by Bob Mayer
Kane hears his team sergeant grunt and he knows he’d been wounded. Kane fires three rounds on semi-automatic, then rolls to his left, next to Merrick who is on his back.
“Where you hit?”
“Give me your forty-five and get to the PZ,” Merrick snaps at him. His voice is ragged with pain.
Kane can’t tell where the wound is. Too dark. Merrick sits, letting out an audible gasp, shoving his ruck into position to stay upright. He shoulders his rifle and fires, slowly and deliberately, aiming at the silhouettes charging up the stream. The NVA go down, one, two, three, four and then the rest break for the shore on either side.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Merrick snarls as an echoing silence descends. “I’ll hold them. Give me your forty-five.”
“Nice try,” Kane said. “You ain’t getting my forty-five.” Off center, where night vision is the best, he spots movement and fires twice. Movement ceases. The sound of a large number of NVA pushing through the jungle toward them.
Merrick shoves him, drawing his High Standard and pointing it at Kane. “Get out of here!”
Kane hits Merrick with a morphine syringe.
“Asshole,” Merrick mutters, the drug hitting him hard.
Kane picks his CAR back up and fires at movement.
Thao appears, kneeling over the team sergeant, hands searching for the wound. Kane checks his watch. Five minutes.
“Ah!” Thao exclaims as he finds the entry wound in Merrick’s lower left chest. He runs his hand to the back, finds the larger exit tear the 7.62 x 39mm round made after passing through. “You will be okay,” Thao assures him.
A bugle blares less than twenty meters away, never a good sign. All the searchers are being drawn to this location as if the shooting wasn’t enough.
Kane checks the time. Three minutes. Unseen by him, Thao sticks Merrick again with morphine since Kane hasn’t followed protocol by putting the expended needle in the collar.
He’s busy with other things like keeping them from being over-run, as he tosses aside the empty CAR and grabs Merrick’s. Fires the last of those rounds. Draws his forty-five, oddly thinking the team should have the bugles, like Custer at the last stand, blaring as they get swarmed under.
“Let’s go!” Kane shouts at Thao as he grabs Merrick’s LBE on one side, Thao grabs the left.
Together they haul the drowsy team sergeant back the way they’d come. Kane has the forty-five in his free hand, aiming.
They’re coming. Another bugle, this time to the west, squeals. Dry lips, Kane thinks. Orders being shouted.
They’re pulling Merrick through the water, splashing, waiting for the rounds that will kill them.
They want us alive Kane realizes at the lack of firing.
He can’t check the time, his hands full. It had to be the window as they reached the wide part of the stream. Stop. He looks up and turns on the infrared strobe.
More bugles, orders. The ring is tightening.
Merrick’s head lolls back, his eyes rolling upward.
“Dai Yu?” Thao says. “Did you give him morphine?”
They hold Merrick above the water to keep him from drowning.
“Yeah.” Kane is scanning the narrow patch of sky, listening desperately for the sound of inbound blades.
“He is overdosing!” Thao warns.
Then they hear it: helicopter.
“Get ready,” Kane orders Thao. “Hook first. I’ll get Merrick’s.”
The chopper comes in low and fast, a rope tumbling out, knots tied on it, spaced apart. Thao grabs the rope and pushes it through the gate of his snap link.
The NVA begin shooting. Up, at the helicopter. A door gunner replies with the M-60, red tracers matching green.
Kane tries to grab the rope, misses, has it, hooks in, then snaps Merrick into the next loop.
There’s no need to signal the crew. They’re experienced. They know how long it should take and they know they can’t hang around a second longer.
The engine whines and the Huey lifts. Thao is pulled up, then Kane, then Merrick, dangling unconscious.
Moving forward at the same time.
Too soon. Too soon.
Green tracers arc by the three men hanging below. Kane flinches as he hit the top of trees and is pulled through them as the helicopter accelerates. Merrick, below, is battered by branches, and then they are clear, in the sky, three dolls hanging on a thread.
