.
Here he sat for the next two hours, watching the Skinheads huff and puff the F-4’s in and out of position.
Then, with the first indication of dawn, he stole away out of the Skinhead camp and back to his hiding place in the Spines.
Chapter 55
IT WAS AROUND NINE the next morning when Hunter drank his first can of beer in three days.
It had followed a plate of powdered scrambled eggs and rock-hard toast, not surprisingly easing its way down his throat with smooth abandon.
“Been awhile since I had beer with breakfast,” he said to Fitz, who was quickly polishing off a lager of his own. “Then again, it’s been awhile since I had a breakfast.”
Sucking down a victory beer seemed appropriate for Hunter. For the first time in what seemed like years, his head was fairly clear. He knew that his side trip to West Santa Fe as well as his successful action against the enemy flamethrowing unit had worked to bring him back to reality, so to speak. He no longer felt odd leaving the incense-laced cabin. He had begun to recognize the voice coming from his lips to be his own. And just as something deep inside of him had told him to listen to the voices and use them for what they were worth, now something was telling him the period of channeling was over.
Now was the time to use the knowledge he’d received.
What had caused it all—or where the strange voices had come from—he still had no idea. But he was never without the small notebook that he had used to take down all of the adages. In fact, it had taken its place among his other articles of honor, inside his left breast pocket, wrapped within the small American flag he always carried with him, right next to the faded photograph of the lovely Dominique.
And although everything inside the notebook was committed to his memory, he still studied the writings in every spare moment he had.
The bad news was those moments were getting few and far between.
The train had successfully foiled the two ambushes Devillian had arranged—and they owed a debt of gratitude to Bad River and his Piutes on both accounts. Without their help, the Freedom Express would have been in a lot worse shape than it was at present.
Juanita’s information said that Devillian had stationed the bulk of his troops and their weapons along a ten-mile stretch of track just south of the Grand. Canyon. The comparison to that of running a murderous gauntlet was inescapable. And strangely enough, somewhere back in his psyche, Hunter had always had the feeling it would come to this—one gigantic battle in which the last one standing wins.
After draining the last sip of the somewhat-symbolic beer, he, Fitz and the Cobras gathered around their planning table, examining the terrain that lay ahead of them. They were gradually passing out of the forested mountains and back into the northern New Mexico desert landscape again. The change in topography helped in one respect: The wide-open spaces reduced the chance of further surprise ambushes. Except for the occasional mountain pass, the train would be traveling through almost absolutely flat country.
Once they’d scoped out their hoped-for progress for the day, the four men turned to the task of attempting to interpret the bits of intelligence that were coming to them over the scramblers from Washington.
During the night, JT and Ben had led yet another raid out of LA against Port Desemboque. According to their preliminary damage report, the harbor would not have to be attacked again. Not only were its docking facilities near totally destroyed, but on the last mission, they had sown several strings of high-impact mines along the harbor mouth, effectively sealing off what remained of the port from the open water of the Gulf of California.
Fitz read the next item of business, this one concerning the recent movement of the 1st Airborne. A short report from Catfish said the troops—and their horses—had reached the highly secret second location. Now, with the new information from Juanita on hand, Hunter prepared a message that would instruct the airborne cavalry to deploy to its third and last location.
“This is where the hard part begins for those guys,” Hunter said. “We will have wasted a lot of time and effort if we tell them to be at the right place at the wrong time.”
Finally the subject of the Skinhead Squadron came up, and this too was discussed only in the briefest terms.
“We’ll know by noon whether this gamble has paid off,” Hunter told them. “And then we’ve got to find some kind of a medal to pin on Mike Crossbow.”
“Amen to that,” Fitz said. “How he can stay hidden up on that mesa all this time is spooky.”
“It’s that Indian know-how,” Hunter said. “Sometimes I wish I had a little of it myself.”
Just then, the scrambler started churning out a new message. And even before he read it, Hunter’s sixth sense was telling him it was really bad news.
Fitz retrieved the scroll of teletype, read it quickly and swore. “Oh, God, I don’t believe this.”
“What is it?” Tyler asked.
Fitzgerald read the message again and then turned to Hunter.
“I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, Hawker,” he said. “But someone has stolen your F-16.”
It was true.
A scrambled phone call to Jones sadly confirmed that the hangar at Andrews AFB where Hunter had left his F-16XL after transferring its avionics to the Harrier had been broken into and the precious jet stolen.
“I’m afraid I can’t add much more than the initial report, Hawk,” the general told him over the scramble phone. “It happened two
days ago. The morning guards reported for duty and found your airplane gone and two sentries missing. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”
Hunter still could not quite believe the news.
“Just like that?” he asked. “It must have been an inside job.”
“We don’t think so,” Jones replied. “The DC militia has always been top-notch, so there’s no real reason to suspect they’d change now. As far as we can tell, the thieves kidnapped the guards when they took the airplane.”
“But how did they get it out of there?” Hunter asked. “They certainly didn’t fly it out.”
“No, not exactly,” Jones answered. “We think they actually used a flatbed truck with a mobile crane. A vehicle like that was spotted near the base just before dawn that day. Then later on, a cargo plane pilot coming in from Toronto reported that he saw a Sky Crane chopper hauling something heavy about a hundred miles north of Bethesda. It was painted in wild colors—green and blue stripes, like a lumber carrier—and it was carrying something wrapped in white tarp. The cargo pilot says the shape could have been that of a small jet. This pilot just assumed it was one of our copters until he heard about your plane being clipped.”
Hunter was simply stunned. “It must have been a pretty elaborate operation if they had a Sky Crane,” he said, referring to the massive heavy-lift helicopter. “I mean, I haven’t seen more than two of those birds in five years. They’re pretty rare items.”
“I agree,” Jones replied. “And we’re doing everything we can to track it down. I’ve got every guy I can spare out there looking for it. I can’t promise anything, but we’ll try like hell to find it.”
“Thanks, General,” Hunter said, his now all-too-familiar voice choking up slightly. “I’ll appreciate anything you can do.”
The rest of the day passed by with an eerie serenity. The train was traveling at the slowest possible speed again, heading out of New Mexico and into Arizona.
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