“We’ll need to get as close as we can, Sir,” Ritchie said, as they stepped down from the saddle. “We have a lot of gear to carry.”
Bardwell pointed down the hill to a grouping of trees less than five hundred paces from the dark southern wall of the facility.
Ritchie nodded his agreement. Bardwell started down the hill. The lawmen rode single file to the bottom of the hill where the horses would remain tied for an hour or two.
“So what’s the plan, Boys?” Curtis asked.
“Give us a few minutes to unpack our gear,” Castro said. “Then we can discuss what it is we can do to help you get inside.”
The green boxes were sat in the dirt well away from where the horses stood. Castro worked at unpacking one, while his brother unpacked the other.
Castro handed both Bardwell and Curtis a vest marked POLICE. Curtis laughed, “Policia?”
“Okay, Gentlemen,” Castro said. “Wearing these is your choice, but I would recommend it as a form of protection.”
Ritchie was suited up in the body armor that the Sacramento lawmen had only seen in the picture books. The young lawman had replaced his black cowboy hat with a sleek black helmet. This new headgear was complete with pull down face shield and a looking device of some sort, attached to the side. He readied a long rifle with a barrel that must have been a full yard long.
“What’s he doing?” Curtis asked, strapping on the black vest.
“My brother is a sniper and will help to take out a few of their men before we get started,” Castro replied, in a low voice.
Curtis’s eyes were as big as pie plates as he watched the boys unpack the gear they would use during the night mission. Fires burned within the compound walls along with torches and oil lamps. The steady buzz of electric lights was heard even from this distance. Two of the airships remained moored to the towers, but it didn’t look as though they would be for long. The Red Owl Mining Company looked to making ready to travel and shortly.
Castro returned with a pair of the rifles they’d used earlier in the day and a rucksack. “You know the M4 from our instruction back in town,” Castro said.
“The pack…?” Curtis asked.
Castro retrieved loaded magazines and began to insert them into pouches covering the vests Bardwell and Curtis now wore. “Additional magazines for your weapons,” Castro said. “There’s Composition C in my pack. I’ve already told you about that.”
“Wait,” Curtis said. “That’s the shit that blows up right? I don’t want to carry it.”
Castro smiled. “You have to,” he said. “My brother will conceal himself and start in on the men guarding the fortress, the guard shacks, and along the top wall. Once he gives us the sign, you and I will make for the Iron Gate and blow it off its fucking hinges.”
“Then what,” Curtis asked.
“Then,” Castro said. “You’re inside. I’ll cover the exit till my brother can stow his Barrett. Once he joins me at the gate, we’ll raise a little hell of our own. Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll know that it’s me.”
“And what about your brother,” Curtis asked.
“He’ll cover our exit and protect me while I put the torch to the place,” Castro replied.
“Then why don’t we just stay with you,” Curtis asked. “And let you boys take those things out?”
“Our weapons are antipersonnel,” Castro said. “You will have to physically get to those flying ships to cause enough damage to render them useless for Butterfield and his associates.”
“I see,” Curtis said smiling. He retrieved a few sticks of dynamite from his saddlebags, “And this is where you come in my little cuties.”
Castro laughed. “Dynamite,” he said. “Good, but you might be interested in some of these?” He unfastened the flap on the rucksack removing a handheld grenade and holding it up for the lawmen to see.
“Right on,” Curtis said.
“You know of these?” Castro asked.
Curtis smiled. “That’s how we took out Broken Hill last year,” he said. “We brought a few into town and man, did they ever come in handy.”
“Good then you know how to use them,” Castro said. “Give me a few minutes to get my gear ready and we’re ready at your signal.”
Bardwell stood looking over the secured complex. It was late in the evening, but it wasn’t that late. Yellow light from oil lamps flickered from many windows just past the block walls of the prison.
Curtis joined his superior to look over the target. “What do you think, Sir?” he asked.
“It sure ain’t Broken Hill,” Bardwell said, spitting in the dark.
