Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  All of the hovercraft and BatHoPs peeled off left and right, except theirs and the two single-person craft directly ahead of them. Instead they passed right over the heads of the Rednecks, aimed directly for the top of the little hill. Instead of taking evasive action, the pilot counted on darkness and speed to keep them safe. Randall heard the hiss of a bullet zip past his head and the metallic kunk of another one hitting the BatHoP, but then they were over the hilltop. There was a moment’s panic as the leading gear deployed and the craft settled, then they all jumped off and ate dirt. The men on the two smaller hovercraft, known as flitters, had already landed and rolled to safety.

  “Bunny, you good?” he yelled over the gunfire.

  “I’m in one piece, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Me, too,” Bob said, even though Randall had forgotten about him.

  The hilltop was concave, with a shallow bowl at the crest. Two men lay on the sides firing into the darkness, while two men lay still at the bottom. Despite being a cloudless night, the starlight and quarter moon weren’t enough illumination to pick details out of the desert. Incoming rounds kicked up dirt on the rim of the depression, but the three new riflemen fell on their stomachs and returned fire.

  It only took Randall and Carlos a few seconds to acclimate to being at the center of the battle. Carlos grabbed a rifle from one of the fallen and scrambled up the depression’s side. Below the rim of the bowl, Randall was not under direct fire and had time to inspect the two wounded men. One lay still, but the other rolled back and forth, moaning in pain. Randall knelt beside him and felt hot wetness soaking the left shoulder of his uniform. The darkness was nearly absolute but he didn’t need light to recognize the smell and feel of blood.

  Leaning forward, Randall found the bullet hole and put both hands over it, pushing down hard. “I need something to use for a bandage,” he called out.

  “Leave him alone!” Randall recognized the voice as Bondo’s.

  “He’s gonna bleed out. I need something to use as a bandage!”

  No answer came right away.

  “If he dies, it’s on you!” Randall yelled, holding his fingers together as tightly as he could.

  “Look on my flitter!” Bondo shouted down. “There’s a bag with some rags in it hanging on the rail. Use those.”

  “Bob!” Randall said.

  “I’m on it.”

  Randall kept glancing up to see if Carlos was all right, and then back down at his hands. Between them, Randall and Jingle Bob managed to shove the oily cloths under the injured man’s shirt. Randall felt his arms cramping and showed Jingle Bob how to press down, hard but not too hard. Leaving Bob there to apply pressure, Randall wiped hands on his pants, felt around until he found the stock of an M-16, and climbed up next to Carlos. A bullet struck close to his left cheek and kicked dust into his eyes.

  “Damn!” he said, rubbing his eyes. Even though Carlos lay right beside him, Randall had to shout to be heard over the gunfire. “I learned to fly so I didn’t have to do this.”

  Carlos wasn’t sympathetic. “It’s your fault I’m here in the first place.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since that night in Tel Aviv where you got me drunk and talked me into this.”

  Randall searched for targets, but the lightning-like flash of guns only served to destroy his night vision; it didn’t illuminate anything. “How can I tell who to shoot at?”

  “Hell if I know!” Carlos said, squeezing off a shot.

  “What if you hit the wrong guys?”

  Carlos cut him a sideways look that he couldn’t make out in the dark. Leaning over, he spoke in a lower voice that Randall could barely hear. “I’m aiming over their heads, just making it look good.”

  Over the tumult of battle, they both heard Bondo screaming at them. “Hey, you two, put those guns down!”

  “I’m not gonna sit here and get killed!” Randall yelled back. All he could see was a large shadow, with the strobe-like flashes letting him pick out details of Bondo’s face twisted in anger. The bigger man stood, a dark shadow against the darker night, and then he vanished. It took Randall’s brain less than a second to process what had happened; he’d been hit and toppled backward onto the hillside.

  “Shit!”

