Standoff: A Vin Cooper Novel (29 page)

“It’s Del Rio – Laughlin AFB,” I shouted into the mike, the connection to Arlen patched through the radio and onto his cell phone as the Black Hawk climbed at an aggressive angle into the lime-green night sky.

“Laughlin’s a training base,” said Arlen, tired and unconvinced.

“I know. Home to the 47th Flying Training Wing, the largest primary pilot training base we’ve got. Big, but not too big. And all those young student pilots are gonna be tucked up nice and warm in bed when two black King Airs land, just like they did at Horizon Airport.”

“Why there and not Columbus?”

“I don’t say trust me very often, because mostly not even
I
trust me; but now I’m saying it. Trust me, Arlen, okay? You need to get through to the Joint Chiefs.”

“What? Who?”

“The Joint Chiefs. You need to get them to release some assets. Fort Hood is closer than Bliss. The First Cavalry is there. We need men and gunships. You’ve also got to get onto the Wing King at Laughlin and the Security Forces commander. Apostles will come at dawn so there’s still time.”

“The Joint Chiefs? What do I tell them? I gotta give them
something
.”

“Tell ’em Horizon was just the warm-up for Apostles and Perez. The main game is now heading Laughlin’s way – a thousand armed killers.”

“What? Why Laughlin?”

“Because it’s the only logical target.”

“That’s not enough, Vin.”

“You said you trusted my instincts.”

There was a pause on the line, and then finally, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Arlen ended the call.

The pilot had already informed me that flight time to Laughlin was going to be just over two and a half hours, providing the tailwinds held up. Like any investigator, I liked to be right, but with regards to Laughlin I wanted to be dead wrong.

*

Two hours later, Arlen called back. “Just spoke with Colonel Needleman. There’s an attack in progress there.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s happening?”

“Just like you said. Mounted infantry jumped the fence. They rode straight into Mendoza’s placements.”

So I’d been wrong. I almost laughed.

“I guess you can turn around.”

“We’ll need to stop for gas.” As an afterthought, I said, “Hey, what about Laughlin. You speak to anyone there? I guess you can ring ’em up and tell ’em to go back to bed.”

“Yeah, I was just on the phone to the major commanding Base Security when the line went dead.”

Something in my throat tightened. “When they hit Horizon they disabled the cell tower and cut the power.”

“Not so easy to do at Laughlin. More than one tower and there are redundancies. Could just be AT&T not talking to Verizon. And anyway, Apostles is getting mopped up over at Columbus. I think we can relax, bud. I called Del Rio PD a little while back. They’re sending a cruiser over to check on the main gate. I haven’t cancelled that request so if there’s a problem we’ll soon find out about it.”

This didn’t feel right. “Arlen, what kind of numbers are they facing at Columbus?”

“Hang on a minute, Vin, got another call coming in.”

The pilot gave the hand signal – ten minutes out. It was coming up to 5 am. Sunrise was 6 am. The sky would begin to lighten in around thirty minutes.

“Vin, got Del Rio PD on the line,” said Arlen. “The main gate checks out fine. All quiet. They’re still at the base. You want me to ask them anything?”

“See if they’ve got a view of the apron. Are there any black aircraft parked there?”

While I waited for a response, I searched the sea of lights in the distance for the distinctive strobes used for aircraft navigation that would tell me where Laughlin was.

“Vin, I asked them about the black King Airs,” said Arlen’s voice in the phones. “They’re saying it’s hard to tell. There are rows and rows of aircraft parked on the tarmac. Anyway, I think we’re good. When I get an update from Columbus, I’ll pass it straight along. Hang on a sec … What did you say? Sorry, I was on the other line …”

I pictured Arlen juggling two phones. I wondered if they had any pool bars in Del Rio.

“Vin, you there?” Something had changed in the tone of Arlen’s voice.

“Still here.”

“The PD patrol at Laughlin. They’re saying two aircraft just came in low and buzzed the runway. They’re coming in to land. Vin, they’re telling me these aircraft – they’re black.”

*

The co-pilot had called the Wing Command Post for a landline connection to Base Security but couldn’t get through. I took that to mean Security Forces were either already all dead or still engaged with the militia disgorged by the two black King Airs. I guessed we’d find out soon enough, because Laughlin AFB was in our twelve o’clock and coming up fast, its runways and infrastructure lit up in the darkness like global warming was a myth.

