Operation Southern Cross - 02 (19 page)

“Go! Go!” everyone was screaming at Autry.

He needed little prompting. Up they went, straight up as the gunners continued shooting, now straight down. The SBI’s green tracers looked yellow through the night-vision goggles. That’s how close some of them came. Autry pushed the throttles to max emergency power, though, and they went up like a rocket.

McCune was flying one of the Special Ks. He came up on Autry’s right side. The second Special K then locked on to Autry’s tail.

Autry’s copilot turned to him and said: “OK, everyone’s here. Let’s kick it!”

Alerted now by all the commotion, everyone with a gun in Carabozo was waiting for the three copters to fly low over the city, making their escape. But this didn’t happen. Instead of leveling off, Autry put the Black Hawk into a crushing, nearly nose-up profile and continued the climb, the two other copters right beside him. The Black Hawk’s rivets sounded as if they were going to pop at any second—but they held. Soon enough the gunners in Carabozo were shooting at empty sky.

Once they’d reached ten thousand feet, Autry finally pushed his nose down and returned to level flight. He could hear both laughing and crying coming from the back—Owens’ wife and daughter, happy to be rescued, but terrified at the wild flying.

“It’s OK,” Autry yelled back to them. “No one’s shooting at us anymore. This will be no worse than Magic Mountain at Disneyland.”

That’s when the MiG showed up.

Autry spotted it first; it was up at 15,000 feet coming in from the east. It was a MiG-21—as old an aircraft as the VAF’s Mirages were new. But he could tell by the jet fighter’s extended nose and the way it was flying that it was obviously equipped with night vision and special IR-guided weapons. In other words, the MiG was a night fighter.

The drivers of the other two copters saw it too. Immediately all three abandoned their high-altitude escape route. They banked over and began a terrifying plunge back down to the deck where they belonged.

But the MiG came right down after them.

And the chase was on.

This was madness now.

This was not a military thing—the way they flew for the first two minutes of the MiG’s pursuit. This was just pedal to the metal trying-not-to-get-killed-type of flying. Weaving, zigzagging up, down, this way and that—pulling every low-level maneuver that the XBat pilots had in their book while the MiG was absolutely hammering them with cannon fire, air-to-air missiles and God knows what else.

The problem was they were trying the escape down the Celona Valley—emphasis on
Valley
. This was not the square inch or two found between the mountains elsewhere in Venezuela. This was a flat, open plain that ran all the way up to Maracaibo Lake. With nowhere to go and nothing to do but go as fast as they could, it was just a matter of time before the MiG was able to pick off the copters, one at a time.

That’s when Autry’s headphones came alive. It was McCune in the next aircraft over. “It think it’s time the bear went over the mountain,” he screamed over to Autry. “Know what I mean?”

It was funny, because as soon as he said it, Autry knew what McCune was suggesting. A tactic they’d all learned back in TF-160 basic training; something to do when they were out of options. The question was,
could
they do it?

Up ahead, off to the left, there was a small mountain range. Just hills compared to what they’d been living in the past forty-eight hours, but they would have to do. On Autry’s call, they abandoned their gut-scraping dash.

“Everyone go left,” he yelled into the mike. “And follow me!”

They were soon up and over the shallow mountains. The MiG pilot, surprised by the sudden maneuver, took a long time to pull the 180 and head back in their direction. This gave Autry and company the time they needed—about ten seconds. Instead of continuing their escape by using the small mountains as cover, he called for all three copters to come to a halt as soon as they went over the top.

They were waiting here when the MiG roared over, as they hoped it would, going slow, his look-down radar blotted out by the mountainside. Before they knew it, he had passed above them at about a thousand feet. All three copters let loose with their nose weapons. It was another night-into-day scene, with tracers flying everywhere. In the storm of hundreds of rounds, two lucky shells clipped the jet fighter’s inner wing—just barely. But it was enough to sever a fuel line, spark the gas inside and blow the wing off. The fighter went over on its back and slammed into the ground with a mighty crash. Just like that.

No one could believe it.

XBat had actually shot down a MiG.

OWENS THOUGHT HE HEARD HELICOPTERS.

