Payback (23 page)

“Another twenty,” Lam said. “That's tough going, up and down that way, and they must be bushed.”

“How far is that ridge, Jaybird?” Murdock asked.

“Eight hundred yards. Hey, damn, it's in range for a laser, and no real trees up on top. Barren as an old maid's womb.”

“My guess was seven-fifty, so we're good. Lam and Jaybird, take the first shots as soon as they come all the way over the ridge. Bradford and I will ride herd. If they don't go down, or scramble for cover, it's our turn. All lasers.”

They settled in and waited. All with rounds in the chambers, the safeties off, and sweat starting to ooze out of their foreheads.

“Waiting is always the toughest,” Bradford said.

“Not for me,” Jaybird said. “I can catch a little nap and wake up refreshed and ready to nail these bastards.”

“Look, there's the smoke,” Lam said. “Now it's up where we can see it again.” A moment later they heard an airplane, and then saw a big tanker lumbering over the ridges. Evidently the pilot spotted the smoke, climbed, and did a series of turns, and then came down at a flat angle and vanished behind a ridge. Seconds later he zoomed up from the other end of the ridge.

“Borate,” Murdock said. “Borate bombers. It's a red powder that is a fire-retardant. Things just don't burn where it falls. Washes away in the winter and causes no harm.”

“Can they put out a fire that way, without a ground crew?” Jaybird asked.

“If the fire is caught early, and they get lucky. A ground crew will go in and mop it up, but this way they can hit it while it's small. Might take a ground crew six, eight hours
to find the flames. And by then half the hill would be on fire.”

“Those gooks have used up their twenty minutes,” Lam said. “They must be getting tired.”

“Hope they don't flake out for a nap,” Jaybird said.

“I've got movement midway along that second ridge,” Murdock said. The rest saw them then, the two men in cammies, who came to the top of the ridge and stood there a moment.

Two shots blasted from the Bull Pups, 20mm rounds lasered, and were on their way.

“I've got the right-hand guy,” Murdock said.

The airbursts exploded in a cracking roar as the big rounds finished their mandatory rotations and went off. Murdock watched his right-hand man through the scope. He had the sights set on him as he sagged, tried to run, doubled over, and fell. He didn't move.

Bradford's man looked around and limped toward the ridgeline. Bradford's weapon went off just before the North Korean got to the ridge top and safety. The big round exploded at his feet, blasting a hundred shards of hot steel into his body, taking off half his face and slamming him backward. He fell half over the ridge with only his feet and legs visible.

“Splash two,” Jaybird said.

“Bradford, break out the SATCOM,” Murdock said. “Jaybird, use the GPS and have our coordinates ready.”

Forestry Four came on the SATCOM on the first call.

“Forestry, we have a splash two of the firebugs. Down and out. They are on a ridge in the open about eight hundred yards from our coordinates on a near-westerly heading.” He gave the radioman their coordinates from the GPS.

“Well done, Murdock. We'll have a chopper on its way to pick you up in ten. Take it about twenty to find you. Do you have a good LZ?”

“Tell the crew chief to drop a ladder and pick us off the ridge. We do ladder pickups all the time.”

“The pilot won't like the air currents around a ridge, Commander. Isn't there a flat LZ around there?”

“Not without trees all over it. We'll do the ladder pickup out the rear hatch.”

“I'll tell him. Commander, we just have a new fire sighted. It's about ten miles from you along a road. It looks like one of the team of North Korean fire-starters may have hijacked a car. When the pilot picks you up, we'll try to get you in front of traffic along that road. It's a gravel-surface secondary, will show a dust trail, and not many cars in there this time of year. We'll keep you informed. We'll contact you through the chopper pilot when you're airborne. Leave your SATCOM on this TAC in case we have a change in plans. Four out.”

“Hot damn, a car chase,” Jaybird said. “Just what we need to brighten our day.”

“What you need to brighten your day is one of my marine oil paintings,” Bradford said. “I've got just the one for your den.”

“I don't have a den.”

“For your living room.”

“Don't need no damn painting.”

“Thought you might like it. It's a lonesome pelican sitting on a piling staring at a charter fishing boat just pulling in.”

“Save me the trouble.”

“How is the new art group doing at the studio?” Murdock asked.

Bradford shrugged. “We're paying the rent, and nobody is faking old masters.”

“The trial come yet?”

