GOTU - A Robin Marlette Novel (2 page)

Everyone on the helicopter began searching the night sky for the suspect aircraft. Robin watched as the men nearest the windows strained in their harnesses to get a better view. Suddenly, Oscar's voice came excitedly over the intercom.

“I got 'em at eleven o'clock low.”

“I see him,” Jack said.

A few seconds later, Robin felt the Blackhawk go into a diving left turn. The helicopter began pulling “G's,” pushing Robin into the seat. Jack maneuvered the Blackhawk behind and slightly below the aircraft, putting the chopper in the target aircraft's blind spot.

“Robin, we are passing Casa Grande on the left,” Jack advised. “If we keep on this course, my bet is he's headed for Rainbow Valley.”

“That would be nice,” Robin replied. “Like doing a jump in our own back yard.”

Robin's squad and the Customs agents made many arrests and follow-up investigations and spent hundreds of hours conducting surveillance in Rainbow Valley. They knew every inch of the desolate desert area in between the Sierra Estrella and the Maricopa Mountains, southwest of Phoenix. Hundreds of places to land an airplane made it a favorite destination for air smugglers.

“Target is losing altitude and turning west,” Oscar said.

“It looks like he is going to land,” Jack observed.

“Are his lights still on?” Robin asked.

“That's affirm,” Jack replied.

“He may be doing a decoy landing at Casa Grande airport,” cautioned Robin.

“Roger,” Jack answered.

“Either of you guys have the night vision on?” Robin asked.

“Yes, Mother Marlette,” Oscar replied in a sarcastic voice.

Robin saw Burke Jameson flipping the bird towards Oscar's position up front. Robin turned in his seat only to see Oscar giving
him
the finger. Robin blew a kiss to Oscar, who chuckled and shook his head as he turned back forward. The helicopter's roar buried the team's laughter, but it eased the growing tension.

“The target is on final for Casa Grande,” Jack said.

“Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. It looks like the target is landing,” the chase plane said.

“Standby, Poppa One-Nine,” Jack replied. “He may be faking..”

“Roger, Two-One.”

“He's gone dark! He's gone dark!” Oscar said with elation.

“There's no doubt about it now,” Robin drawled. “Some time tonight that boy is going to get a gun screwed in his ear.”

“Amen, brother,” Jack replied.

Oscar watched the suspect aircraft through the night vision goggles and said, “The target is now headed west-northwest from Casa Grande.”

“Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. What's your read on the target?” Jack asked the chase plane.

“Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine, the target is heading two-niner-niner at five hundred feet, doing one hundred and ten knots and accelerating.”

“Roger, One-Nine.”

Robin breathed more quickly now, his heart still beating against his vest. His eyes moved over his team. Even in the dimmed cabin lights, he could the see the anticipation in his men. Each man fidgeted with equipment, making sure to be ready for the jump out of the helicopter. They only knew Jack would position the load of drugs at twelve o'clock off the nose of the helicopter—nothing else was certain. The team called it “jumping into the Twilight Zone.”

“Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine. The target is slowing down.”

“Roger, One-Nine. I'm going into a hover. Let me know when the target appears to be final.” Jack dropped the Blackhawk down to one hundred feet and hovered. This standard tactic prevented alerting any ground crew waiting for the air smuggler to the presence of the Blackhawk.

“Lima Two-One, the target is circling about four miles north of you,” the chase plane advised.

“Roger, One-Nine.”

“Robin, it looks like he's trying to land at Alvey's,” Jack said.

“I'll take your word for it, Jack, because I can't see where we are.”

“Sorry, pal. I keep forgetting you can't see what I see.”

“It's okay, Jack. If you're wrong, I get your wife and first born.”

“No, no,” Jack laughed, “not my first born!”

“Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine. Target appears to be on final and there are two pairs of headlights on the strip.”

“Roger, One-Nine. Here we go, gang,” Jack added on the intercom.

G-forces pressed Robin into his seat as the powerful Blackhawk surged upward. He reached to his forehead and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. He then pulled the straps of his seat harness tight.

“I got com,” Robin said as calmly as he could.

“Roger,” Jack responded.