He was sitting just below the volcano’s crater lip. The other seven XBat aircraft were still scattered below him, their crews still inside their machines, engines ready to fire up again. Like him, they were waiting and keeping an eye on the big white cloud hovering over Area 14.

Two young XBat troopers had stayed with Owens, trying to keep his mind occupied while the three Black Hawks were off trying to save his family. They’d been listening to nothing up here but the wind, hoping against hope that the silence would be broken by the sounds of rotor blades and engines approaching. Busting into Carabozo Prison was no easy task; the only thing XBat had on its side was surprise, the last few minutes of darkness and a nose for where Owens’ family were being kept. Autry had told them before the three copters left that if they didn’t return in an hour’s time, that meant they wouldn’t be returning. None of them. The rest of the unit would then have to sew up the loose ends and make its own way home.

But now came the unmistakable noise of rotary craft approaching, dampened to a certain extent, but out there nevertheless. Owens jumped to his feet, only to be pulled down by the two troopers. They heard the racket too. But they knew better than to assume these were American copters heading their way.

Two unbearable minutes went by, Owens with his head pressed into a bowl of smelly moss, a steam vent burning his ear. He couldn’t argue with the troopers’ logic. This patch of jungle around the crater was just about the only place the Venezuelans
hadn’t
looked for them. In fact, they’d been hearing the sound of jet engines in the distance ever since the rescue copters left.

Finally, Owens could take it no longer. He rolled over on his back and saw things begin to blow all around him. The fading night sky above looked suddenly repopulated with stars, or at least twinkling phosphorescent things that
looked
like stars. It was the strange undercarriage of one of XBat’s copters. And
that’s
how he knew these were the good guys, returning to the nest.

Now he was back on his feet to stay. No sooner had the first copter landed when he saw his wife, waving frantically from the cargo bay door. He ran up to the copter and into her arms. Their embrace was eternal, impossible to break. Then Owens looked up to see one of the enormous XBat troopers gently carry Molly to the helicopter’s open door. He hugged her just as tightly. But instead of their getting out, the two troopers who’d stayed with Owens picked him up and put him inside. Around him, the rest of XBat quick-started the engines and began taking off.

There was no reason for them to stick around here. Owens sat on the cargo-bay floor, one arm around his wife, the other around Molly. He had no intention of ever letting go.

“It’s OK now,” he reassured them. “It’s all over.”

Autry crawled back to the cargo bay as his copilot lifted the Black Hawk off the crater. Owens welled up again, this time in gratitude. “I’d shake your hand, Colonel,” he said to Autry, “but I don’t know if I can break free.”

Autry just shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “Just hang on. We’re getting you all out of this place very soon.”

Owens hugged his family even tighter. The nightmare was finally over. Or so he thought.

Because then Autry added: “We’ve just got one more thing we have to do.”

Owens froze. “One more thing?” he asked Autry. “Like what?”

Autry tried to wave away his concerns. “It’s very minor,” he told the diplomat.

Owens eyed his wife and daughter, still embedded in his side.

“You have to tell me,” he insisted.

Autry shrugged and then as discreetly as possible told Owens about the attack on Colonel Brazi’s penthouse, and how their colleague, WSO Zucker, came to be wounded by the derringer’s bullet.

“We dropped him at a safe place just outside Caracas,” Autry concluded. “We’re hoping he was treated there and that he’s still alive. But either way, we have to pick him up. And then, I promise you, we’re out of here.”

But Owens was shaking his head. “A safe place near Caracas?” he said. “I’ve lived there for two years. There
are
no safe places, especially for people like you and your men.”

Autry smiled slyly, a rarity. “Well, this place is an exception,” he said. “We left him in good hands.”

“At a hospital?” Owens asked, still concerned.

“No—we left him at a convent,” Autry replied. “We asked for sanctuary. The Catholic Church has this tradition where they have to house anyone seeking assistance, be they saints or sinners. That’s why that scumbag Noriega got refuge in the Vatican Embassy when Bush Forty One invaded Panama.”

At this point, Owens’ wife stopped hugging him, looked up at Autry and said: “Are you saying you left him with the nuns?”