On the highway beyond the base was a long line of traffic for this time of the morning, headlights winking green in my NVGs. There seemed to be a hold-up at the main gate. But then, as I watched, that line of headlights began to flow down the road unobstructed, past the guardhouse. The entrance had therefore been breached, which confirmed to me that the bulk of the Base Security forces had been eliminated.

“Cooper, where you want us to put you down?” the pilot asked, his voice rasping in the headset.

“Keep us airborne over the secondary runway threshold and patch me through to Colonel Wayne,” I said. A thousand militia mounted on motorcycles took up a lot of the main road through the base and snaked out onto the highway. I flipped up the NVGs, the pre-dawn light having turned the world a dull gray.

“Vin, you there?”

It was Arlen.

“Apostles is here in force,” I told him. “Base Security has been overwhelmed. They’re inside the wire.”

“Assets are on the move, Vin. The attack on a Columbus was a feint, no more than a hundred men.”

“Arlen, it’s gonna be a bloodbath here. Time to target is the critical factor. We need gunships and men, whatever you can get, but they better get here fast.”

“I’ve already called the 301st Fighter Wing in Fort Worth. They’re trying to get something to you.”

F-16s –
Vipers!
“Roger that. ETA?”

“No idea, but they’ll contact you on Guard frequency, so turn it up. Your call sign is Oddball. Then send them to any freq. you like. Spad Ops is 252.1, if you need it.”

“Spad to the bone” was the wing’s motto, a bad homophone for “bad to the bone”. “What else you got coming?”

“A full battalion of cavalry is in the air, along with Apache Longbows for support, but even coming across from Hood we’re talking well over an hour to you.”

“Jesus, Arlen, this is Texas, damn it! Guns are like screwdrivers around here – every house has got a set. What’s going on here is why there’s a goddamn Second Amendment. Get onto the Rangers, the DPS, PD, NRA – the PTA if you can raise ’em. Roust ’em outta bed and get ’em the fuck down here! Their sons and daughters are in need.”

“On it,” he said and the line went dead.

I quickly briefed the men in the four Black Hawks. “What’s your loiter time?” I asked the pilot.

“Forty minutes to bingo fuel,” came the reply. And then, “Cooper, we got inbound fighters for you. They know where we are. Over to you. Call sign SPAD. What freq. do you want them on?”

If circumstances were different, I might have smiled at the full circle my Air Force career had taken. Here I was again, back to being a special tactics officer calling hell down on evil-doers.

“Oddball, Oddball, this is Spad One-One,” came through the headset – the pilot of the lead Viper.

“Spad One-One, Oddball. Go.”

“Spad One-One inbound, VFR, five thousand descending to three, heading two-one-zero, five miles out, looking for words.”

“Spad contact Oddball on two-three-seven decimal zero.” This was housekeeping: we had to get off the Guard channel and onto a radio frequency no one else was using. The Black Hawk co-pilot looked back and gave me a thumbs up.

“Roger, Oddball. Spad One-Two, go two-three-seven decimal zero.”

“Two,” came the terse reply.

Another thumbs up from the co-pilot.

“Spad check.”

“Two.”

“Oddball, Oddball, Spad up your freq.”

“Spad, Oddball. Local altimeter two niner niner four. Say state.”

“Copy two-nine-nine-four. Spad One-One, flight of two Fox 16s, six BDU-33s and five hundred rounds 20mm TP diverted en route from Falcon Range. We have ten minutes play time; thirty if we can recover at Laughlin. Confirm troops in Contact? Over.”

TP – target practice ammo. Five hundred rounds of the stuff could make a hell of a mess of someone’s day.

“Spad One-One, Oddball. Negative recovery at Laughlin. Affirmative Tango India Charlie. Target is approximately one thousand, I say again, one thousand personnel mounted on dirt bikes with light automatic weapons. Civilians and friendlies in the area. How copy?”

“Spad One-One.”

“Spad lead, are you familiar with Del Rio?” I asked him.

“That’s affirmative, Oddball. Say intentions.”

“Spad, we need to buy some time. Make your passes on the traffic down Liberty Drive, the main artery off Highway 90 on a heading of one-three zero. Same again down the secondary entrance off route three one seven on a heading of two-two zero. Any dirt bike is a target. Avoid Mexican airspace if possible. You copy? Over.”

“Oddball, Spad One-One. Loud and clear. Jesus – that’s my goddamn alma mater down there! Class 01–14. Over.”