“Assault team,” Robin began, “this will be a full team deployment. We have one aircraft and at least two vehicles. The strip is Alvey's. Anybody not understand?” Nobody spoke up. “Go to portables,” Robin ordered. All team members removed their headsets and hung them from the hooks on the helicopter ceiling. They kept their portable radios off until they left the aircraft. Robin communicated by hand signal now because he stayed plugged into the intercom so he could talk to Jack.

“Target is down,” growled Oscar as he watched through the night vision.

The Blackhawk raced towards Alvey's strip at maximum speed, skimming the desert floor with a payload of armed and determined men. Robin looked at his squad. Their faces locked on him, waiting for his signals. No one laughed now. This was a dangerous time.

TWO

The Blackhawk hit the ground in what Jack liked to call a controlled crash, jarring the men in the troop compartment.

“Searchlight on!” Oscar advised.

Robin was reaching for his harness release when the chopper shot back into the air and went almost into a ninety-degree bank. He looked out the left window and saw the big rotor blades just barely clearing the sagebrush and mesquite dancing in the rotor wash. If Robin didn't have the utmost confidence in Jack's and Oscar's flying abilities, he would' probably be more than just a little concerned for his life. Still, an awe-filled “Jesus Christ!” fell from his lips, only to disintegrate in the roar of the Blackhawk's engines and rotors.

“Hang on,” Oscar yelled. “We're having to herd these fuckers!”

Jack flung the Blackhawk all over the sky. The men in the troop compartment were slammed against seat and harness. From past experience, Robin knew the vehicles on the ground were attempting to run, but Jack maneuvered the Blackhawk in front them, trying to force the suspects to abandon their vehicles. After sixty seconds of being herded by the madman in the giant, angry Blackhawk, the suspects bailed from the trucks.

The Blackhawk's landing gear slammed into the ground again. “Go! Go! Go!” Jack yelled into the intercom.

“Roger!” Robin yelled back. Robin moved his arms out to his sides and pointed to the doors on both sides of the chopper. Immediately both doors slid open and men jumped out in prearranged sequence. Robin, the last man out, tossed his headset, popped his harness, and turned on his portable radio. As he came to the door he charged his rifle, engaged the safety, and jumped out the left side of the helicopter into a thick, stinging swirl of dust kicked up by the chopper's rotors. The Blackhawk's three million candlepower searchlight illuminated the dust. It all merged with the screaming jet engines, making Robin feel like he had jumped into hell.

The whole assault team knelt down on one knee in front of the Blackhawk. Each man covered his face and the action of his weapon to protect him from the whirlwind of dust. This gave Jack and Oscar a chance to do a head count and verify all men on the assault team did get out and were in front of the chopper. Jack pulled on the collective lever and the Blackhawk jumped back into the sky.

“Wedge formation! Emmett, you're point!” Robin ordered. The team quickly formed a wedge with Robin in the middle and started moving forward.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” Someone screamed into the radio.

Robin started to press his mic button to talk, but several men transmitted at the same time, causing a garbled mess of static and half-words to come over the headset. He did make out somebody saying “two o'clock,” so he looked over to his right. He then heard gunfire and saw flashes about forty yards away. The sickening snap of a bullet went by his ear.

The right flank of the wedge returned fire. Robin dropped to one knee, thumbing the safety as he raised his rifle to his cheek. He lined up the three glowing dots on the tritium night sights and put them where he saw the last flash. The rifle punched his shoulder as he fired two rounds. He dropped into the prone position and popped out the bipod on his rifle. Pointing his weapon at the last place he saw the suspect, he looked over the sights.

Robin pushed his mic button and started to talk, but he had to clear his dry throat before he could speak.

“Two Nora Six, all units! Hold your traffic! Hold your traffic! Lima Two-One, we are taking fire from a suspect about fifty yards from drop-off, at two o'clock. Get the light on him!”

“Roger, Nora Six.”

The Blackhawk's searchlight illuminated the aircraft and a pickup truck near it because the load of drugs would most likely be there. Jack moved the Blackhawk so the searchlight illuminated a Chevrolet Blazer and the right gunner could cover the vehicle with his Minigun. Robin waited for more fire from the suspect, but none came. From his prone position, he could see under the Blazer and could just make out the feet of a person. They were pointed up.

“I think we have one suspect down,” Robin said into his mic. “I want the right flank of the wedge to cover the Blazer. Emmett, take the left flank forward and secure that pickup.”

“Ten-Four, Sarge.”