“Nope, her lawyer got it put off again. She's out on bail. I fully expect her to skip out and be gone.”

“Hey, did any of you guys see rifles with that pair?” Jaybird asked. “I didn't notice any long guns, no guns at all.”

Murdock scanned the scene with his Bull Pup scope. “No weapons show on this side of the ridge. They are in cammies. We'll let the Forestry people and the local coroner figure it out.”

The SATCOM speaker came back on. “Murdock, this is Forestry Four. The chopper pilot is from the National Forest Air. He says his orders specifically prohibit any in-air
pickups. You'll have to find a flat LZ where the pilot can land. Do you copy?”

“Copy that, Forestry Four,” Murdock said. Now where in hell could they find a level LZ up in these ridges?

 

 

Jaybird snorted. “Chickenshit Forestry pilot. Hell, how far are we from where we landed?”

“About a mile and three ridges,” Lam said.

“Probably the closest good LZ we'll find,” Murdock said. “Let's haul ass back there and I'll tell Four where we are.”

It took them more than a half an hour to climb the ridges, slide down the slopes, and find the small meadow where they had landed before.

Murdock told Forestry Four where they were, and within ten minutes the bird circled and came in for an easy landing. The pilot talked to Murdock.

“Hey, sorry about the change in plans. I've never done a rope pickup in my life. We don't even have the rope ladders on here like you SEALs use. I've seen it done, but we just don't do it. Then too, the wind gusts and currents around a ridgeline are murder to try to hover over. Best this way. Everybody gets to go right on drawing his regular paycheck.”

“No sweat. You know where we're going?”

“Right. About six or seven miles to a rugged little dirt trail of a road. Not used much, so any rig on it will be suspect.”

“Let's go find them,” Murdock said.

The bird took off and lifted over the green Oregon forest, and then angled more east until the pilot found the landmark he wanted. Murdock was in the cabin.

“There's the road,” said the pilot. “Open only in the summer.”

“No cars.”

“Never are many. Let's see if we can find our North Korean brethren.” They raced along over the road at two
hundred feet. It wound around a mountain, lifted up a long narrow valley, and then over a low pass and down the other side. They both saw the dust trail at the same time.

“Got something,” the pilot said. He slanted down to a hundred feet and came up on the slow-moving car quickly, flashed over him, and did a climbing turn and hovered, as Murdock and the pilot watched the car. It slowed, stopped, and a man jumped out with a long gun. The pilot pivoted and raced away, moving from side to side, and then did a sweeping turn.

No shots hit the chopper, and the pilot looked relieved.

“Could be our boys,” Murdock said. “Curve in the road ahead and a small hill. Put us down behind it where they can't see us, and we'll stage a surprise party.”

The pilot nodded, and four minutes later they were on the ground and the pilot had lifted off and raced away from the spot. The road curved around the small hill and came straight toward them. Lots of cover and concealment. The SEALs split, two on each side of the road.

“We'll let him show his colors first,” Murdock said. “Lam, when the rig is fifty feet from you, accidentally show yourself from behind that fir. Move out and then dart back and see if you can draw a shot.”

“Damn target practice again, and I'm the target,” Lam said.

“You love it, quit bitching,” Jaybird said.

The men in the car could see none of the SEALs as it rounded the curve and came straight ahead. Murdock figured it was doing about thirty miles an hour on the rough gravel road. The rig was an older Toyota. Murdock could see two heads in the car, but couldn't make out faces.

At the right time, Lam stumbled out from his tree, then looked at the car and jolted back. A shot sounded from the car, and Murdock figured it was from a pistol. The round came nowhere near Lam. Murdock put a 5.56 round through the right front tire, blowing it out and bringing the car to a stop. Nobody in the car moved, and Murdock guessed the men were talking over their options. The heads had vanished below the dashboard.

To speed their decision, Murdock blew out the other front
tire. A moment later the doors opened and a man came out on each side of the car. Both had their hands up, but each man still held a rifle. Jaybird zeroed in and fired, and hit the man on his side of the car in the thigh, jolting him backward against the Toyota, where he dropped to the ground, his rifle lost in his fall.

The other man darted for the woods, five yards away. Hot lead splashed all around him, and one round clipped his flailing right arm as he pounded for the brush. A moment later he had vanished.