Autry nodded. “The Sisters of the Bleeding Heart,” he said. “They’re a nursing order, at least in the States they are. We couldn’t take him with us at the time, and…”

But Owens’ wife suddenly started crying again.

Autry was confused. “What’s the matter?”

Owens was just shaking his head. “Colonel, I don’t know how to tell you this,” he began, voice shaking, “but ninety-nine percent of the nuns in this country are in league with the government. They’re all old lefties, radicals, and very anti-American. They’re not going to adhere to something as civilized as the idea of sanctuary. Christ, your man would have been better off at a military hospital—or staying with you.”

Autry was stunned. He was just realizing what a huge mistake they’d made.

“But we still have to go get him,” he insisted, nervously looking at his watch.

Owens shook his head again. “Of everything you guys have done in the past few days, getting your man back—dead or alive—from the Sisters of the Bleeding Heart might be the hardest thing yet.”

But then Owens thought a moment and added: “But, believe it or not, I
do
have an idea on how we can do it…”

IT WAS THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE DAWN WHEN THE SISTERS
of the Bleeding Heart rose to start their day.

They’d been awakened by the soft clanging of a bell. As the others padded to the chapel for morning prayers, the mother superior adjusted the convent’s air-conditioning to ward off the heat of the coming day. Outside, the streets were quiet.

The morning prayers were over in just a few minutes’ time; some of the sisters skipped them entirely. As usual, a large breakfast was being laid on. There were almost as many servants living in the convent, albeit in the basement, as there were nuns. They’d been up for two hours, preparing this daily feast.

The knock came at the convent’s backdoor just as the servants were lining up cups and bowls on the kitchen table. On orders from the supervising nun, the knock was ignored. It was not unusual for beggars to appear at the convent’s backdoor early in the morning, looking for handouts of food. Despite the high walls, the locked gate and barbed wire, some of the locals managed to overcome these obstacles, if it meant a few crumbs of bread. But before any mercy was dispensed, the sisters would have their breakfast.

The knock came again just as the nuns were filing in for the morning meal, but as before, no one paid it any mind. Bowls of scrambled eggs and platters of rolls and bacon were put on the table. Coffee and wine were poured out. The bulky mother superior waved off the weak attempts of saying grace. The food was hot now and they should eat it. They would say grace later, if they had time.

But then the knocking came again, and this time it was insistent. Perturbed, the mother superior rose from her seat, and along with two novices, went to answer the door. Upon opening it, they found a young white girl standing in the other side, ten years old, no more. She looked hungry and upset. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. But she did not look like a typical beggar child.

Before she could get any words out, the Mother Superior moved the younger nun out of the way.

“How did you get in here, child?” the Mother Superior asked the young girl in English.

The girl just shrugged. “I don’t know,” she replied.

“Have you been in here all night?”

The girl thought a moment and nodded.

“Well, run along,” the old nun scolded her. “We don’t have any food for you today.”

“But I don’t want food,” the young girl said. “I just want my friend back.”

The Mother Superior stared down at her. “What friend?”

An instant later, the head nun found four rifle muzzles pointing at her head. Next thing she knew, four men brushed past the girl—they’d been hiding on either side of the door—and pushed the nuns inside. Then four more men rushed into the kitchen, they too carrying huge guns. The servants dropped their dishes where they stood, they were so startled. The room was suddenly filled with armed men. Even the rock-faced Mother Superior looked shaken.

“You people again!” she started screaming in English. “What is going on here?”

One of the soldiers pushed the head nun aside. It was McCune.

“Like the kid said, ma’am,” he hissed at her. “We’re here for our friend.”

They didn’t have far to look. Zucker was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor in the exact same spot they’d left him hours before. Unattended. Unaided.

McCune was livid. He fired a burst from his M-16 that shattered every bowl and cup on the kitchen table. Not understanding what was going on, the servants sprinted across the room and took refuge behind the American soldiers.

“You’re free,” one of the soldiers said, his voice muffled through his helmet’s full-length blast shield; he pushed the button that opened the rear courtyard’s gate. “Go—get out of here.”