18
Saturday Afternoon,
13 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT,
MANHATTAN
“Are you starting World War Three?” Morticia asked Kane after the last person departed the diner and she locked the doors and flipped over the closed sign.
He had the imagery spread out on the table and a notepad to the left. He was trying to sketch out an operations order, but sketchy was the appropriate adjective.
“Do you see the two words in red?” Kane said.
“Top secret?”
“Yeah. Do you think you should be looking at something marked like that?”
“It’s why I asked if you were planning a war,” Morticia said, turning away in a huff.
Something occurred to Kane. “Hey. Hold on.” He pulled his moleskin notepad out and thumbed through to find what he wanted. Ripped a blank page out and copied a name and number. “This guy is some Broadway big shot. Produces, directs, I don’t know. But here’s his name and number. Give him a call and tell him I gave you the contact info.”
Morticia took the paper. “Will that get me an in or cursed out?”
“I did a job guarding his family a while back. He seemed to think I did all right and told me to call him if I ever wanted tickets or something.”
“Thanks,” Morticia said. “So, I’m something?”
Kane rolled his eyes.
“Now you’ve got me really worried.”
“Why?”
“Well, Truvey was acting very concerned about you and now you’re helping me with something you could have given me a while ago. You have photos marked top secret and you look rather intent, not that you ever don’t look like that, but still.”
“If you don’t want the number—” Kane began, but Morticia cut him off.
“No, no. I appreciate it. By the way, I haven’t seen your friend Toni lately.”
“She’s busy.”
“Who’s your new friend? She seems as intense as you. But you didn’t have your gun out, so she must be friendly, or at the very least, not an enemy?”
“I’d steer clear of her if I were you,” Kane suggested.
Morticia folded her arms and regarded him for several moments. “You’re not the friendliest guy, Kane, but I need this job. So, don’t do something stupid and get yourself hurt, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“I’m serious.”
“Trust me,” Kane said, “so am I.”
Thao came out of the kitchen, a small fishing tackle box in his hand. He paused seeing Morticia at Kane’s table.
“I’m trying to disabuse her of the notion I’m starting World War Three,” Kane told him.
“The less you know,” Thao told Morticia, “the better for you.”
“You guys sure don’t know how to reassure a girl,” Morticia said. “This have anything to do with the creep stalking Truvey?”
“It does,” Kane said. He glanced at Thao. “You’ll take care of Truvey and Morticia while I’m gone?”
“Of course, Dai Yu.”
“I need taking care of?” Morticia asked.
“Don’t we all?” Kane said.
“You guys really are worrying me.”
Thao put the small box on the table. Each held a couple of different types of pills, mainly an assortment of uppers. “Packed like we used to carry.” He pulled three morphine syringes out of a pocket and put it next to the pills. “Just in case. Kinsman is sicker than he appears. He’s taking pain killers but . . .”
“Thanks.”
“Where are you going?” Morticia asked, indicating the pictures. “The desert somewhere?”
Kane stood and indicated the door. “Time for you to go.”
Morticia frowned and allowed him to lead her to the exit. He unlocked it and opened. “You take care of yourself,” he said to her.
He forced himself to stand still as she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. “You take care of yourself, Kane.” She let go, abruptly turned and walked off.
Kane locked the door. Thao was sitting in the booth, looking at the photos. “Are you sure—”
“I’m sure,” Kane said. “I don’t have much of a plan yet, although I’m getting there.”
“Not based on a movie, I hope?” Thao said.
“I haven’t thought of any movie that fits this scenario,” Kane said. “Caitlyn’s getting me to Utah and has given me intel. I think that’s as far as it goes.”
“How are you getting out?” Thao asked.
“I’ll borrow one of their vehicles. They won’t have any need for them.” Kane looked past him. “Can you get the door?” he asked, just before Kinsman knocked on it.
Thao unlocked the door and let the Code Talker in.