  Without thinking, he ran down into the bowl and up the other side, to where Bondo had been. Once there, he kept going. He dove head-first over the top and rolled down the bank to where Bondo lay on his back, stamping his foot in pain. Out in the open like that, Randall discovered the moon and starlight seemed much brighter than before. Bullets ripped into the dirt around them, but overhead he heard another rifle join in suppressing fire, and then heard Carlos’ voice.

  “Get up here, you idiot, before you get yourself killed.”

  “Can you walk?” Randall said to Bondo.

  The words came out more as a groan than spoken language. “Hit in the left leg.”

  Randall tried to help Bondo to his feet but he was too heavy. As they wrestled around in the attempt to stand, Randall felt a tug at his left collar. Touching it, the fabric was hot; a very near miss. “Fuck me… Bunny, get down here and help me!”

  Seconds later, Carlos rolled beside him and started trying to lift Bondo. Both remaining riflemen had moved to their side of the hill and shot at every flash they saw. It wasn’t easy, but between the two pilots they managed to push, pull, and lift Bondo over the lip of the hill and down into the bowl, after which they followed him without either one being hit.

  #

  Chapter 9

  Never give counsel to your fears.

  Lt. Gen. Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson

  Great Basin Desert, northwest of Groom Lake Air Force Facility

  2130 hours, April 23

  There was no time to catch their breath. One of the two unhurt riflemen slid down to help Bondo, so Randall and Carlos had to take over shooting. Randall had just moved to the opposite side when he saw a man running up the hillside toward them. He fired instinctively into the man’s chest, but then panicked at the idea it could have been one of Major Cole’s men. The round struck somewhere near the sternum and knocked the man off his feet. He rolled to the base of the hill and lay still.

  Before Randall could search for another target, an intense firefight broke out in the desert, interspersed with yelling and half-seen movement. Horses whinnied and at least one screamed in pain. Major Cole’s group had obviously launched an attack, but it was ten minutes before Randall knew who won.

  “Hey, it’s Cole, don’t shoot!”

  Cole led four other men up the hill by the simple expedient of each man holding the back of the shirt of the man in front of him. Only when they disappeared under the rim of the bowl at the hilltop did he break out a glowstick. Seeing three of his men wounded, he knelt beside Jingle Bob. “How bad is he?”

  “I ain’t no doctor, but he needs one bad. Can one of your men take over, Major? My arms are crampin’ up.”

  Cole directed a man to relieve Jingle Bob, and then saw Randall and Carlos holding rifles. He trained his own pistol on them. “Drop ’em, boys.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” Randall said, and let his M-16 topple into the dust. Carlos did likewise.

  But before Cole could do anything else, Bondo called to him. “Hey, Major, can I talk at you?”

  They whispered for a minute and then Cole walked back to Randall and Carlos, picked up their rifles, and handed them back. “Thanks, boys. Bondo told me what you did here, so I guess I believe your story now.”

  “Thank God,” Randall said. “Now can we leave?”

  “We’ll talk back at D-3 in the morning.”

  #

  North Dakota

  0415 hours, April 24

  Despite her heavy coat, with few aboveground structures to block the wind, its full force chilled Amunet Mwangi to her core. Later in the day it would warm to something approaching bearable, but with dawn nothing more than a hint on the eastern horizon, the tempera
ture still hovered in the lower twenties. After a winter of unending arctic conditions, she couldn’t wait for spring. Or, rather, spring that felt like spring.

  She hated North Dakota.

  But never before had she gotten a voicemail on the sat. phone, so like it or not, she’d rolled out of bed and hurried topside to get a signal so she could hear it. Only one man knew the number. She’d expected to hear from him long before this and was eager to find out the situation, because she’d trade the bitter cold of North Dakota for the blazing heat of Arizona in a heartbeat. Now, with her head tucked against her chest like a turtle, she turned the volume all the way up and shivered.

