Archangel of Sedona (22 page)

“Chaplain? Who says I’m your bloody chaplain?” Father Pat asked.

“God.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Why else are you here, other than to minister to old soldiers on a divinely inspired quest? Think about it. Your presence in Arizona, Sedona—here, in this forest—none of this is an accident. Pat, there is no serendipity.”

“If I live through this, I’ll never leave Ireland again,” he said, shaking his head.

Eddie set a fast pace. Though my knee throbbed, I kept up and didn’t complain. I’d never fallen out of a hump. This would be my last one.

By ten a.m. we’d covered over seven miles and were two-and-a-half miles on a straight shot from White Horse Lake. We stopped for our last rest, water, and comfort break.

Eddie had picked the spot well. We settled halfway up the last rise in the terrain before the lake, inside a tree line covered in ponderosa pines. Though we’d crept through the woods on our devious path, to our east a wide-open alpine meadow about a mile long and half-a-mile wide lay stretched out behind us.

While the others relieved themselves, I scanned the east with Fleet’s field glasses. I was about to put the glasses down when I spotted movement at the eastern edge of the meadow, inside the tree line. At first, I thought it might be deer or elk. It was neither.

Eddie had returned and noticed my interest to the east.

“What’s up?” he asked as he approached me.

“I see three men, inside the tree line, east of us,” I answered as I went prone to support my arms and to reduce my personal signature. Eddie flopped down next to me.

“Can I have a look?” Eddie asked, reaching for the glasses.

“Sure,” I said, handing the binoculars over. “What do you make of them?”

“Hunters,” Eddie suggested.

“What hunting season is this?”

“Poachers?” Eddie offered in the alternative.

Father Pat had come up, noticed our posture, read the reason, and low crawled over to us. He gazed to the east, trying to see what we were observing.

A moment later, three men walked out of the tree line, about a mile east of our position. They moved abreast with one man in the front. The leader stopped, knelt down and examined the ground. All three had weapons, but even with the aid of the binoculars, Eddie couldn’t identify the type.

“They’re trying to track something,” Eddie said.

“Thanks to you, we didn’t come that way,” I said. “Maybe they are poachers looking for game.”

“What’s that?” Father Pat asked, as he pointed to the northeast.

Eddie and I looked to where Pat had pointed. A Jeep sped out of the tree line near where we had trekked past this meadow. The Jeep contained two men. It headed for the three men in the meadow.

A minute later, an all-terrain vehicle roared out of the same tree line. As it got closer, we could see two men in the front, and another in the back. The man in the back held onto a large German Shepherd.

Once they all got together, they held a conference. I had a premonition.

“They can’t be poachers. It’s broad daylight. They’re too close to the lake. Some of the campers might hike out this way. Poaching is night work,” I said.

“Maybe they’re constables,” Father Pat said. “Some hiker found the bodies in the canyon, reported it. Wouldn’t it make sense that the local Sheriff would form a posse, like in the westerns? That’s why they have a dog.”

“I hope you’re right Father,” I said. “I just don’t think so.”

“Me, either,” Eddie agreed.

“Why?” Father Pat asked.

“Instinct,” Eddie said. “Those men don’t act like law enforcement or soldiers. None of them is wearing a uniform. All are dressed in dark clothes, which tend to stand out on that meadow. Everyone has a long gun. If they were the deputies, some would have pistols. I can’t see for certain, but I’ll bet each of the weapons is a Kalashnikov. Local deputies don’t use that weapon.”

Taking the field glasses back, I observed the group. One of the men was upset. You could see it from his angry gestures and posturing.

“What do you think, Eddie?” I asked.

“We need to pick the best spot to stand and fight. They have vehicles. We’re close, but it’s too far to make a run for the lake. Besides, if they catch us at the lake, they could still wipe us out,” Eddie estimated.

I checked the Trimble app while Father Pat used the field glasses. I found a spot about 300 yards farther west at the apex of the rise. A small trail from the lake ran under and along it from east to west.

“Eddie, let’s set up here,” I suggested as I pointed to the spot. Eddie noted the position. He looked at his trail map and found the place.

“Then what?” He asked.

