by Pat Price
I grabbed the machine pistol on my lap with my right hand and rested the short barrel on the driver's side window rail. The Bronco pulled out to the left and started accelerating along side me. I watched in the left side rear view mirror and waited until their bumper was just forward of my tail lights. I tagged the brakes pretty hard but not so hard as to lock up the wheels and the Bronco shot past me. I pulled the trigger on the MP-5 and hosed the Bronco's cab as it went by. I saw two men in the front seat and two in the back. All of them except the driver looked like they were holding long guns, probably not MP-5s. The driver was all over the road trying to get away from me. I saw the front seat passenger slump forward as they went past. I switched the gun to my left hand as they started pulling into the lane in front of me and continued spraying 9-millimeter ammo at them. I lost track of real time once the shooting started and the Bronco looked strange as it fish tailed in slow motion about 20 feet ahead of us. I saw the men in the back seat turn around and raise their weapons.
It was then I noticed the machine pistol I was holding had stopped shooting. It was empty so I gave it a push to the side and let it fall away to the road. I reached down to the seat and took the second MP-5 and passed it to my left hand, bracing the wheel with my left knee. I reached down and flipped the switch to the desert driving lights and turned the sun back on. The rear window of the Bronco blazed like a mirror and it then looked like a spider web as the men in the cab started firing at us. The glass in the Bronco rear window crashed down and away from the back of the truck and I saw roses sprouting from inside the cab of the Bronco. I jerked my steering wheel to the left and the big Ford reacted in slow motion as five or six holes appeared in the center of the windshield of my truck. I tagged the brakes again and Jimmy slid down in the seat below the level of the dashboard. The line of holes in the windshield continued stitching their way across the cab toward the passenger's side. If Jimmy had been sitting upright he would have had a line of holes across his chest.
I pulled the trigger on the fresh German machine pistol and I heard a slow series of popping sounds, the sound of the 9-millimeter ammo cooking off. I saw sparks flying off the edge of the Bronco's back window frame. The sparks moved inside the cab and I saw one of the men in back on the passengers side twist around in a sick dance as the ammo stream ate at his body. The Bronco driver tried jerking his vehicle around but I had the advantage. The floodlights on the front of my truck had the inside of their truck lit up like high noon on the desert floor and my perception had them moving in slow motion. I let off of the trigger and steered my pickup to the right until the passenger's wheels ran off onto the dirt shoulder of the road. I pulled the trigger one last time as the driver and the rear seat passenger came into view. The driver was starting to pull the wheel to his left in another effort to get to the other side of the road and out of my line of fire. The rear seat passenger was trying to ram another clip into the receiver of his weapon. I pulled the trigger and watched the line of holes explode up the right side of the passenger’s chest. He was twisted around to his right and the stream of fire started boring holes into the back of the driver's seat. I saw the driver slump over to his right and the Bronco veered off in the same direction and punched its way through a barbed wire fence. I let off of the trigger as I passed the Bronco, which was starting to destroy the desert flora as it tumbled and rolled. I pulled the MP-5 back into the cab and laid it on the seat to my right.
The whole episode lasted maybe 20 seconds if that long, so we were only about another half to three quarters of a mile further down the road. When the Bronco punched through the fence, the threat was over and my frame of reference switched back to real time. I grabbed the wheel of the truck with both hands and fish tailed slightly. I had the truck back under control and pressed down on the gas again.
Another five or six miles down the road and I saw the sign announcing the turn off for the reservation. I looked down at Jimmy and knew it would be faster and safer to take him to the reservation clinic where Rebecca worked than to try and find a hospital in Phoenix. I did not have the cell phone with me so calling the recovery team was not an option. Even if I did have the cell phone with me Mendoza would have placed a higher priority on the weapons than he would have placed on Jimmy. So as far as I was concerned, the reservation looked like the best bet to me.
I saw the turn-off to the reservation about a quarter mile ahead and came down on the brakes pretty hard and had the truck down around 20 miles per hour about the time I turned off. If I hadn't had an extra thousand pounds of weight back in the bed adding to the tire traction, the truck probably would have spun when I made the turn. Once I got the wheels straightened up on the two lane reservation road I nailed the throttle again. It was three miles to the center of the tribal area with the meeting hall, stores, gas station, schools and the clinic. I was leaning on the horn the whole way and stopped outside of the clinic in a cloud of dust. When the truck stopped sliding I turned off the ignition and switched off the headlights and the twin suns shinning from the front grill.
I found out later after talking to Chief Two Feathers that the crowd that had gathered outside in the street was not there because of the horn blowing, but because I looked like the sun coming up the road from a long way off. James Merryweather, one of the tribal policemen was standing in front of the meeting hall when I came to a stop. He walked over to me as I stepped out of the cab.
