They Came to Kill

17

Dust erupted into dense clouds as the four helicopters descended to the soccer field. Lyons slid open the door of the command Huey and the dust and chill December air swirled into the crowded interior, carrying away the stink of kerosene, sweat and tobacco. He shoved his shipping trunk of equipment to the edge. Though the flight north had taken only three hours, traffic and fueling delays in Mexico City had delayed the takeoff. Now Lyons wanted to move.

Parked trucks lined the soccer field, their headlights serving as landing lights for the helicopters. Drivers sat on the bumpers, waiting for the soldiers and the North American "specialists."

The skids touched the field of red dirt and Lyons jumped out, jerked out his shipping trunk after him. Three forms appeared against the headlights, the silhouettes shifting and leaping as they approached the helicopters.

Soldiers shouted to one another as they assembled in squads. Akbar led the bound and blindfolded Illovich from one helicopter. The Soviet also had rags taped over his ears to prevent his overhearing the talk around him. Blancanales, Powell and Anne Desmarais left another helicopter.

Captain Soto rushed to the three silhouettes. He saluted. After a moment he called out to Lyons. "North American!"

Carrying his weapon-heavy trunk, Lyons lurched across the field to Soto. He saw two Mexican officers in uniform, a third man in slacks and a sports coat. The plainclothesman had an Uzi hanging over his shoulder. They shook hands with Lyons as Soto quickly introduced the officers. Soto avoided names.

"This is my commander. This officer commands this task force. This gentleman works with the federales." Soto used the phrase mi amigo norteamericanoto introduce Lyons.

The Mexicans talked in rapid Spanish. Lyons stood grinning and nodding, understanding nothing. Finally Soto turned to him again. "They know of you because of General Mendez and the International. We all owe you our gratitude for breaking that gang of Fascists."

"We didn't break it. We made it bleed, but the International's still strong. It's still out there."

"But in Mexico, it is now disorganized. The drug gangs have no leadership. They are only gangs now, not an army."

"Until the International comes back. The heroin trade makes billions a month. That's too good to lose."

"We will try to stop that. My commander wants to offer to return a favor. When we fought with the International in the skyscraper of Trans-Americas, S.A., I asked you to leave and you left, leaving the glory and rewards to us..."

"You said you went to prison for a while."

"Only for a short time. It was only a political problem. Then I received a promotion. My commander received many awards from the president of the republic because of the capture of General Mendez. Now, he offers the Iranians to you."

"Oh, yeah? You got them?"

"We know where they are. My commander offers you the opportunity to make the arrests."

Lyons shook his head. "Won't happen. There won't be any arrests. Ones we don't kill go north for interrogation. Won't ever make the newspapers."

After Soto translated Lyons's response, the three officers shook hands with Lyons and left. Confused, Lyons turned to Soto. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Now we go get them. We have until morning."

"That simple?"

"Mexican forces will move in at dawn. We must be gone by then."

Lyons ran to his partners. "Things have changed!" He explained the gift of the Iranians. After he told the story, Powell laughed.

"These Mexicans are slick! Why lose soldiers when they can have gringos get killed? And here you are jumping and laughing about it, thinking they did you such a good deed."

"Whatever. This means we dump Illovich..."

"No, this means..." Powell paused, looking at the others. "We let the Russian and the Frenchy escape together. How's that? Put your microphones on them. We leave them while we go play bang bang with the Eranies, they get away. Good enough?"

"Thought you wanted information from her?" Lyons asked.

Powell held up a black-and-white photo of two men. "She doped herself out for the flight. So I searched her stuff and I got this. One's the Iranian we're chasing. The other one's a Syrian army officer. This is good enough. I think she's jiving me on all the other noise."

Lyons ended the conference. "That's it. No more talk. Time to do it."

A Mexican soldier drove a stake-side truck north through the desert. After a few kilometers, he turned onto a dirt road. He switched off the headlights and drove by the moonlight, the dust and rocks of the road luminous.