“We set a false trail down this path toward the lake. If they’re tired and think they have us, they may get complacent again. We set up here and here,” I said as I pointed to separate positions on the map. “We catch them in a cross fire, and reduce their advantage. Father Pat leaves all of his equipment. He takes two of the phones and hauls his skinny Irish ass for the lake. At the very least, we’ll buy time for Pat to get away.”

“You plan to ambush those men? I cannot support that. We don’t know who they are. I gave you absolution and you’re planning mass homicide,” Father said.

“Now listen to me,” Eddie snapped. “I don’t like this anymore than you do. But you don’t understand the situation. If it hadn’t been for Tony and me, you’d be dead at the campsite. Now do what Tony says or I’ll kick your butt and send you on your way, Father.”

“You Yanks are so bloody arrogant. I grew up in Belfast at the worst of the Troubles. Don’t ever tell me that I don’t understand violence, you old bugger. I understand it all too well. I deplore it and the men who use it without just cause.”

“Sorry, Pat,” Eddie said. “I didn’t know.”

“Stupid man. I won’t abandon my mates and make a run for it. I’m no coward. What happens to you, old man, happens to me. When this is over, we’ll see who kicks whose ass!”

“My money’s on the Irish kid,” I said to Eddie with a smile. “He’s scrappy.”

Eddie and I laughed out loud. Father Pat looked at us and shook his head.

“I am doomed. I’ve enlisted in the lunatic brigade.”

Recognizing Pat’s fear and depression, I started singing an old IRA rebel song,
Come Out Ye Black and Tans.
It’s nearly 100 years old. I learned it playing Rugby with the Carlisle Gaelics.

Father Pat first looked astounded, then smiled and joined in.

“If the fucking glee club is done, we need to get moving. The men on foot are boarding the vehicles. They’re heading this way. Let’s go.” Eddie said, as turned from watching the men in the meadow.

Even with all of my equipment and weapons, I managed the 300 yards in less than three minutes. When we got to the trail, we recognized it at once. On the ground, my selected positions seemed more favorable than on the map. We’d have ten feet in elevation over anyone on the trail. The trick would be to get the bad guys to take the bait and proceed down the path into a kill zone.

Since they had a dog and tracker, we walked along the trail past our planned positions, intending to double back. We didn’t want to make it too obvious, but we left sign for them to follow. To ensure that the dog would follow the trail, I rolled up my sleeves and rubbed my bare forearms so that the minute dead skin cells would litter the trail. Since I hadn’t urinated at the rest stop, I walked down the trail beyond our positions for 20 meters, exposed and evacuating my bladder along the way.

“Tony, I never saw that trick before. Clever,” Eddie complimented me.

“Just thought of it,” I answered.

“Now you have five hundred rosaries,” Father Pat said.

“For what?” I demanded.

“Indecent exposure in furtherance of homicidal mayhem,” Father answered, but he had a brave smile on his face.

“Did you ever play Rugby, Father?”

“No, I’m a cricketer. I have a premonition that you have, Tony. It would explain a lot about what’s wrong with you.”

“Wing forward.” I said, describing my position on the All American Rugby Club at Bragg.

“Number Eight,” Eddie said, and we fist bumped, “At Campbell.”

“Well, it could be worse. I go to Last Judgment with two insane, Jesuit-trained, Airborne Rugby players. You two will spend one hundred thousand years in purgatory. I’m a cinch to go to Heaven.”

After we doubled back, we set up with Eddie and me 20 yards apart on the same side of the trail at place where it curved. I had the position furthest west. We had different perspectives on the trail. We could create an effective crossfire with a shallow angle. We didn’t have the time or equipment to dig in. I found the biggest tree that I could, and lay behind its trunk with as little as possible exposed.

We dispersed all of our non-lethal equipment to Pat. We insisted that he hunker down 30 yards beyond our position. If it went as I feared, Pat was to run for it.

I ensured that the shotgun was loaded. I laid it to my right, barrel facing the trail.

I unlimbered the AK-103, unsnapping the folding stock. I checked the chamber and verified that I’d seated a round. I pulled the magazine and confirmed that I’d filled it with every bullet it would take. This AK uses a round in the same caliber—but shorter by 12mm—than the bullets in Eddie’s M14. After reseating the mag, I turned the weapon over and put the selector in the three-round-burst mode. I set the spare magazine on the ground to my left. I intended to fight from the prone position as long as I could.
      

