Yeager's Getaway, page 13
part #3 of Abel Yeager Series
Melissa’s face, pinched and pale, looked as though she’d bitten a bug in two and swallowed half of it. The woman’s husband appeared at her elbow, as slender and almost as pretty as she. He looked as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know quite what.
Montelle laughed aloud, a bright, brittle sound. “Right on, sister!” he crowed. “Preach it!”
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1402 Local
By 2:00 p.m., all the strike teams had returned to base camp... except for team three with Makani and the Delphinius gang. The head count came to six Niho Niuhi, seventeen hostages, and thirty-four “advisers”—including the six-man squad chasing the asshole in the jungle, and the three men dispatched to the overlook to intercept anyone trying to enter or exit the remote areas of the forest via the main trail. That made twenty-five in total, including Manu Ho, the leader of the advisers.
Kimo erupted with several choice curses in Hawaiian. Makani and his men could be lost, captured, or dead. For security purposes, only Kimo and Ho knew the position and name of the extraction ship, Kekepi. If Makani was captured, he might give up the location of their Molokai camp under torture, which would make having hostages as human shields a prudent form of insurance.
There was a limit on how long they could wait for Makani and the others. Throwing off the timing was not crucial for a successful conclusion, but logistics being what they were, it would not be good if they missed their exit timing by a wide margin.
Before extraction, they had to destroy all nonportable equipment, burn their papers, scrag the computers, and video the execution of the hostages. At that point, they would march to the rocky eastern shore of the island for the rubber boat ride to the waiting Kekepi.
Kanoa and the creepy little Mr. L—who was a spook of some kind, and no doubt about it—had remained aboard the stolen yacht, from which they would launch the last operation before separating from their advisers and going to ground—assuming Mr. L didn’t double-cross them and throw the Niho Niuhi to the sharks after which they were named.
Kimo stomped to the command hut and slammed the door open. Kenny Po lifted himself up from his bunk in the back of the room, bleary-eyed and sloppy-haired. Hambone, in the bunk next to him, didn’t stir a muscle, but then, a rocket attack up his butt would fail to wake Hambone. The nerd, Alapai, sat in front of a laptop, a mouse under one palm.
“Hey, College Boy!” Kimo snapped his fingers as though suddenly recalling something. “I forgot to save you some poon, bruddah. Oh, well, never mind. I pretty much bored it out, so I doubt your little dick would touch the sides. Maybe next time.”
Alapai kept his gaze fixed on the screen, though he seemed more aware of Kimo than he was letting on.
“Gimme the sat-phone thing,” Kimo demanded. “The fancy spy one.”
With a tilt of his head, the skinny kid indicated the device lying at the end of the table. Kimo snatched it up and stabbed the buttons to establish a secure communication link with Kanoa. When the leader of the Niho Niuhi answered, Kimo wasted no time relaying the bad news.
“Some dumb fuck hit us this morning, killed two guys. Not our guys. The other guys.”
“What? Who?” Kanoa’s voice came through strong, although clicks and pops marred the transmission.
“I don’t know who,” Kimo admitted. “I sent a patrol out after him, but they haven’t come back yet.”
Kanoa cursed then went quiet for a long moment. “Okay, it doesn’t matter. Does it? Maybe we should advance the timetable. Hold on. No, I’ll call you back. I need to discuss this with Mr. L. Stand by the phone.”
Without warning, the line went dead. Kimo squeezed the plastic case until it crackled with stress. Discuss this with Mr. L. Fuck. Who was in charge of this operation, exactly?
The civilian guy running free was a nuisance. A fly. A mosquito. This end of the island was practically deserted, with only a few homes and a couple of tiny towns. If he reached somebody’s house and called the cops, they would respond with a patrol car. Next might come a detective, who would have to investigate. Maybe by late, late afternoon, they would send a four-wheeler up the trail or dispatch a helicopter to take a look. The first would be handled by the men at the overlook. As for the second, good luck trying to spot the camp from the air. Either way, it would take Five-O a minimum of twelve hours to mount an effective operation—probably longer. But what if...?