The small army of servants didn’t have to be told twice. They exited the building and were out the gate in a mad rush.

McCune was then in the head nun’s face. “You’re not too popular around here, Sister. Why is that?”

The rest of the squad was immediately at Zucker’s side. His face was still covered with blood, but it was dried and caked by now. The patchwork first aid his colleagues had given him before leaving him here had staunched the bleeding. The bullet was visible. It was stuck not in his skull, but in the skin of his forehead. The Derringer shot, deadly, no doubt, when pressed against a young girl’s neck, had hit Zucker not quite hard enough to kill him.

So, miraculously, he was still alive. But he was very weak—and covered with dirt and dust, the result of lying on the floor for so long.

“What did you do for him, Sister?” McCune spit at her again. “You’re supposed to be in the business of helping people, no matter who they are.”

“We prayed for him,” the nun replied imperiously.

That elicited another barrage from McCune. He tore up the kitchen stove and icebox. He was furious. The others didn’t know what he was going to do next.

“You didn’t pray hard enough then,
did
you?” he screamed at the head nun.

By this time the others had picked up Zucker and were carrying him out the door. Two of the troopers had to pull McCune out with them. XBat was many things, but there was no way they were going to cap a bunch of nuns, no matter how unsavory they might be.

They retreated into the courtyard. This wasn’t just a visit by the two Killer Eggs, like last time. All ten of the surviving copters were here, hovering silently.

They put Zucker on the Special K troopship, which carried the unit’s major first aid equipment. Owens, his wife and daughter were also aboard this aircraft. All of the nonessentials on this copter had been dumped, and it had the most fuel of them all. It would be the first aircraft out when their withdrawal began in earnest.

Once Zucker was put aboard, the other troopers ran to their own designated copters. McCune, though, was still fuming. He looked around for a target, something he could fuck up that would really affect the nuns. His eyes went up to the roof, and there he found his prize. He jumped aboard his Chinook, which was the AWACs ship, and started barking orders. As the big chopper rose, his gun crews got locked and loaded. At a height of forty feet, the Chinook came to a brief stop in midair. Its gunners quickly attained their target and let loose. The huge air-conditioning unit atop the convent was blown to smithereens.

Then McCune’s Chinook rose to meet the others. As one, they turned north towards Caracas, the shortest escape route for the safety of the Caribbean beyond.

Inside the convent, though, the Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Bleeding Heart was calmly making a phone call.

Dialing a secret number, she waited for someone on the other end to answer.

Then she whispered into the phone: “They’ve just left. They are on their way.”

THE MOTHER SUPERIOR’S CALL WENT TO CRUCIFAS
Airfield, another new secret military base on the western edge of Caracas.

It was here that the SBI finally got smart. They’d been chasing these phantom helicopters with jet aircraft for the past few days with only disastrous results for their trouble. Air bases destroyed, bridges knocked out, no cell-phone service anywhere. Reports they’d just received that something was wrong at their Area 14 site only underscored all this.

The mismatch had everything to do with speed, or in this case, a favorable lack of it. The American helicopters had been able to flee them—indeed, even shoot one of them down—simply because the slowest speed of the VAF jet fighters was still faster than the greatest maneuverable speed of the helicopters. In other words, the jet fighters were too fast for their own good. They couldn’t slow down enough to get a good shot—with either cannons or missiles—at the crafty rotary craft. The helicopters definitely milked this advantage.

But the VAF had more airplanes in its inventory than just its new Mirages and old MiGs. It also flew a counter-insurgency aircraft called, officially, the FMA I.A.63, but also known as the
Pucara
. This odd-looking plane was known mostly as a ground-attack aircraft, a sort of poor man’s A-10 Thunderbolt. Purchased before the gold rush from Argentina, Pulcaras were not jet fighters, but two-engine propeller planes that could fly slower than 100 mph or twice that for top speed. They were highly maneuverable and heavily armed.

Six of them were waiting on the runway at Crucifas Field, their engines warming, their weapons filled.

On the call from the convent, which had been expected for some time, the planes took off, one by one, and headed for the skyline of Caracas.