Hills appeared. The driver followed the road for several kilometers, then turned into the sand and brush of a riverbed. Flash floods had cut a wide spillway through the desert. Brush and grasses grew in the sand. Following the winding stream into the hills, the driver powered over the brush, the truck's double back tires assuring traction in the sand and gravel.

After another kilometer, the riverbed became a streambed walled by high banks of sand. The driver continued through moist darkness fragrant with mesquite.

In the back of the bumping, swaying truck, Able Team changed into their fatigues. Gadgets and Blancanales wore their camou-patterned uniforms, Lyons his faded black fatigues. Powell and Akbar wore borrowed Mexican army fatigues. Captain Soto and a squad of his men would accompany them to the attack on the Iranian airstrip.

"How will he escape?" Captain Soto asked, pointing to the bound and gagged Illovich.

Lyons leaned close to the Mexican to whisper. "We will take the woman on the walk. Sometime, she'll get away from us. On the walk into the strip or during the fight. She'll come back and free him." Lyons indicated the cab of the truck with a nod. "She's up there with the driver. She knows how to get back to the highway."

"An old man and a woman? In this desert?"

"It'll be a four— or five-hour hike. They'll be back to the highway before light. If you don't like that, we could shoot them and bury them out here."

"No, let them walk."

"It's the only thing we could think of. They have to believe they escaped." Lyons stepped across the lurching deck of the stakebed to Gadgets. He glanced toward Illovich. "You got him set up?"

"Oh, yeah. That's the easy part."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe she won't be able to find the truck. Maybe she..."

"Maybe anything. We'll see what happens."

The truck bumped to a stop. Jumping down to the sand, Lyons saw that they had come to a small waterfall. He heard the stream trickling down the face of the head-high wall of rock.

Gadgets took a case of electronic gear — the mini-mike receiver, an autoreverse cassette tape recorder — into the brush. There, the hidden receiver would monitor and record Desmarais and Illovich until they walked out of range.

The others assembled for the cross-country march to the airstrip. Soldiers applied face blacking and adjusted their web gear. No one smoked. No one talked. Then the voice of Desmarais broke the quiet.

"You stole it, American! I looked everywhere and I cannot find the notebook — and the photos. I know. Do not lie. I would not tell you so you stole what you wanted."

"Me? Maybe you lost your notebook."

Lyons rushed to them and hissed, "Shut up!"

"He stole my photos. I would not..."

The slap sounded like a shot. Desmarais fell into the sand. Lyons crouched over her and muttered, "You keep your mouth shut. You're only here because of him, you understand? He says the word, and you stay here with Illovich."

"The Russian is here?" Now she whispered. "Why is he here?"

Lyons laughed quietly. "We've got plans for him."

"What are you talking about?"

"Hey, reporter. You're here with him..." Lyons pointed to Powell. "I don't tell you anything. Now shut up and hike. Keep up this shit and we'll work you into the plans."

As Lyons left Desmarais, Blancanales approached Lyons. He asked in a deliberately loud voice, "What about sentries?"

"Forget it. We need every man when we hit the Iranians."

"No sentries?" Blancanales repeated for the Canadian to hear. "No one to watch the truck?"

"You worried about a coyote eating Illovich? Who cares?"

The driver of the truck would be their guide to the airstrip. Born in the area, he had worked on the ranchosas a cowboy until enlisting in the army. He spoke no English. With a penlight, he indicated their route into the foothills on a map.

The streambed continued several kilometers through the hills to the ranch taken over by the Iranians. The ex-cowboy pointed to a road that ran north of the ranch. The army waited there. Able Team and the group of soldiers would infiltrate from the south. Any Iranians who escaped their attack would be captured by the army.

Lyons noted a bend in the stream. The topographical whorls indicated a low hill paralleling the airstrip. His finger traced the ridgeline for his partners. "That is a great position for the M-60. Could sweep the strip, the buildings, anything that moved."