“Okay, Spad. Stay with us as long as you can. Oddball will remain on this freq., but we’ll be maneuvering below five hundred feet. You’re cleared in hot – your discretion.”

“Spad One-One copies ‘cleared in hot; my discretion.’ Spad One-Two?”

“One-Two.”

I heard the lead pilot brief his wingman: “Okay, Romeo, strafe to start. Hold on the perch at thirty-five hundred. I’ll mark the target with a BDU-33. Call ‘Smoke in sight’, and I’ll clear you in for your first pass. Conserve ammo, and be sure of your targets. Watch your altitude, and look out for small-arms fire. I’ll follow with ten-second spacing. Copy?”

“Two copies.”

Coming out of the west at around two hundred feet and four hundred knots, the two Vipers rocketed down the main runway, one slightly ahead of the other. I watched them hook into steep turns beyond the threshold and come onto independent divergent headings and climbing before I lost them in the haze.

Over on Liberty Drive, the headlights had thinned out a little as the attacking force had begun to disperse toward the base housing areas, where military folks lived. More headlights along Laughlin Drive indicated the road being secured by the cartel, confirming also that, as I’d guessed, it would be the invaders’ intended departure route to the south.

I held my breath and everything seemed to slow. A Viper came from the east, diving at a shallow angle down Liberty. Its engines shrieked, cutting through the Black Hawk’s main rotor thump. Suddenly, there was a burst of smoke followed an instant later by a row of dark asphalt spurts and a pulse of thick dust that rolled up and engulfed the traffic. A second shriek of jet engine and more geysers of pulverized asphalt followed by a cloud of dust shocked into midair.

I watched as the Vipers made two runs each over Liberty, then one over Laughlin Drive, the destruction both awesome and terrible. The dust hung lazily in the early morning air, in no hurry to settle. There didn’t seem to be many headlights on those roads now.

A burst of static started me breathing again. A voice in my ear said, “Oddball, Spad One-One. The clean-up is yours. Make it personal. Over and out.”

“Spad One-One. Oddball. Count on it.”

“Spad flight, button four.”

“Two.”

The F-16s made another low pass over the Liberty Drive. They came along faster this time and from west to east, their engines howling, no doubt striking terror into the surviving terrorists who’d just experienced their fury.

“Cooper,” the Black Hawk pilot asked, looking over his shoulder. “Where do you want us to put you down?”

“Closer to base housing. We’ll need some cover.”

“There’s a big parking lot a block back from the apron, just off Liberty Drive.”

“Let’s do it. After we’re out, dust off and give us covering fire.” I noted with satisfaction that smaller streams of those headlights were leaving the base. Did I say leaving? Fleeing would be a better word to describe it. Maybe a little taste of F-16 wasn’t to their liking. Also, I was happy to see away in the distance, around five miles back along Highway 90 toward Del Rio, a stream of flashing blues and reds heading our way.

The pilot brought the Black Hawk over the apron and cleared the hangars. Over on Liberty, I could see individual militia on their bikes. Many were down on the ground and not moving. But many more were still heading for base housing.

I could also see now that bikes were coming and going, motoring past the old retired aircraft planted beside Liberty Drive. A police cruiser was parked near the guard gate, large black numbers on its roof. The police who drove it there would be dead, as would any security forces manning the guardhouse. Bodies were strewn around on the ground everywhere I looked.

A couple of rounds banged off the Black Hawk’s armor. The man beside me had his helmet knocked sideways by another round and I heard him swear.

“Comin’ in hot, Cooper,” the pilot announced as our aircraft dropped toward the vacant parking lot, its nose high in the aggressive flare. Behind us were three other Black Hawks also coming in just as fast and taking fire, the door gunners returning it with interest.

“Make for those cars,” I told Gomez, pointing to several rows of them parked on the asphalt.

The ground, white and chalky where it was unsurfaced, rose up toward us. At the last instant, the Black Hawk’s nose came down and the skids touched the earth. Gomez was first out, running toward the vehicles. I was right behind him with men panting and boots pounding the earth behind me.

The Black Hawks lifted off as I skidded to a stop beside Gomez, the cars around us taking random fire from dirt bikes still game enough to come along Liberty. Down at ground level, the invasion seemed anything but organized. A little further along the road to the west, back toward the main guard gate where the F-16s had concentrated their fire, where the finer dust still hung in the air, smashed and broken bodies and motorcycles lay around like discarded refuse.