Kinsman was wearing faded jeans, boots, an embroidered shirt and the Stetson. He had a duffle bag over one shoulder. He walked over and dropped the duffle, sliding into the booth with a grimace. He looked at the pills and morphine syringes on the table. “I see you are prepared. I’ve brought my own meds.”
“What kind of shape are you in?” Kane asked him.
“I’m breathing,” Kinsman said. “I can walk a few miles. I can shoot.” He opened the bag and pulled out an M-1 rifle with a metal frame folding stock. “From the war.” It was in good shape, with the sheen of a well-maintained weapon.
“Do you have ammo for that?” Kane asked.
“I have enough clips,” Kinsman said.
“I can get you something more modern,” Kane said.
“I prefer what I am used to,” Kinsman said. “I also have a forty-five and my Ka-bar.”
A white van briefly paused at the stop sign on Washington, then crossed, pulling over to the left and stopping in front of the diner. Caitlyn rolled down the window and gestured for them to come.
Kane slid the pills and morphine into his map case, which already held the ledger. He gathered the imagery and put it back in the manila envelope. Slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “I’ll see you,” he said to Thao.
“Be safe, Dai Yu.”
Kinsman put the rifle back in the duffle and picked it up.
As Kane and Kinsman walked to the van, Kane asked the old man: “Can you ride a horse?”
“Like the wind.”
“Can you act crazy?”
“With the craziest of them,” Kinsman assured him.
Grand Escalante Staircase
19
Saturday Evening,
13 August 1977
FIFTYMILE POINT, UTAH
“How involved was my father?” Toni asked. She was sitting on a folding chair, perched on the smooth rock floor. The chamber was lit by several work lights scattered about, casting odd shadows. She and Yazzie were the only people in the enlarged cave.
Yazzie had the documents from Ted’s footlocker spread out on a table consisting of old wood planks. The chamber was sixty feet down an entry tunnel ten feet wide by eight high that angled into Fiftymile Point at a ten-degree descending slope. It was a square roughly forty feet to each side. At the far end, two tunnels angled farther and deeper into the mountain ending when the miners had finally quit in despair, one at eighty feet, the other at sixty. The chamber held the old table, several folding chairs, a number of wood cases stenciled with military codes and various supplies, including a number of blivits of water, an essential this far out in nowhere. A single Land Rover Defender was parked inside. A three-foot-wide shaft in the center of the chamber roof, twenty feet above, pumped in fresh air from the surface, powered by a small diesel generator up there hidden under a desert colored camouflage net. An antenna wire dropped out of the shaft and led to a base station FM radio set on the edge of the table. A power line ran down the shaft and into the chamber, powering the lights and radio.
Toni wasn’t handcuffed or confined in any way, because the only way out of here was through the tunnel and then across fifty miles of desolate terrain to Escalante. Yazzie had the keys to the Defender in his pocket and it was doubtful she’d make it far if she tried to escape on foot. Her business suit was dusty, her hair mussed and her face was drawn and tired. She’d taken her heels off and was barefoot.
Yazzie wore khaki pants and shirt and heavy boots. An M-16 leaned against the table close to his right hand. His Browning High Power was in a holster on his belt along with a commando knife in a sheath. The other Flint Boys were spread out in the vicinity, Bluehorse at Hole in the Rock, and Tsosie and Reed on top of the promontory, one above the entrance on the west side, the other on the eastern side of the promontory. Both had excellent views of the only road that ran from Escalante to Hole in the Rock. Tsosie also could cover the trail from that road to the mine.
“Your father handled real estate transactions for my father and for Damon,” Yazzie said. “He also helped with the money.” He pointed at a stack of duffle bags. “Cash.” He laughed. “The blessing and bane of our existence. Too much of it.”
“The two million Damon had was part of this?”
Yazzie shrugged. “Boss is funneling a lot into real estate. Something more tangible and legal. Some other investments.”