  “This message is for Colonel Amunet Mwangi,” it started. She paused it and started over. It wasn’t Tom Steeple’s voice, a voice she knew as well as she knew her own. “This message is for Colonel Amunet Mwangi. My name is Norris McComb. I’m a friend of General Steeple, who asked me to make this call. The general told me to tell you that he’s imprisoned in the unfinished section of the base and there is only one chance for him to escape and take command of Overtime. General Angriff is away from the base right now, as is General Fleming. Getting him out of his cell is only the first problem.

  “He needs a personal security team that can occupy key areas of the base, and he needs them fast. We anticipate General Angriff will be gone less than a week, so time is of the essence. I will call you again at the same time tomorrow. Please be expecting my call, and please have positive news. We’re all counting on you.”

  And that was it.

  Fuck!

  Was this for real? And even if it was, what could she do in 24 hours? Overtime Prime was 1,500 miles from North Dakota and besides, she commanded no troops, no forces. She was a guest of the Rosos family and lately hadn’t been getting the friendliest feelings from them. What did Tom Steeple think she could do?

  But one flaw that Amunet Mwangi did not possess was self-pity. Her refusal to take no for an answer had pushed her up the ranks far beyond what her education should have allowed, and cursing herself for wasting precious time wasn’t going to stop her now, either. Károly Rosos had flown to California with Adder and the old man hadn’t been seen in months, but Györgi Junior was there. Mwangi got along better with Junior than with his younger brother anyway, and headed for the doorway leading back underground. Anything to get warm.

  #

  Great Basin Desert, northwest of Groom Lake Air Force Facility

  0657 hours, April 24

  One BatHoP returned immediately with the wounded, but the rest of them stayed until dawn. Three Rednecks lay dead in the desert, including the one Randall had shot as he charged their position, and blood evidence indicated they’d hit at least three more. One horse died and a second had to be put out of its misery. They recovered five Czechoslovakian-made AK-47s, nine empty magazines, and four full ones.

  The men who’d been ambushed all rode horses, but since neither Randall nor Carlos knew how to ride one, they were given a crash course in handling a flitter so the flitter pilots could ride the horses. Although the propulsion system and controls were vastly different from those of a helicopter, they found that their pilot experience flattened out the learning curve. It took a mile or two of slow going for them to figure out how to handle the lightweight, ultra-responsive hovercraft, but after they did it was a fast return trip.

  Once on the ground again, Randall slung his arm around Carlos’ shoulders like it was a common gesture between them, although the lieutenant’s horror-filled expression made clear that it wasn’t.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Ssshhh… keep your voice down. Don’t forget any of what we just did,” Randall whispered when nobody was close. “Go over it in your mind, again and again. Those things might be our ticket out of here.”

  #

  Chapter 10

  The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil but because of the people who won’t do anything about it.

  Albert Einstein

  0922 hours, April 24

  Near Willow Beach, Arizona

  Shadows stretched westward as the morning sun rose behind the column of riders. Major Edward Wincommer felt grateful that General Angriff had okayed his suggestion that his regiment ride on the column’s northern flank to prevent potential ambushes. He loved being in the saddle and it didn’t cost much in the way of supplies. Horses didn’t drink gasoline like armored vehicles did.

  At that moment, Wincommer had the strange feeling he was living someone else’s life. He rode at the head of three troops from the Seventh Cavalry Regiment through desolate country that George Custer himself would have found familiar. The morning sun warmed his back as they traversed a valley between two rocky ridges leading to the northwest, but the day’s heat hadn’t yet burned away the coolness of night, making for a pleasant ride. The screech of a circling prairie falcon caught his attention and he smiled without realizing it; unlike most people, Wincommer loved predatory animals that benefitted man, like snakes and raptors.

  Good hunting, he thought.

  His executive officer, Captain Ron Lozano, interrupted his reverie. “Corporal Coco coming in, sir,” the captain said with binoculars up to his eyes.

  Wincommer followed his gaze and saw a dust cloud boiling in the wake of someone riding hard for their position. Then he turned in his saddle. The man directly behind Lozano wore the tactical radio backpack known as the Land Mobile Radio System. “Anything?” he said.

  “Negative, sir.”