"You are Jimmy Two Feather's friend. What is going on," he said in a monotone voice. All the cops I have ever known are the same. I think it's a gene some people have that forces them into law enforcement. I think the truck could have been on fire and 50 cases of dynamite could have been visible in the back and he would have said “What is going on?”
"Jimmy's been hurt; I think his lung is punctured. Is anyone in the clinic? Is Rebecca Two Feathers inside?" I yelled at him.
"No, she is at home but there is a nurse on duty. Why are you yelling?" He was standing beside a truck with bullet holes in the windows and bullet holes in the sheet metal and he was asking me questions like we sitting at a bar.
"Help me get him inside and I'll fill you in," I said. I walked away from him around the front of the truck and opened the passenger's side door. Jimmy had slid down into a sitting position on the floor in front of the seat. The seat belt had caught under his arms and was holding him upright. The doctor told me later that if he had slumped forward he probably would have died from more punctures to this right lung. I pulled the knife from the sheath one last time and cut the seat belt away from him.
I wrapped my arms around Jimmy from behind and gently pulled him from the cab. Officer Merryweather lifted Jimmy's feet once they were clear of the cab and the two of us carried him into the tribal clinic. A nurse started to greet us once we were inside but Merryweather had his game face on and switched into his cop mode and cut her off.
"Open the door to the emergency room and call the doctor. This man's got a punctured lung," he said with authority. The nurse ran ahead of us and opened one side of a swinging door and held it for us. I lifted Jimmy's still form onto a padded examination table and Merryweather hoisted his feet onto the other end. I looked around and the nurse was on the telephone talking to someone.
"The doctor is at home having dinner. He will be right here."
"Can you call his Father and Sister?" I asked her.
Merryweather chimed in; "I'll do it. The Chief has a cell phone he keeps with him." Merryweather pulled a radio out of a holder on his belt and spoke a series of words in the local Yavapai Apache dialect into it. A few seconds later the person he was talking to replied with some words that I did not understand any more than Merryweather's words.
"The Chief will be here in less than ten minutes." Merryweather said.
"Are there any deputies on duty tonight?" I asked.
"Why?" he asked.
"Don't jerk me around. Every Indian in Arizona knows Bear Olson was building a nuclear bomb. I have two of them strapped down in
the bed of the pickup. The holes in the windshield, that any blind man could have seen, were put there by Department of Public Safety Officer Olson's buddies, how's that for starters?" Merryweather pulled his eyebrows together.
"We need to talk," he said.
"I need a telephone," I said. "I have to call a number in Phoenix and arrange for a nuclear recovery team to pick up the hardware outside," I said over my shoulder as I walked to the telephone the nurse had used. I picked up the handset and looked around at the nurse who had fastened an oxygen mask on Jimmy's face and was starting an IV drip of something in his right arm.
"Will dialing nine get me an outside line?" I said to her.
"That’ll do it," she said.
I punched nine then seven digits for the number to the FBI office in Phoenix. The phone at the other end rang twice then someone picked it up.
"Office 15," the voice said. Office 15 was the code name for the recovery team.
"Lighting bolt," I said. That was the code name for the operation. If I had said "Bright Blue," they would have understood that a detonation was imminent and "White Light," would have meant the device had detonated. I loved this spy stuff, code names and all.
"What is your location lighting bolt?" the voice asked.
"We are currently located on the McDowell Yavapai Nation. James Two Feathers is injured and we are inside the tribal clinic. A tribal policeman is with me," I told the voice.
"Standby," was the command that came out of the earphone. I looked up. Merryweather was standing with his hand on the butt of the large frame revolver hanging on his hip and the top strap holding it in place was unsnapped. I was standing with my left side facing Merryweather. I was holding the phone with my left hand so I dropped my right hand to my side and rested it on the grip of the Commander.
"You are serious; there are nuclear weapons on the bed of your truck." This was a statement not a question.
"Right you are officer," I said. "And further more Olson has to have more men than the ones I took care of out in the desert and on the road coming here.
"Officer Olson has many friends on this reservation. I would suggest that you take the truck and leave. I will watch over Jimmy Two Feathers."
"I don't think so. You want to watch something, go watch the bombs." His expression changed and he almost looked frightened. I didn't know if his concern was for his own safety or for the safety of the reservation. It was about then the bell saved me. Chief Two Feathers and Rebecca walked into the room, or I should say the Chief almost took the door off of the hinges.
"Tell me what has happened," the Chief said. He was like Big Buc over in Kingman, Mike Mendoza at the FBI, and any other number of men who were used to taking charge. He didn't waste a lot of time with dialog.
So, I sat down with the Chief and proceeded to spend the next few minutes giving him the short version and bringing him up to date.
Chief Two Feathers looked at the tribal officer.
"Get everyone in the town center at least 20 miles away." The cop took off and we were alone with the nurse. The doors to the emergency room banged open again and the doctor came barging in. Chief Two Feathers took hold of my left arm and led me out of the room. "We need to talk," he said to me then glanced over his shoulder toward Rebecca and said, "stay with your brother."