I hadn’t fired an AK in 20 years and I had never fired a 103. I felt nervous about using an unfamiliar weapon in so dire a circumstance. On the other hand, I’d employed the shotgun two days earlier. I had great confidence in it. I had two pistols. I’d give a good accounting.

We hunkered down and waited. Ten minutes later, we heard them coming through the woods. Eddie and I kept low. As they approached, I could see the bad guys. I confirmed, yet again, that I’d disengaged the safeties on both my main weapons.

The villains had adopted a strong tactical formation. But they were moving fast—maybe a little too fast.

The dog had taken point. It appeared to be a big Alsatian, at least 100 pounds. The handler was medium height and weight. He controlled the dog on a long line. He was a professional.

For a moment, I wondered if these guys might be law enforcement. I’d never heard of gangs of any kind that used trained tracking dogs.

I rejected the law enforcement possibility, when I saw the three men with AKs, walking abreast behind the tracker. One of them was the passenger in the Jeep from two days earlier. I confirmed my suspicion when I got a better look at the Jeep. The driver was the same man, who’d had warned us off his mining claim.

Fleet had been right,
I thought.
My conscience is clear. They murdered Fleet. I will kill as many of them as I can before they get me.

As the handler and his dog approached the portion of the trail that we’d designated as the kill zone, the ATV came into view behind the Jeep. All told, we had eight hostiles and a big dog. Chances were that even if we prevailed, either Eddie or I would buy the farm.

I said an Act of Contrition for me, and a Hail Mary for Eddie. I’d received absolution.

I said a mental good bye to Gretchen, Tim, and John.

I asked St. Michael to pray that God would give me courage. I knew that everything that I’d ever done in my life had been in
preparation for the next few minutes. I remembered the prayer of the Astronauts: “Please God, don’t let me fuck this up.”

Our plan was for me to take out all of the men on the ground. Eddie would focus on the vehicles.

I’d sweep to the right through the dog handler and the rank behind him with the AK-103. I’d then sweep back to the left—using short bursts to provide the coup de grace. If the dog charged me up the hill while I was reloading the AK, I’d take it out with the shotgun.

At the last second, the caravan of killers stopped short of our kill zone. The tracker sensed something amiss, though his dog had bought our ruse hook, line, and sinker.

“What’s the hold up, Larry?” The driver of the Jeep called out.

“Don’t like it, Steve. Something’s wrong,” Larry, the dog handler, answered.

The dog sniffed around and pulled impatiently on his line.

“Hey, man; the dogs got the scent. What’s your problem?” Steve asked.

“This could be a setup, Steve,” Larry said. “These guys are better in the field than we anticipated. They’ve shown that they can defend themselves.”

“Let’s get on with it! If they get to a road, we may have to cap more people. If we keep fucking around, they’ll get away.”

“Steve, this trail is too fucking good. They’ve been resourceful the last day and a half. This is too obvious. They want us to go down the path. You saw what they did to Ramon and his boys.”

Larry’s warning caused the other men to shift around, check their weapons, and become more vigilant.

Larry, you fucker!
I thought, as I watched him.
In a couple of minutes, you’ll be dead. I promise you. You’re first on my list.

Steve thought the situation over. My angst and fear returned. I could feel my heart beat in my chest. My blood pressure teetered on the stroke point.

When I thought the assassins in the Jeep would dismount and look around, Father Pat appeared on the trail about 70 yards west of our kill zone. He must have snuck over there while Eddie and I focused on the killers. He was within view of the tracker, his dog, the men on the ground, and Steve in the Jeep.

“Hello!” Father Pat yelled at the men in an exaggerated brogue. “Are you lads looking for me?”

“Get that fucker!” Steve ordered. “Shoot the son of a bitch!”

Larry unsnapped the line on his dog and gave an order in German. The dog snarled, bared its teeth, and took out after Father Pat. The men and the vehicles all lurched forward, inside the kill zone.

The passenger in the Jeep stood up and leveled a bolt-action rifle with a scope. It had a sound suppressor on the front of the barrel.

I didn’t wait for him to fire. I sent a burst of 7.62 x .39 caliber bullets his way. The Jeep was 40 yards from my position. I didn’t have time to aim. I didn’t care. Even if my shots didn’t kill the sniper, they’d distract him so that he couldn’t aim the weapon at the Irish kid.