Kimo dropped the phone and paced the room. He ignored the glances from the domino players and pretended not to notice the tense silence. If the Molokai police called the US military, they might send in a combat team. Would they take the word of a lone hunter, or tourist, that a bunch of insurgents were hiding in the middle of the Molokai Forest? And if they did, how long would it take them to plan and execute a mission? Probably hours longer than Kimo expected to be around, given that the military liked to plan, then plan, then plan some more before committing troops. His short time in the corps had taught him that.
Kimo grunted under his breath. Realizing he was slapping one fist into an open palm over and over, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Haole motherfucker,” he muttered. Not for the first time, he wished he had a do-over for the missed shots when he had the guy under his gun. There were reasons, of course. Too sleepy, too tired. Caught by surprise, dick waving in the breeze. Hard to shoot straight in those conditions.
Before his bad-conduct discharge from the US Marine Corps, Kimo had qualified as sharpshooter. That he’d missed a shot when it counted chapped his ass. He wanted another shot. Just one. Better yet, he wanted a few minutes of hand-to-hand combat so he could snap the guy’s neck and piss on his corpse.
He jumped when the sat phone jangled.
Kimo reached to answer it before the second ring had started.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Molokai Forest Reserve
Sunday, 9 May
1530 Local Time
Eight hours of heavy jungle hiking without sighting an identifiable landmark led Osterchuk to conclude they were lost as shit. He planted his butt against a tree, braced both hands on his knees, leaned over, and retched up a little bile then spat the taste out of his mouth. Dizziness swished through him, and blackness tickled the edges of his vision. He shook his head to clear it.
Gomer took a knee not far away, sucking down great gulps of air and drizzling a rainfall of sweat. The smaller man looked as worn-out and red-faced as Osterchuk felt. They had paused near a clearing filled with head-high grass, the stalks sharp as razors. Osterchuk already knew they were sharp because he and Gomer had flayed their way through a similar field earlier in the day, and he still carried the red stripes on his hands and face as evidence. This time, they would go around, by damn.
Osterchuk swiveled his head to get his bearings. The shooters at the overlook were somewhere way, way, way back there, he decided, and the main trail into the forest was somewhere way, way, way over that way, to their right. Maybe. Probably.
Ever since avoiding pursuit—or to put it more accurately, running away from the terrorists in a blind panic—he and Gomer had maintained the goal of returning to the rendezvous point where Yeager had said to meet back up. At some point, they’d made a wrong turn at Albuquerque and ended up into big goddamn middle of jack all. You bet.
The gunmen had not followed them. Maybe they had orders to hold their positions and turn back anyone trying to reach civilization. Osterchuk forced a weak chuckle. More likely, they’d seen two Mutt and Jeff geezers hightailing it for the woods and laughed themselves into convulsions. Anyroad, he and Gomer were as alone as two guys in the middle of a jillion acres of forest could be—Hansel and Gretel without a bread trail to follow.
Aw, by damn. Why’d I have to think of food?
Tok-tok-tok. At the sound, Osterchuk’s head snapped up. Gunfire. Close. He checked Gomer, nearly asking him if he’d heard that, but the deaf man stared into space, oblivious.
Tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok. The tempo of firing increased. There were at least two weapons, maybe more.
“Somebody’s havin’ themselves a little do-si-do, you betcha.”
Pinpointing distance and direction was tough, the way sounds bounced around the jungle. If he had to guess, he’d say the shooters were less than a mile away and somewhere ahead and to the right, at or near the ridgeline—about their ten o’clock position.
Osterchuk waved to get Gomer’s attention and motioned him closer. “At least two shooters,” he said into the man’s ear. He pointed with a bladed hand. “Over there. Automatic weapons. Sounds like AKs. Should we head that way, see what’s up?”
Pyle frowned and shook his head like a dog worrying a stick.
“Any idea which way to go?”
Pyle shrugged.
“What, you stop talking as well as hearing?” Osterchuk asked.
“Too tired to talk.”
“Roger that.” Osterchuk listened as gunfire sporadically rattled through the jungle. “Okay, then. Here’s my thinking. This is a goddamn island, right? We stay on any single bearing, we bound to hit water, hey?”
