"They are ready?" Vato asked Lyons.
"No problems."
Vato looked up at the plane. Both of them saw the aluminum canister mounted under the plane's belly. Vato's eyes met Lyons's. They knew what the canister contained: napalm. In Nam they'd called it the devil's cocktail.
As the plane orbited at a thousand feet, two helicopters descended to the plateau. The Yaquis in Mexican uniforms waved the pilots down. Dust obscured the ridge as the troopships touched down.
In the dust storm kicked up by the landing choppers, the Yaquis left the ridge, walking slowly and naturally down the trail to the pueblo. Lyons counted the fighters on the trail. His hand radio clicked.
"What about the other helicopter?" Blancanales asked. "Wizard. Any communications?"
"Nothing," Gadgets answered. "I didn't catch everything they said back and forth, but they're not saying anything now. Nothing."
"Ironman, what does Vato say?" Blancanales asked.
Lyons turned to the young man. He saw Vato aiming his Springfield. The spotter spoke to Vato. Vato nodded. He spoke to Lyons.
"There is an officer. A colonel. See him? When I shoot him, tell them to fire the..."
Rotor throb obliterated his words. The third helicopter descended from the sky like a dark-green dragonfly. Vato and the spotter grabbed the cloth and brush and branches concealing them, holding the camouflage before the rotor storm tore it away.
Vato shouted to Lyons, "Tell them to fire the bombs!"
Blinded by dust, the roar of the descending helicopter slamming his ears with mind-shattering decibels, Lyons screamed into the hand radio.
"Fire! Fire! Fire it!"
Across the canyon, the helicopters cut their engines. Dust drifted. Mexican soldiers left the helicopters.
Lyons screamed into the radio again, "Fire it!"
Looking out the Plexiglas windows of the third helicopter, the soldiers of the Fascist International could not have seen their North American and indigenaenemies.
Steel skids crushing their camouflage, the troopship came down directly on top of the fighting holes dug into the hilltop, trapping Lyons and the Yaquis.
The shrieking roar of the rotors above Lyons died as the pilot cut the engines.
Doors slammed open. Boots came down.
19
Blancanales put his face to the earth and clicked the electrical trigger.
Nothing.
Looking at the firing device in his hand, the ex-Green Beret checked the possible problems: the handle, the shorting plug, the safety bail under the firing handle, the wires.
Shouts and rotor roar came from his radio. Blancanales looked up. Across the canyon, the third helicopter descended from the sky to land directly on the tiny hilltop where camouflage concealed Lyons and the Yaquis.
Blancanales clicked his radio's transmit key. "Lyons! They're..."
Thunder overwhelmed his voice.
Flame swept the ridge. A hundred meters away, four helicopters disappeared in a maelstrom of fire, the soldiers dying in one instant of superheated gases and high-velocity steel shrapnel. Flash heat burning his face, Blancanales ducked down again and shouted into his hand radio.
"Wizard! A helicopter came down on the Ironman. They're off-loading soldiers."
Gadgets interrupted. "Forget it! That's their problem. The goons are calling down the napalm."
An instant after the flame destroyed the Mexican army unit, the claymore thunder hit Lyons and Vato and the spotter. Looking past the polished boots and gray fatigue pants of the Fascist soldiers, they saw a churning ball of orange-and-black flame mushrooming into the sky. Small secondary explosions popped as the heat ignited the munitions of the soldiers and the fuel tanks of their troopships.
Shouted commands came from the helicopter. The Fascist soldiers fired their autorifles. Cartridge casings showered Lyons and Vato where they hid.
Across the canyon, the Yaquis in Mexican army uniforms ran down the trail from the ridge. Dust puffed around them as the Fascists aimed bullets at the escaping decoy squad.
Dragging his Atchisson and bandolier out of the collapsed camouflage, Lyons buckled the bandolier around his body. He pulled out a second magazine of 12-gauge shells and jerked back the actuator.
Lyons looked to Vato. The Yaqui leader attempted to free his Springfield from under the troopship's skid. The spotter pulled a .38-caliber revolver. Lyons cautioned them both and shook his head.
"They're killing my men!" Vato argued.
"Shout to the others to drop down, then I fire. Ready?"
Vato nodded.
"Now..."
"Yaquis, abajo!"
Lyons sprayed full-auto shotgun fire. Double-ought and number-two steel shot tore through the screen of branches and weeds.
High-velocity steel tore away the leg of a soldier, spinning the maimed Fascist down the steep hillside. Another lost a hand. One startled, his nerves throwing him into a reflexive dive for safety as steel balls severed his spine and exploded from his chest.
Seven full-auto 12-gauge blasts scythed the elite unit of International soldiers before the soldiers realized the murderous fire came from behind them. Trained to react first and think later, they dropped to their bellies.
The pilot started the engine.
Rotors swirling above him, a Salvadorian soldier looked for the source of the fire. He raised his head to look to the other side of the troopship and died, the first blast of the next seven rounds taking off the top of his forehead.
Again, the hilltop exploded as Lyons fired out the Atchisson's magazine. The .38-caliber revolver popped. Rotor storm fanned dust and chopped brush.
The steel skid shifted. Vato jerked free his Springfield. He pointed the .30-06 rifle straight up and pulled the trigger. Then his spotter had his FN-FAL punching the belly of the troopship with point-blank 7.62mm NATO.
Only five seconds had passed since the helicopter landed on the hilltop.
Colonel Gunther had lost six of his men.
As the troopship lifted away, a Chilean soldier clawed his way back aboard only to leap upward suddenly, a slug tearing straight up through the floor panels and continuing through his chest. Blood, pumping from the Chilean's through-and-through death wounds, poured over Colonel Gunther. Another slug careened through the troopship. The colonel grabbed the dying man's M-16.
The helicopter's gunner fired his pedestal-mounted M-60 machine gun. The heavy-caliber autofire tore the hillside. But the weapon could not point under the helicopter.
Lyons jammed in another Atchisson magazine. This one contained one-ounce slugs. He hit the bolt release to chamber the first of the seven rounds.
Standing up in the fighting hole, throwing aside the screen of camouflage, Lyons faced the belly of the troopship. He pointed the weapon at the engine area and fired.
Sheet metal crumpled. Each slug slammed the Huey's belly with thousands of foot-pounds of force. Through the Plexiglas nose window of the helicopter, Lyons saw the feet of the pilot operating the directional control pedals.
The Yaqui with the machine gun fired from his fighting hole, tracers sparking off a steel skid, tearing holes through the aluminum body of the helicopter.
Left hand gripping the airframe, his right hand holding the M-16 like a pistol, Colonel Gunther leaned from the cargo door and fired a burst into the Yaqui's face, killing him instantly. Then Gunther aimed under the skids, to execute the hidden enemy who had slaughtered the men of his squad.
A one-ounce slug smashed up through the Plexiglas nose window, the pilot's left leg exploding and spraying pulped flesh and bone. He convulsed with the shock and pain, losing control of the aircraft controls. The fuselage rotated violently counterclockwise.