“Your side, Lam, go get him,” Murdock ordered on the Motorola. Lam was twenty yards from the man's entry point. He went into the brush where he was, and ten feet inside the timber he paused and listened. He heard the Korean crashing brush to the left. He ran that way, then paused and listened again. The sounds were softer then. Lam spurted ahead, determined not to lose the man. This time he ran flat out through the woods, dodging trees and brush, aiming at the last sound position. Only when he had covered fifty yards did he stop.

Yes, more crashing brush sounds and much closer now. Lam ran ahead again, quickly, not trying to be quiet. He had to run down the man or the Korean would vanish in the heavy timber. Lam adjusted his route a little. The Korean was charging along the side of the valley about fifty yards from the road. Where was he going? The Korean had a rifle. Lam didn't forget that. He stopped and listened again. Still going. Running. How far could this guy run?

The next time Lam stopped to listen, he noticed they were closer to the road, barely in the fringes of the timber. Now as he listened, he could hear no brush crashing. The Korean had stopped. Lam used the Motorola. “Skipper, I'm still with the K. He's near the road and stopped. I don't know what he has in mind, but I can wait him out. My guess he's about thirty, forty yards ahead of me and not moving. I'll keep you posted. Out.”

Lam dropped to one knee and stared ahead. He could see the road, and up here it didn't look like a car had been over it in months. There were grass and weeds growing in the center of the lane between where the car wheels rolled. This
was wait time. He settled down against a tree and watched ahead where he figured the Korean had to be. He had a hunch about this one. He was smarter than the other one, and wouldn't be easy to sneak up on. So Lam would wait.

Fifteen minutes later he stretched and moved enough to relieve the tired muscles. At first he didn't notice it. Then the hum of a motor came through plainly. A plane or a car? He edged toward the road and saw the dust plume a mile away. The rig was coming this way. Another car on this backwoods roadway? It could even be a car hijacked by another team of Korean firebugs.

Lam found a good OP and edged behind a tree so he could see the road and the trees on both sides. There was no movement by the Korean ahead. How far ahead? Lam brought up the Bull Pup and switched it to 5.56 and waited.

The car came closer. Would the Korean shoot into it to stop it and then try to hijack it? To do that he'd have to leave the woods and expose himself to Lam's rifle. Lam waited. The car seemed to be coming slowly, kicking up dust on the rough gravel road, but not making much speed.

Lam heard movement ahead, small sounds as if the Korean was trying to be silent. He scanned the brush and trees in front of him, but could not see anyone. The sounds stopped.

The car was much closer now, only a hundred yards down the road. It kept coming at the same slow speed.

The crack of a heavy rifle startled Lam, and he jerked his head around to look at the car. A front tire blew out and the car stopped quickly, forty yards down the road from Lam's position.

“You will leave the car at once,” a voice bellowed from the brush. Two men in the car got out, frowning.

“Who the hell are you?” the man called.

Another rifle shot, and the questioner slammed backward, hit the side of the car, and fell to the ground. He didn't move.

“Leave the car and run back the way you came,” the same voice called with a faint tinge of an accent. The second man looked at his downed companion, then took off running as fast as he could down the gravel road away from death.

Lam waited. Nothing happened for two or three minutes that seemed like a half hour. Then a form lifted from the
brush twenty yards ahead and rushed toward the car. He wore cammies and a floppy hat, and carried a rifle. Lam tracked him, then sent a three-round burst of hot lead at him. He saw two of the slugs hit the man, one in the thigh and one in the stomach. The man lurched forward, turned, and tried to return fire, but stumbled and sprawled on the ground, his long rifle trapped under his body. Lam fired twice more on each side of the man, then ran into the road.

“Keep your hands in the open or you're one fucking dead Korean,” Lam brayed. The man tried to sit up, pushed with one hand on the roadway, then whipped around his other hand with a pistol in it.

Lam shot him five times, three in the chest and two rounds jolting through his face and into his brain. Lam walked up slowly and looked at the two men. He kicked the pistol out of the Korean's reach, then checked the civilian. He was dead. Lam looked in the car. Two suitcases in the backseat and a bunch of camping gear and a plastic cooler. The keys were in the ignition, which had been turned off. Lam sat in the car and flipped down his Motorola mike.

“Erase that second firebug. He killed a kid trying to take over his car. Another good guy ran down the road.”

“See if the Korean has any papers, orders, addresses, money, anything,” Murdock said.

