“What’s this all about, partner?”
“We’re heading south.”
South could mean a lot of places. “Mexico?”
“No,” Art answered. “My old stomping grounds. The Deep South.”
The whine of the turbines rose quickly and massively above their heads, the helicopter responding to the increase in power with a gentle jump from the ground. Seconds later it was climbing above the buildings, gaining more altitude as it banked slightly left. “Los Alamitos in about twenty minutes,” the pilot announced.
“Why Los Alamitos?” Frankie inquired.
“We have to be there fast, and the military has the things that move,” Art answered, looking out the left side of the helicopter to the midday city below. The blight that was prevalent at street level almost disappeared when looking from above. L.A. from a thousand feet actually looked nice.
“Art,” Frankie said, nudging him. “What are we going to do?”
“To nail the guy who could have prevented all this.”
Prevented. “All of this?”
Art looked at his partner. “Yeah.” He said no more, but he could tell she was reading ‘And Thom might be alive’ from his statement.
The familiar feeling of the previous days passed through her again, lingering briefly as a heaviness in her chest, then faded away when it found there would be no eager host as before. Vengeance had come, and it had gone. What remained was a job to finish.
“Let’s go get him,” Frankie said, caring not at all who the man was.
Lieutenant Duc brought the cyclic back a hair and lowered his collective, slowing the Pave Hawk while maintaining its altitude. The maneuver backed the helicopter out of contact with the flexible drogue boom through which they had just topped off their tanks from the HC-130 Combat Shadow. The tanker accelerated and turned forty-five degrees to the right, heading almost directly into the setting sun low on the southern horizon. The Pave Hawk made the big bird’s course its own, following like a good little chick. The next and final tanking wasn’t far off, and after that they’d be on their own. Almost.
“Raptor is on station,” Duc’s copilot reported after switching from the SATCOM back to intercom. Raptor was the AC-130U Spectre that would be in the area to provide a little muscle if it became necessary. “On station” meant off the southern coast of Cuba, dead ahead of them, loitering at a discreet distance.
“What about the AWACS?” Duc asked.
“Sandman is there, too, fifty miles west of Raptor. We’ve got good coverage.”
All that remained was word that the rebel ground force tasked to provide assistance was in position. “Raptor and Sandman are in position, Major.”
“Good,” Sean answered back. Only Anderson looked up when he spoke, and Sean gave him a reassuring thumbs-up, which sent the civilian back into his trance. The major saw his shoulder muscles bulge upward as Joe tightened and released them repeatedly, but they were smaller than when he had last watched the man perform the same limbering exercises. The disease was taking its toll.
The other members of the team were universally silent, spending the last hours before the show began in their own private contemplations. Then, of course, there was Antonelli. He had left the Walkman at Bragg, this time, but had remembered his new favorite toy, a handheld arcade simulator from some upstart company that made the games from the big names look archaic. Next to Sean, Buxton was staring at the floor, past his open paperback, thinking about whatever. Makowski, strangely, had his small Bible closed but held it tightly in both hands. Prayer, Sean thought, ready to accept any help Delta could get. The rest were very quiet, very still, all their eyes closed, though none was asleep. That was impossible this close to going in.
“One more time.”
Sean looked left. It was Buxton, leaning in close to speak over the noise. “And they pay us to have fun.”
The captain smiled. His former squad leader, now XO of the entire unit, was a damn good guy, and a hell of a soldier. “How long you gonna do this, Maj?”
Sean didn’t expect the question, and it was somewhat strange considering what he’d been thinking of in recent months. “I don’t know. Can’t very well settle down and have a normal family life if you’re flying off all over the world to smoke bad guys.”
Buxton’s eyes flared open. “Settle down. You mean…?”’
Sean couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. It happened whenever he thought of her. “Mary’s been an angel, Bux. She’s waited a long time.”
“Man…” The captain was surprised but not shocked. He’d never considered that the major would be out of uniform; he was the kind of guy you figured had the khakis tattooed on.
“My tour’s up in a year and a half,” Sean said. “I figure I’ve done my time. Going out on a high note is the way I’ve always wanted it.” Being XO of Delta was higher than he’d ever thought possible.
Buxton smiled again and nodded. It was a blessing of Sean’s decision from a comrade, and that mattered more than anything.
“One for the road, Maj.”
“Hopefully the last.”
Major Guevarra and the commander of the Cuban Army unit securing the Juragua Nuclear Generating Facility hurried to the small building that was known as the command bunker, though neither knew why such a small structure out in the open would be termed such. General Asunción was waiting for them outside one of the two doors.
“Colonel, the enemy has cut the highway north of here.”
“What?” the Cuban commander asked with disbelief, his eyes narrowing to slits. “We already have a force to the north. A large force and they are engaging the rebels.”
“To their north, yes, but the bastards have slipped into their rear,” Asunción said.
“How many?” Guevarra asked.
“No reports, but however many there are, they are fighting like wild men.” Asunción turned back to the commander of the ground troops. “Colonel, take your force and secure the highway between us and the rebels. Send a unit to attack and destroy them once you have.”
“But the plant, General.”
“Leave a small unit here. We will have Major Guevarra remain to react if any more rebels have slipped through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Major,” Asunción began as the colonel moved off. “I want you ready to defend this facility at a second’s notice, is that understood?”
“Yes, General Asunción!” Guevarra saluted smartly, then trotted back to his helicopter and its ground crew. “Prepare to fly, quickly!”
“We have a target?” Sergeant Montes asked hopefully.
“Possibly. If it shows itself, then we must be ready.”
The crew chief approached the major. “The weapons load, sir. What do you wish?”
Guevarra analyzed what he might be asked to do. Rebel forces slipping behind the lines. They would have light weapons and would be able to scatter themselves quickly. He would need weapons that could attack a large area with lethal results. “A full load of thirty-millimeter ammunition for the cannon.” He paused. “And eight rocket pods, all with flechette rounds.” Flechettes, small, needlelike spears, were packed tightly ahead of a burster charge in the warhead of each unguided rocket, essentially creating a massive shotgun shell that would fire after launch. The effect, as had been proved in battles from Vietnam to Afghanistan, was utterly devastating on troops in the open. Precisely where Guevarra hoped to find his targets.
“But, Major, you need protection from aircraft,” the crew chief implored. “Let me load two air-to-air missiles.”
“What aircraft?” Guevarra demanded angrily. “Our targets will be running, on the ground, not up with us. We rule the sky, my friend. Now load the weapons which I have told you. They will be of use.”