Gomer nodded.
Osterchuk undertook another survey of the surrounding mountains. There was the tall ridge to the right, which was probably—maybe—the ridge they’d paralleled when they’d been with Adventure Tours. To the left was nothing but goddamn jungle. Behind them was eight hours of uphill travel that he had no desire to retrace, ending with more gunmen lying in wait at the overlook.
“So I say we go due east. Path of least resistance. Take a bearing on the mountaintop over that way. See it?”
Another nod.
“Okay, then.” Osterchuk grunted and pushed off the tree. “Let’s go.”
Pyle shot him a thumbs-up and led off, walking point as he’d done most of the day. He skirted the razor-grass field and picked an easterly bearing on the far side, sliding through hip-deep ferns and ducking under floppy-leafed trees. Osterchuk was content to follow along as Gomer blazed the trail. The man was good at finding the easiest path and avoiding dead-end pockets of heavy, impassable brush.
The firing had died off, leaving behind sounds of a pristine forest. Twice since their run from death, Osterchuk had spotted deer, prime specimens he would have been proud to bring down on a hunt. He’d also caught a flash of a brown pig scuttling away into the forest. Squawky birds and buzzing insects infested the place, providing a natural soundtrack of background music.
He was marveling at a brilliantly colored butterfly when Gomer threw up a fist and froze. Osterchuk had to tap dance to keep from plowing into the smaller man’s back.
“What?” he hissed when he regained his balance.
Gomer pointed. A pair of boots, solid black, protruded from under the canopy of a low bush. Osterchuk touched Gomer on the shoulder and eased past him. Crouching low, he lifted the fronds.
Sprawled in a dead heap lay an Asian soldier dressed in black trousers, black uniform blouse, and black beret, exactly like the terrorists-slash-soldiers they had seen on the trail the day before. His automatic rifle lay near his hand. A lake of scarlet soaked the ground, watering the bush with the dead man’s blood. The toe of one boot had dug into the ground, carving a trough in the soil as if he’d spasmed in death. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.
Osterchuk touched the back of his hand to the dead man’s calf. “Still warm.”
Gomer lifted his chin in acknowledgment and pointed to a bare patch of red soil between the low bushes. Osterchuk duckwalked around the corpse to get a closer look. Footprints were impressed in the soil. They pointed almost due north, the same direction as the gunfire, and were small and rounded, with a zigzag pattern of the kind that he associated with cheap tennis shoes. Keds, maybe, or PF Flyers—though come to think on it, neither of those brands was cheap anymore. The only guy he knew who wore shoes like that was...
Osterchuk squinted at Gomer, who was haloed by the sun. “Winston. Does that look like Winston’s footprint?”
“Yup,” Gomer said in his overloud voice. “I’d say that’s Winston.”
Osterchuk groaned and rubbed the gritty overnight growth of beard on his cheeks.
He retrieved the AK-74, which, on closer inspection, he decided was some knockoff variant like the North Korean Type 88-1. Except for the sand sticking to it from having been dropped, the rifle showed the signs of meticulous care. The bolt slipped back in glassy-smooth perfection, and every moving part visible to the naked eye carried a faint glimmer of oil. Oiling a weapon required Goldilocks precision—not too much, not too little. Whoever the dead guy had been, he knew how to care for his weapon.
Osterchuk liked a well-tended weapon. He dropped the magazine and cleared the breech then checked the bore for obstructions and found none. He reloaded and chambered a fresh round. Meanwhile, Gomer stripped the corpse of its spare ammo harness, which he handed to Osterchuk. He had also found a pistol in a hip holster when he rolled the man over. At first glance, it looked like a Czech CZ 75, but a closer inspection revealed it to be a North Korean copy called the Baek-Du San.
Osterchuk handed the sidearm back to Gomer after the man had buckled the holster and ammo pouches around his waist. Gomer checked the chamber, thumbed the decocker, and holstered the pistol. The expression on his face mirrored Osterchuk’s own feelings.
“We going after Winston?” Osterchuk asked.
Gomer nodded once, a quick jerk of his head.
“Well, let’s go, then.”