“That place was a walk in the park compared to what we got down there,” Curtis said. “But at least we’ve got these guys with us tonight?”
Bardwell nodded.
“We’re ready when you are, Sir,” Castro said, walking up from behind.
Bardwell went down on the balls of his feet. Curtis took a knee. The brothers did also gathering around to go over the plan now that they were here, one last time.
“We’ll need to take out those gentlemen guarding the Iron Gate,” Bardwell said, pointing to the entrance.
Ritchie nodded. “Give me a few minutes.”
“We’ll give Silas a minute to get his range,” Castro said. “Then we go in. You and I to the gate,” he said, looking to Curtis. “You watch our back, Sir,” he said, looking now to Bardwell.
“Me?” Curtis asked. “Why do I have to go in first?”
“Because you’re carrying the Composition C,” Castro said. “It’s in your pack.”
“Why don’t you carry it,” Curtis said. “You’re the one that blows shit up anyway?”
Castro cleared his throat. “I’m a demolition expert,” he said correcting.
“You’ll do as he says,” Bardwell said in a firm voice. “I’ll be right behind you every step of the way, Son.”
“Okay, then,” Castro said, nodding to his brother who was already looking into the spyglass attached to his long black rifle.
The three lawmen turned to start down the hill. “Would you mind carrying one of these gentlemen?” Castro asked handing each of the officers another bag.
“What’s in them?” Curtis asked.
“Mortar rounds,” Castro replied, starting down the trail in the dark.
The rifle cracked.
“Damn,” Curtis said, in a hushed voice. “That thing is quiet?”
“Muzzle break,” Castro said, reaching out a pair of field glasses that could see in the dark. He pointed to the gate. Curtis took the field glasses and sighted in on the front gate. In the distance, a man holding a rifle slumped to the ground. Another ran in his direction. The rifle cracked again. The man went down.
Curtis handed the optics to Bardwell nodding. “These guys are good.”
Castro continued down the path that ended near the southwestern corner of the complex. “Let’s drop these here,” he said of the bags they carried.
From there on, the three lawmen spoke with hand signals. Castro waved Curtis forward. Bardwell drew back the bolt as instructed and followed closely watching the wall overhead and the rear at the same time.
Castro pointed at the gate. In the distance, the rifle cracked again. Another fellow fell from the wall overhead nearly landing on Curtis as he did.
Curtis took a knee just to the side of the entrance to allow Castro the opportunity to reach inside. Castro slung his rifle over a shoulder and retrieved something resembling potters clay from the pack. He nodded over his shoulder for Curtis to follow, holding up a hand for Bardwell to remain where he was. The long black rifle cracked in the distance.
Castro ran up on the gate attaching his clay to the locking mechanism. Curtis swung the rifle from side to side watching for any uninvited guests. Bardwell did the same from a safe distance. Castro inserted something resembling a thermometer in the clay and started running for the block wall where Bardwell stood. Curtis followed.
“You g
entlemen ready?” Castro asked.
Bardwell looked at the boy and nodded.
Castro smiled and flipped the switch. The blast tore the gate off the entrance. Crumbling concrete fragmented by the blast ripped across the compound. The rifle cracked again.
Bardwell started for the entrance. Curtis followed looking back over his shoulder. Castro was busy setting up his next surprise for the inhabitants of the compound.
Several gentlemen ran the opposite direction to the one the lawmen were traveling. Bardwell eased back his trigger. TAT, TAT, TAT. The rifle sang TAT, TAT, TAT. Curtis raised his weapon and fired. More of the opposition went to the ground.
A loud WOOF was heard from outside of the wall. Something streaked over the wall in the darkness crashing into one of the buildings further along. The side of the block wall exploded outward raining more concrete rubble and broken glass into the complex.
“What the fuck?” Curtis asked.
Bardwell had stopped to watch also. “Mortar,” he said, beginning to move in the direction of the nearest airship.