“Laundering your money. Making it clean.”
“It’s business,” Yazzie said. The radio crackled and a voice spoke in Navajo.
Yazzie picked up the mike and responded, then put it down.
“Are those weapons?” Toni asked, nodding toward the crates.
“This is a way station for a number of various activities,” Yazzie said.
“For who?”
“Whoever pays.”
“Who does your father work for?”
“He’s never worked for anyone since the war,” Yazzie said. “He was a patriot for many years until his services were no longer needed. Tossed aside by a decision forced by bleeding heart politicians who are unaware of the harsh realities of power. They act like this network is a light switch that you can turn on or off at a moment’s notice.” He gestured at the weapons, drugs and cash. “And when the next administration needs this? Do they think we can start over? Get our contacts back? Get them to trust us?”
“So, you’re a patriot?”
“You can crawl down off your throne, Toni. This—” he spread his hands—“was run for the Agency for decades.”
“The CIA?”
“That’s the one and only.”
“You’re a drug dealer,” Toni said.
“The CIA was the drug dealer,” Yazzie said. “Probably still is, just in another way. Some snoops in DC got wind of the French Connection and it got too much publicity. They made a fucking movie out of it. Hard to keep things quiet with that kind of news. The Agency had to officially pull the plug on our op.” He stood up and walked over to her. “Why are you acting superior about it? What was on your desk the other day?” he asked. “It’s the users that make the system work. Not those who supply. You want to stop it, stop snorting. You knew your father was into shady deals at the firm. That’s why you left, right? But it took you a long time, didn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” Toni said, without much energy.
“Isn’t this the moment when you tell me that Kane is going to rescue you and kill me?” Yazzie asked.
“I hope he doesn’t come,” Toni said. “It would be the first smart thing he’s done in years.”
“He’ll come,” Yazzie said.
“Why are you so sure?”
“It’s who he is,” Yazzie said. “He’s a man ruled by a distorted moral compass.”
“At least he has one,” Toni said.
“You
’re ignoring the distorted part,” Yazzie said. “Come here.” He led her to the table. “Your father had quite a bit of dirt on a number of prominent people both in New York and Washington. In the end, it didn’t do him any good. You can only use leverage when you have a fulcrum and that was Damon. I will grant your father that: he didn’t get his own hands dirty.” He picked up a single sheet. “This is encrypted. Five letter groups means one-time-pad. What’s the key?”
“The ‘key’?”
“Your father put this in your office. He had to figure if something happened to him you’d eventually find it. So you must know the decryption key. He said the ledger was mostly encrypted.”
“Why didn’t you ask him for the key?”
“I did,” Yazzie said. “It was the one thing he wouldn’t divulge.”
“Before you killed him.”
The sound of several engines and loud mufflers echoed down the tunnel. Yazzie gathered up the paper, photos and microfiche and put them into a plastic bin. Three large motorcycles rolled in. The bikers stopped, put their kickstands down and killed the engines. They wore leather pants, black t-shirts, and black leather vests with BANDIDOS embroidered in a curve on the back. Below the gang name was a man wearing a large sombrero, firing a six shooter with one hand while the other held a machete. All three men were covered in dust.
“Hey, Yaz-man,” one of them, called out.
“What are you doing here, Ortega?” Yazzie demanded.
“Your father called,” Ortega said, looking about the chamber. “Asked me for help. Said you got a problem here.”
“There’s no problem,” Yazzie said. “What else did he say?”
“He said he’s coming,” Ortega looked at Toni, then back at Yazzie. “Be here Monday afternoon.” His two partners flanked him, one Hispanic, the other Caucasian, their arms rippling with tattoos. They had pistols stuffed in the belts. Knives in sheaths. “Said he’ll have a shipment for us with him.” He glanced over his shoulder as Tsosie walked out of the tunnel behind them. He had his M-16 in hand and moved to the side so that his field of fire wouldn’t include Yazzie.