"Let's go out to the truck. I can't take a chance on someone getting the bombs back," I said hanging the phone up as we headed out the doorway. We walked at a fast pace to the truck and I opened the driver's door. I reached inside and retrieved the H & K MP-5 and one of the three fresh magazines I had left. I ejected the almost empty magazine and slid a full one into the base of the receiver housing then cycled the slide. I looked up at the Chief and he looked like he was going to say something he did not want too.
"I want you to take the truck and leave the reservation."
"Why, if they come for these again I will more than likely need some help."
"I cannot take a chance that a fight will not cause one or both of these things to go off. Can you guarantee that it will not happen?"
"If I go can you guarantee me that Jimmy will not be killed by one of Olson's men?" I asked.
"I can guarantee it. I will call the tribal elders together at the clinic and we will not allow anyone to bring harm to him."
I pulled the Commander out of it's holster and handed the gun to the old man then said, "Ok, you have a deal, anyone kills Jimmy and I survive, I will track them down and kill them, all of them and anyone who gets in my way. Any problem with that?"
"You will not have to track anyone down because I will have killed them myself." He offered his hand and I shook it, and then climbed into the cab of the truck.
"Let me have your cell phone," I said sticking my hand out. The Chief did not hesitate as he pulled the small cell phone out of his jacket and handed it to me.
"Take care of yourself. Rebecca would be sad if you did not come back," he said with a smile.
"Not half as bad as I would feel. Take care of yourself Father," I said, starting the truck. I dropped the truck into drive and pulled away from the clinic. The Chief walked inside the building as I started back down the road I had come up. I turned the cell phone on and a second later the screen said that service was available. I dialed the number to the FBI recovery team once again.
"Office fifteen," a different voice said.
"Lighting bolt," I replied.
"Is there a problem?" the voice asked.
"You might say that office fifteen," I said in a forced calm voice.
"One moment," the voice said in the same tone. I had turned on the desert lights and was about a mile or so away from the tribal center when the second voice came on. It sounded like Mike Mendoza.
"Ed," Mendoza said, "Que paso hombre?"
"Mucho Toro feces," I replied. My crazy sense of humor had me telling Mendoza huge amounts of bull dung, to which Mendoza broke out laughing.
"Never take an assignment where you might have to speak Spanish my little white friend. Where are you?"
"I'm on the road that leads from the tribal offices back to state Highway 87. I'm about half way to the county road."
"What are you driving?" he asked.
"I'm in a four-wheel drive pickup with desert driving lights that illuminate about a mile out in front in me."
"What's the situation out there?"
"The situation is that I'm up to my ass in alligators. Jimmy has several punctures in at least one lung. I left him in the tribal clinic with his father and sister. One of the tribal doctors is taking care of him. The Chief wanted me to get the truck off of the reservation in case Olson's buddies tried to take the weapons back."
"You said Olson's buddies," Mendoza said, "Are you saying that Olson's is neutralized?"
"I'm saying he's a dead son of a bitch because I killed him," I said. "I also put down three of his men in the cave complex where they assembled the bombs and another four who tried to stop me on the way back to the reservation. You get all of that?" I asked.
"I got it," he said. About then I saw another pickup coming at me from the Highway. They had just turned off of the county road and were starting to accelerate up to speed. It looked like at they were at least half a mile in front of me and coming fast. As far as I could see, there were two men standing in the bed of the truck and leaning over the cab. I figured they probably had rifles in their hands.
"I got company coming," I said, "look for the truck with the big lights. I'll leave the cell phone on." I dropped the phone into the plastic pocket near the bottom of the driver's door then switched the desert lights off and slowed down. I wanted to give their eyes a few seconds to recover and open up before I turned the big floodlights back on. I slowed some more and was probably down to about 20 or so when they were 200 feet away. Their speed had to have been at least 50 when I turned the lights back on. I saw the driver raise his left hand to shield his eyes. I had the MP-5 out of the side window and pulled the trigger as we closed t
o 50 feet.
I heard the brakes come on from the other truck as their wheels locked up. The 9-millimeter rounds from my gun had taken out the windshield of the pickup and the man in the passenger's seat was wearing a red mask. His head was tilted back and his gun was no where in sight.
The pickup was sliding sideways with the tires smoking and screaming as I went past. I stopped firing when I saw them starting to spin. I tagged the brakes about the same time they stopped sliding and began rolling down the road. The noise was terrible and I could hear the men in the back of the truck scream as they were launched into the air. I didn’t think they would pose a problem once they hit the ground so I didn’t bother to stop and mop up. I turned the desert lights off a few seconds later when I reached the county road. I turned right toward Phoenix and stepped on the gas and got my speed back up. I needed to put some distance between the reservation and me. I pulled the cell phone out of the vest and put it to my ear.
"You guys still there?" I asked.