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1540 Local
And then there were three.
Yeager studied the man he’d just shot at a distance of over one hundred yards. The body remained motionless. Considering he’d used iron sights on a rifle he didn’t know—shooting on a downhill slope while panting like a marathoner carrying a bus—Yeager allowed as how that was a hell of a shot.
He hunkered behind a natural breastwork of stubby palms and jutting stones halfway up a damn steep hill. Aside from his hiding spot, the hill sported almost no cover. Sometime around noon, while Yeager had led the pursuit farther north, the terrain changed from deep tropics to tall hills covered in a carpet of knee-high brush and dotted with the rare outcropping of trees.
And the hills were a stone bitch to climb. Yeager had given up seconds ahead of what felt like his heart exploding, and he’d tumbled into the one spot of cover he could find. And it was a close thing, too, because the point man had appeared at the bottom of the hill and peppered the surrounding palms with controlled bursts of automatic-rifle fire. The guy had charged up the hill without waiting for his buddies to provide covering fire. He must have either been tired of the chase and trying to end it or gotten too excited.
“Now look at you, son,” Yeager told the distant body with sadness, though not regret. “There ain’t no do-over for stupid out here.”
Where were the other three? That was the question. Of the six, Yeager had dropped one at the ravine, and another had fallen to his second ambush—which had nearly been his last, as the others had flanked him and damn near pinned him with covering fire before he vacated the kill zone. And this one made number three. He was no math major, but he figured there were three left.
“Come on, boys,” he muttered. “I’m tired of running. Now’s the time.”
Yeager settled into a prone position and struggled to get his breathing under control. The elevation challenged his Texas-acclimatized lungs, and a headache threatened to clamp down on his forehead from lack of oxygen. His heart pounded as well, sending miniature tremors through his hands. These transmitted to the rifle, affecting his aim. It was a wonder he’d hit the man coming up the hill.
The day had turned into everything a visitor to paradise could wish for. High sixties, low seventies. Cloudless, crisp blue sky. A mild breeze flitted with through the greenery and carried a scent of tropical flowers along with a faint tinge of salty sea.
A great day to die. Yeager banished the thought with a grunt. Aloud, he said, “A great day for them to die.”
At the base of the hill, shadows moved just past the edge of the jungle growth. Ferns stirred in ways not moved by the wind. Company had finally arrived. Yeager sighted on the moving brush but held his fire. No reason to give away his position unless he had a decent shot. Plus, throwing bullets into an unseen target went against the grain. Winston Pettigrew was out there somewhere, and Yeager would never forgive himself if he shot the old man by mistake.
Poor guy. The man was seventy-something years old and having to endure sleeping rough, no food, limited water, and being chased by armed terrorists. That would be tough on anybody, but for an old man, it would be pure hell.
A black-clad commando stepped into view at the edge of the jungle. He stood motionless, looking up the hill. Trying to draw fire to pinpoint my location?
“You’re either very stupid or very brave.” Yeager settled his sight picture, adjusted down for the slope, and squeezed off a shot. Dirt exploded three feet in front of the man, and he dived back into cover. Yeager winced. He should have waited and let them come closer.
“Dumbass,” Yeager berated himself. “Hurry carefully.”
And now it was time to play Alamo. They had Yeager pinned. There was no escape uphill until nightfall. One guy could keep him ducking with covering fire while the other two flanked him and came at him from different directions.
Movement flickered, first left, then right. Too fast to react to. The commandos blurred from the forest and dived into the tall foliage coating the hillside. Yeager had no shot, and the enemy had disappeared. Instead of alternating between fire and movement, it appeared that they planned to advance under cover of the tall grass.
Where is the third guy?
Yeager risked a pair of single shots into the moving brush where he thought the left-hand flanker was located, firing out of frustration, hoping for a lucky hit. It would be nice if he could draw some return fire from the third man and spot his position. Nothing happened other than him chopping down some leafy greenery. Fronds stirred in the breeze, making it difficult to follow the movement of the commandos, who remained belly down and under cover. They advanced sporadically, keeping their movements random, leaving no straight line for Yeager to track.