Robin watched as Emmett Franks rose off his knee and waved the left side of the wedge forward. Emmett raised his MP5 to his shoulder and moved in a crouching walk towards the pickup. Doug Ariel followed at Emmett's left, but slightly behind him. Mike Collins and John Lucheck, a customs agent, made up the rest of the left side. Mike nudged John forward. They stopped the front of the pickup, while Emmett and Doug went to the rear.

The Blackhawk moved so most of the light shone on the Blazer, although the pickup remained partially illuminated. Jack positioned the jump so the left side of the pickup faced perpendicular to the team. The truck appeared to be a Ford with a camper shell on the back. As Emmett and the others moved toward the truck, they appeared to be strange shadow creatures gliding across an eerie, hostile landscape of glowing, swirling dust with the screaming jet engines and rotors of the Blackhawk giving the effect of howling alien monsters.

When the men reached the truck, both pairs crouched down by their respective wheel wells. “We'll go first, Mike, to avoid cross fire,” Emmett said over the radio.

“Ten-Four.”

Emmett crouched at the middle of the tailgate while Doug positioned himself under the window of the camper, to form an “L”-shaped kill zone. Doug switched to his Colt .45 with his flashlight in his left hand while Emmett used the light attached to his MP5. Suddenly, both men jumped up, shining their lights into the camper. Then they instantly dropped down, their lights going out. Robin saw the two men confer briefly at the left rear corner of the truck and then take a cautious, but longer look.

“Camper's clear. Your turn, Mike.”

“Ten-Four.”

Mike slung his Galil on his back and drew his Smith & Wesson .357 revolver and his flashlight. John kept his Steyr-Aug ready. Mike crouched at the rear of the driver's window, while John stood at the front door post. They both made their move, Mike shining his light into the cab.

“Front is clear,” Mike said over the radio.

“Ten-Four,” Emmett replied. “Let's secure a perimeter.”

Both pairs disappeared to the other side of the truck. Thirty seconds later Emmett told Robin the truck was secure and loaded with dope.

“Right flank, follow me to secure the Blazer,” Robin ordered. “Rick, I'm going to cover the suspect. You and Matt take the front. Burke, you and Mark take the rear.” Robin looked at the men as he said this. They gave him a thumbs up to show they understood. Robin turned and started for the Blazer. He put his Galil to his shoulder and moved forward in a crouching walk, also known as the “Groucho Walk.” When he got to the front of the Blazer, he knelt down next to the wheel well and waited for Rick Santos and Matt Howe, the other customs agent, who got there a second later. He noticed bullet holes in the Blazer and a flat left front tire. Robin moved around the front of the Blazer and positioned himself by the right front headlight, with the right front wheel between himself and the suspect. He aimed his rifle at the suspect's chest. In the glow of the searchlight, he saw no movement.

A half minute later, Rick came around and told Robin they had cleared the Blazer. Robin told Burke and Mark Warren, the other member of Robin's team, to scan the area on the other side of the Blazer. He and Rick did the same. It looked clear.

“Okay, guys,” Robin said, “It seems one of us got lucky and hit the suspect, because he looks deader than a door nail. But we'll go through the drill. I'll do it. Cover me.”

“Roger-dodger, Sarge,” Burke responded.

Robin moved out parallel to the suspect, until he passed the man's head. He dropped to one knee and scanned the area for any movement around him. Clear of threats, Robin moved to ten feet from the suspect's head. He put his rifle on safe and slung it over his shoulder. Drawing his Colt .45, Robin started for the suspect. When he reached three feet from the suspect's head, he saw the man's eyes were open and he had been hit in the neck and upper chest. In the glow of the Blackhawk's searchlight, Robin looked over a Hispanic man, about twenty years old, with a round, chubby face. He wore a loose-fitting silk shirt and what appeared to be tailored pants. Rattlesnake-hide boots were on his feet.

The suspect's empty hands lay at his side. Holding his .45 six inches from the suspect's head, Robin reached and felt for the carotid artery. Finding no pulse, Robin holstered his pistol and rolled the suspect over to handcuff him. When he saw pieces of lung hanging out of the back, he decided handcuffing was unnecessary. He searched for weapons on the body and found a Czech 9mm pistol. He cleared the pistol and put it and the magazine in the leg pocket of his flight suit.