“Roger.”

Lam went through the firebug's pockets, and found only waterproof matches, three new one-hundred-dollar bills, and two time-delay detonators. He told Murdock.

“Figures. Take a hike up the road and I'll call in the chopper. Then we'll see if we can find that other civilian. Did the shots disable the car?”

“Just blew out one tire. If the kid has a spare he's in business.”

“Take your time getting here. No rush. The chopper probably won't be here for a half hour, Forestry Four said.”

“That's a roger, see you in about twenty.”

 

Fifteen miles to the west of where Murdock waited for the chopper, Lieutenant Ed DeWitt looked down on the smoke that billowed below. It was still small, and a dozen smoke
jumpers had dropped from the sky to try to put it out before it ravaged this foothill to the soaring peak of Mt. Hood.

“How do we know which way the firebugs went when they left the fire?” DeWitt asked. The pilot heard the shouted words and shook his head.

“This pair has been moving west, not east like the others. Maybe they just got confused. The fire was reported an hour ago. We figure the Koreans have traveled about two miles in the heavy timber. It's slow going down there. If they keep on their track, they'll run right into Mt. Hood. My guess is that they will swing to the north to go around the steeper slopes. Stay in the foothills.”

Any roads in here?”

“Damn few. Over a few miles is Oregon Highway 35, which goes from Government Camp to Hood River on the Columbia. Not much else. We're eight, ten miles from that highway.”

“So where are you dropping us off.”

“Wherever you say.”

“So we have a couple hundred thousand acres and the bad guys could be anywhere. Not much of a chance. Can you talk to Forestry Radio?”

“Yes.” He handed DeWitt the headset and a mike. “Just push the button and call for Forestry Four.”

A moment later DeWitt had the head man on the radio.

“We don't have a clue where to set down. Do you know for sure that this team went west and not east?”

“We think so. A light plane reported the fire, and the pilot said he saw two men in cammies running to the west through an old burn.”

“Okay, Four. We'll set down near the burn and try to find some tracks. Out.”

The pilot did a turn and went back the way they had come. They hit the smoke, and then DeWitt saw the burned-over area. It wasn't all that big. To one side of it was a bulldozed area that had probably been used as a landing zone and headquarters for firefighters.

“You have a radio?” the pilot asked DeWitt.

“A SATCOM. We can get Forestry Four on TAC Four.”

The bird touched down, and DeWitt and his team jumped
to the ground and ran out of the rotor wash. When the chopper had taken off, DeWitt told the men all he knew about their target.

“We try to pick up some tracks in the burn and follow them.”

“Let's go to the far side of the burn and check along the edge of it for tracks,” Franklin said. DeWitt nodded and they moved that direction. They walked through the edge of the burn toward the west, and DeWitt was surprised at the new growth that had already begun to show where less than a year ago a furious forest fire had burned everything in its path. At the far side of the burn they worked the edges critically. Twice they found deer tracks, and places where birds had nested. Then Mahanani yelped.

“Hey, look at these. Fresh damn boot tracks, a pair of them with the toes pointing east. Looks like they're in a rush. See how the heels are pressed in hard where they landed, and then the toes dig in and kick out some dirt and ash to the rear when they push off hard with their toes.”

“Franklin, you're my best tracker. Lead out, let's see if we can follow these puppies.”

Franklin moved to the edge of the burn and a few steps into the timber, and stopped. He kept looking for boot impressions, but there were none. Then he remembered what Lam had shown him one day about tracking. He spotted a clump of weeds that had only partly lifted up from where a boot had mashed them down. Now he looked ahead and could see a pattern to the plants where they had been disturbed.

Under a huge oak tree he spotted actual boot impressions in the heavy leaf mold. Farther on he caught where a branch had been broken off, and where leaves had been stripped off a limb. Franklin held up his hand, and the four men stopped and listened.

Nothing.

They moved on. Twice Franklin lost the track. He circled out twenty yards from his last sign and found new tracks heading in the same direction. They moved along the side of a small valley, just inside the tree line. Then Franklin stopped and wrinkled his nose.

“Wood smoke,” he said. “Either there's a cabin up here with a fireplace, or our boys have started another fire.” He took off running through the fringe of trees and into the valley, which showed only a little brush. Ahead not a quarter of a mile they all saw a small plume of smoke.