WOOF, WOOF, the missiles sounded traveling overhead into the dark night. The explosions threatened to knock the lawmen off their feet.
“Come on,” Bardwell yelled, easing back on the trigger again, TAT, TAT, TAT.
Several gentlemen made for the airship ahead. Bardwell fired again. Curtis looked behind for any followers and took cover at the corner of a nearby building with a rough block wall. The young lawman flipped the switch as Castro had instructed back in the little house in Tulare unleashing a fully automatic version of the weapon.
Men went down in the torchlight. Shots were returned from the south and those ahead threatening to catch the lawmen in a cross fire. Bardwell motioned for Curtis to toss him one of the handheld grenades. The boy dropped the pack fumbling inside for the explosive devices. He tossed one across the street in the darkness. Bardwell held up three fingers. Curtis responded by tossing them slowly, one by one.
Bardwell pulled the pin and sent one flying in the direction of the gentlemen approaching, rounding a tall wire fence. The lawman ducked behind the same wall seeking protection from the iron shrapnel filling the night air like so many ravenous insects. Men screamed. Bardwell tossed another up to a second level platform where more of the host stood looking for the intruders in the dark. Again, he ducked behind the wall for protection.
Curtis looked across the street. Bardwell pointed overhead holding up one finger, two fingers…three fingers.
Bardwell and Curtis both stepped out into the clearing firing at the shadows of men on the platform above. They began cautiously making their way forward closer to the airship.
“How in the fuck are we going to get past this?” Curtis asked, looking at the gate and then behind for anyone following.
“Dynamite,” the lawman replied.
Curtis smiled pulling one of the red sticks from his pocket. The boy drew hard on his cigar and touched the fuse to the orange cherry burning just inches from his face, already showing signs of wisdom well past his years. He shoved the stick between the wall and the gate before he ran for all that he was worth.
The explosion sent the gate flying back down the narrow street the lawmen had traveled. Curtis smiled.
“There they are,” someone shouted from a side street.
Bardwell tossed another of the grenades between the tall block buildings before starting off again. WOOF, WOOF. From the sound of it, Castro was still busy with his flying missiles.
White-hot electric light searched the compound near the flying ship. Armed men surrounded the ancient machine. WOOF, WOOF streaked the missiles in from overhead. One landed on the top floor of a nearby building brick and mortar crumbling to the dark street below.
The other landed near the flying ship. The explosion lessened the odds a great deal. Bardwell and Curtis opened up with the rapid-fire weapons.
Shots came from behind. Bardwell turned to fire. TAT, TAT, CLICK. The magazine was empty. He thumbed the button like Castro had instructed. The empty magazine dropped to the concrete where he stood like a tin cup against a rock. The lawman pushed another into the weapon as Curtis ran his dry providing cover. Bardwell tossed the remaining grenade that he carried.
“How many more of those you got?” he asked, looking into the rucksack Curtis carried over his shoulders.
“Don’t know,” Curtis replied. “The damned thing is heavy. It might be full of them?”
Bardwell pulled several out hanging them in the webbing on his vest marked POLICE. “Thanks,” he said. “They do come in handy.”
Curtis reloaded moving forward.
Electric blue light shattered the stillness. Bardwell sighted in on the moving bulb atop a nearby building. He opened fire in that direction. Glass shattered and the light ceased as quickly as it had started.
Shots were returned. Lead tore across the concrete just two paces from where the lawmen stood. Starlight provided backlighting for those still standing on top of the building. Curtis had a look through the spyglass and eased back the trigger. One silhouette fell from the rooftop. Curtis sighted again.
Bardwell didn’t have a shot and jockeyed for a better position, finding it across the street. The outlaws couldn’t see the lawman down here at the dark foot of the building, but the lawmen could see them just fine standing on the open rooftop. Bardwell eased back the trigger. Another fell.