Blancanales nodded. He pointed to where the streambed met the ranch. "But we'll need a blocking force here. That will drive them into the army. Does that make sense to you, Captain? Fire from the ridge, then a blocking force?"

"We'll panic them," Lyons added. "Kill all we can, then maybe they'll break and run into your soldiers."

"My commander told me," Soto emphasized, "that the terrorists are prepared to go north. Their trucks are ready. He told me not to expect a fighting force, but instead for you North Americans to take the prisoners you want, the leaders, then to drive all the other terrorists into his line. That will satisfy both our governments."

Lyons laughed softly. "He doesn't think there'll be a fight? I am not making that assumption."

The line of soldiers moved into the moonlit darkness. Led by the ex-cowboy, they zigzagged up the stone face to the next level. The streambed stretched before them, as wide as a street. Desmarais stumbled every few steps. But the others walked quietly, the only sound the squeaking of their boots in the sand.

After a half hour of fast walking, they came to the intersecting ridge. Captain Soto signaled for a rest. Lyons took the captain aside. "Here's where we split. Your man with the M-60 comes with us. I'll carry his ammo. Give him a walkie-talkie. And the woman..." Lyons glanced around. Desmarais sat at the other end of the line. "Don't watch her."

"I know."

"See you later."

Lyons walked back to Powell and Akbar, who were both checking their FN FAL rifles. Lyons motioned them forward. Blancanales led the group up the hill. Following the Mexican soldier who carried the M-60 machine gun, Lyons went last. He carried five hundred rounds of 7.62 NATO.

In the moonlight, Blancanales found a cattle path and followed it, moving quickly uphill. One hundred meters short of the crest, he cut parallel, staying below the ridgeline. At the end of the line, Lyons sweated to maintain the pace.

At a fold in the hillside, Blancanales stopped. He waited for the others to close up the line, then motioned for them to wait. He went alone to the ridgeline.

Lyons found a space between two bushes and squatted, concealed in shadows. He scanned the moonlit hillsides for movement, but saw nothing. The curve of the hillsides blocked his view of the streambed.

His hand radio clicked. Blancanales reported to his partners, "No one up here."

"What do you see down there?" Lyons asked.

"An airstrip. Looks like a cargo plane. And trucks."

"Be there quick," Gadgets told him.

The line moved uphill. Sand and loose stone slowed the machine gunner and Lyons, and they reached the top minutes after the others.

"Hey, Ironman," Gadgets taunted. "Getting old? I know you're getting slow."

Ignoring his partner, Lyons studied the ranch and airstrip below the hill. He heard the continuous popping of a generator motor providing power to the electric lights illuminating areas around several old buildings. The buildings had been the house and barn and equipment sheds of a ranch. Plastic tarps replaced the collapsed roofs.

A recently improved road led to the ranch. Two hundred meters below Lyons, a long stretch of flat-land had been scraped bare of brush and rocks. A four-engine prop plane — painted black, devoid of markings — sat on the airstrip. Men moved between the cargo plane and three tractor-trailer trucks. Other men ran hoses from a gasoline truck to the wing tanks of the plane. Off to one side stood a Soviet-made multiple rocket launcher. Lyons could see the dark outline of the steel rack that housed the rockets mounted on the flatbed of the truck. The rack was angled at forty-five degrees, ready for firing. The Ironman shrugged. Maybe the rig was for defence, or perhaps the enemy was planning a few test firings; either way, the launcher had to go.

Lyons hissed to the Mexican machine gunner and pointed at the gas truck. In the moonlight, the young man's smile glowed as he extended the bipod legs of the M-60. Lyons moved over and positioned himself to feed belts of ammunition to the weapon.

Distant autofire came in a long tearing blast, and Lyons looked toward the streambed. He saw nothing. Scrambling along the ridge, he heard Blancanales calling the Mexicans.

"Captain Soto! Captain!" Blancanales whispered urgently into the Mexican army walkie-talkie.

An answer came. Autofire continued, the hammering almost overwhelming Soto's desperate voice.

"Ambush!"