  He turned back to Lozano. “Thoughts?”

  “They’ve either had radio failure or they’re in close proximity to an enemy force.”

  Corporal Coconino reined in his horse on Wincommer’s left, saluting with his right hand and holding the reins tight with his left. The animal’s nostrils flared and its coat glistened with sweat. “Lieutenant Tribaldos sent me, sir. We have eyes on a party of Rednecks, two dozen or so, two miles ahead in a valley.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “There’s some sort of complex and it looks like they’ve been camping there.”

  “What kind of complex?” Lozano said.

  “Hard to say, Captain. It’s big, but made out of corrugated metal, old signs, cinder blocks… looks like somebody built it out of whatever they could scavenge. There’s heaps of stuff everywhere, too, and pens for cattle, sheep, horses, goats… even a chicken coop. I think it’s some kind of trading post, sir. And there’s a big sign painted over the door, Ma Kelly’s.”

  “Ma Kelly’s?” Wincommer said. “I don’t know why but that sounds familiar. Any sign of sentries or outriders?”

  “None, sir. They look pretty relaxed.”

  Wincommer held up his hand for the column to halt and turned back to the radioman. “Get me Cherry.”

  #

  #

  0935 hours

  ten kilometers southwest of the advance cavalry

  Angriff stared out the Humvee’s passenger side window in that hypnotized state halfway between being fully awake and fully asleep. Arizona State Highway 93 had proved to be in reasonably good condition, just as Norm Fleming had reported the week before, and the drone of the engine left him fighting against sleep. Several times he caught himself when his head nodded toward his chest.

  They’d reached the part where ridges adjoining the roadside rose sheer, like the interior of a cake after serving several slices. Some rockslides blocked part of the highway, but veering around them wasn’t hard. The schedule called for a stop before they crossed the Valley of the Colorado River below Hoover Dam, and he knew they were getting close, so when the orange light on the M1130 command vehicle in front of his Humvee began to flash, it snapped him awake but didn’t surprise him.

  Once they’d pulled over, he got out and stretched his lower back muscles. He’d never let on how much they hurt.

  The M1130 was built on the chassis of the eight-wheeled Stryker armored personnel carrier, but configured as a mobile
command vehicle. The rear hatch folded down to act as a ramp into the interior, and it had no sooner hit the ground than Colonel Young stepped out and came over to Angriff. “Major Wincommer’s cavalry is in contact with two dozen Rednecks about ten klicks northeast of our current position. He’s ordered his men to encircle them without engaging or making their presence known, awaiting further orders. Apparently there’s also some kind of structure, a trading post maybe.”

  “I see. What are you going to do?”

  “The cavalry’s not under my command, sir.”

  “You’re the tactical officer in charge, Bob. You make the call.”

  “Based on our previous encounters, I don’t anticipate they’ll surrender.”

  “Me, either.”

  “I’m going to send them a mortar squad and order they hold in place until the mortars get there. If they are forced to attack in the meantime, to do so at minimum risk with prisoners a low priority.”

  “I’m going with the mortars.”

  The colonel’s face changed to an expressionless mask that virtually screamed you must be kidding! But he was far too savvy to say it. “As you wish, General.”

  Angriff laughed once and clapped Colonel Young on the shoulder. “I’ve seen that look before, Bob, but don’t worry, I’m not gonna get myself killed. I want to see this trading post for myself.”

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you about the schedule.”

  “No reason to change it. Go ahead and send recon to Las Vegas and get the engineers to work inspecting the bridge. I’ll meet you before the main body gets to Hoover Dam.”

  “Should we wait before crossing?”

  “Let the tactical situation dictate that.”

  #

  1024 hours

  Angriff’s Humvee followed three M1129 mortar carriers armed with 120mm mortars, and two Stryker Dragoons armed with 30mm Bushmaster guns and carrying six infantrymen each. Despite the rough up-and-down nature of the desert, it only took about twenty minutes to cover the six miles until they found Major Wincommer.