WOOF, WOOF, the missiles continued. From the sound of it, Castro was working on the far side of the compound. He would know the lawmen were working their way to the airships and would hold off targeting that side of the facility. A great explosion rode the night air upward into the dark sky. Orange flame leaped skyward chasing the explosion.
“Must have found their fuel stores?” Curtis asked no one in particular.
Bardwell nodded sighting through the spyglass chasing the shadow figures running along the building.
A hundred paces further into the complex internal combustion engines fired up one after another in a whir of propellers and machinery.
“They’re leaving, Sir,” Curtis shouted.
The lawmen ran for the airship trading shots with the outlaws as they presented themselves. Bardwell inserted another magazine after firing thirty rounds of what Castro had referred to as five point five six.
Curtis continued past pausing long enough to retrieve one of his dynamite sticks. He touched the fuse to the cigar burning in front of his face and let the device go.
Bardwell tossed one of the grenades into the open door of the gondola and rolled into a ball on the broken concrete. Curtis ducked behind a large ancient planter of sort and continued to fire the rifle into the gas envelope.
The explosion rained glass, twisted metal, and body parts to the dark ground below. Bardwell rolled to witness the event. One of the gasoline engines chopped at the twisted metal, but the remains of the airship continued to drift higher into the darkness without supervision.
WOOF, WOOF Castro’s missiles came over the wall streaking across the night.
Curtis smiled, reloading the rifle. “I thought that cat was out of those things by now?”
Bardwell laughed like a lunatic at the comment. At times the boy could come up with the damnedest things.
“Number two,” Bardwell finally yelled. “We’ve got to get number two.”
The lawmen started in that direction. An explosion rocked the complex up near the entrance.
“He’s inside?” Curtis asked.
“They both are,” Bardwell said, peering around a corner. A dozen or so of the Red Owl Mining Company came on the run with weapons drawn. The lawman motioned to Curtis to throw a grenade in their direction. Curtis smiled pulling the pin. Bardwell emptied the magazine after the explosion tore through the ranks of the outlaws.
“Who the fuck, are you?” a loud voice questioned. Curtis swung firing an empty magazine to the sound of the hammer striking air.
Bardwell lowered the rifle and drew one of his Navy Col
ts silencing the voice forever. Both lawmen reloaded their weapons before running across the compound in the direction of the second ship now making ready to depart.
Chapter Forty
“Fuck,” Curtis said, drawing on his cigar, “That was close.”
Bardwell paid no mind to the comment now that the second machine was within their grasp.
Another explosion rocked the facility near the entrance. The lawmen knew that by now, both of the brothers were inside of the gate and destroying as much of the Red Owl Mining Company as they could.
Engines hummed in the distance. The ship was preparing to depart. Electric light shined over the launch area.
The lawman crouched behind a low wall to extinguish the lights in the only way he knew––he fired the weapon. One by one, the lights went out to a shattering of glass raining down.
“Sir,” Curtis yelled, looking in the direction of the airship.
Both lawmen ran for the flying machine still tethered to the ground, firing as they did. The opposition fell like a needed rain. There was no longer a threat to the charging lawmen.
Bardwell opened up firing into the glass observation windows of the gondola. The door was open and the lawman climbed aboard to see what damage he could do. Curtis followed.
Dead now, the pilot fell back in his seat pulling at the yoke controlling the airship’s movement.
“Sir,” Curtis yelled, now that the ship was in motion. There were no live bodies on the craft that might understand its operation.
Both lawmen ran to the broken glass for a look at the ground leaving rapidly. “Sir…?” Curtis asked again.
The lawman looked over the console where the dead pilot lay back in his seat. Bardwell pushed him over onto the floor and took a seat.
“Sir…?
“We’re too high now to jump for it,” Bardwell said, feeling the controls in his hands, “You got any better ideas?”
“I like that shit,” Curtis said. “You ain’t afraid of nothing.” He took the empty seat next to the lawman.
A Y-shaped yoke was before him. On the center console two levers marked FORE and AFT stood within arm’s reach.
Ain't No Law in California Page 31