Authors: Dale Brown
“Let’s get out of here, Colonel!” one of the commandos shouted. He turned his submachine gun toward the farmworkers and fired a burst. They took cover behind the camper, then started rocking it, threatening to overturn it in moments. Gunshots erupted from
inside the cab as the driver fired at the crowd from inside the truck, but before he could fire again one of the workers poked him in the face with a shovel, knocking the gun out of his hand, and then the others were on him.
Zakharov drew his pistol and fired. Three farmworkers went down, and the rest turned and fled into the fields for cover. Zakharov scared the others off with shots from his sidearm, got into the camper, and he and the last three commandos sped south down Highway 111.
Back in the lettuce field, a small crowd of farmworkers along with Maria Arevalo slowly approached Purdy. The Border Patrol agent was awake but lying down, grimacing in pain as he smoked a cigarette. “You okay, Purdy?” she asked.
“The bastard broke my damned sternum, I think,” Purdy said, “but I’m still alive. I remembered the shock plate this time. Something to tell the grandkids when they get older, I guess—Grandpa was shot by the world-famous terrorist mastermind Colonel Yegor Zakharov, and survived. I hope.” He reached up and grasped Maria’s hand. “How about granting a dying man’s one last wish, eh, gorgeous?”
“You must be hallucinating, old man,” Arevalo said with a smile, dropping his hand in mock disgust. “Or should I ask my husband what he thinks of your request?”
“You broke my heart again with the ‘H’ word, baby,” Purdy said. “Where’s that Russian?”
“Got away,” Maria said.
“Dammit, Richter deserves to get tortured for tryin’ to make a deal with that snake,” Purdy muttered. He pulled out a cellular phone, praying he could get a signal out here and relieved when he got one.
“DeLaine.”
“Miss Director, this is Purdy.”
“What’s happened, Purdy? You don’t sound good.”
“I got real bad news. We ran into Zakharov, and he was ready for us. He got Richter and his robot.”
“He
what?
Where’s he headed?”
“DeLaine, you need to get the Border Patrol, the California Highway Patrol, the Imperial County Sheriff’s Department, and every soldier, sailor, airman, and Marine from El Centro to help you cover all the routes between Niland, California, and the border—you’ll need everyone you can scrape up,” Purdy said. “They were heading south on Highway 111 toward Brawley and El Centro. My guess is Zakharov is headed for the border. He’s got three guys and some heavy weapons with him. Get the Highway Patrol with infrared scanners to look in the fields and orchards, and have them seal off Highway 98 and Interstate 8 tight.”
“I’m on it, Purdy.”
Purdy ended his call, then painfully walked over to the tractor across the road. A small group of workers had pulled the body of Victor Flores out of the wreckage and onto the ground. His bullet-torn body made him look even younger than he was. If he ever had a son, Purdy thought, he hoped he would have half the courage of this young man.
He knelt beside him and brushed his hair and cheeks, hoping that he could see some sign of life, but his wounds were simply too massive. “Zakharov, you are one cold son of a bitch to shoot an innocent kid like this,” he said angrily. “If it’s the last thing I do, you are going
down
.”
“
¿Qué dijo usted,
Purdy?” one of the workers asked him.
Purdy shook his head—it was between him, Victor Flores, and God, he thought.
“Una promesa a Victor, señor,”
he said. He gave the young man another pat on the cheek.
“Gracias por salvar mi vida, amigo,”
he said. “Thanks for saving my hide, buddy. Don’t worry about Zakharov—I’ll get the bastard for you.”
Zakharov ditched the camper at a rest stop on Route S30 near Calipatria for a Dodge Caravan minivan driven by an older re
tired couple, and they headed east toward the Coachella Canal through endless fields of crops in the fertile Imperial Valley. At the intersection of Routes S33 and 78, fearing that the elderly owners of the minivan would have had time to report the theft, they transferred all of their remaining weapons and equipment to a battered farmer’s pickup truck that had the keys left in it, ditched the Caravan, and continued south.
As they drove away, Zakharov snapped off the satellite phone. “Dammit, I am not sure if I’m getting through to anyone—there’s a connection, but no response,” he said. “Fuerza had better answer me, or I hunt him down
next
. We are only twenty miles or so from the border, but they will certainly have shut down the highways and border crossing points.”
“There is a steel fence on the border twenty miles either side of Calexico—they will certainly deploy every Border Patrol agent in this sector there,” one of the commandos said.
“We go east around the fence,” Zakharov said. “We will make better time on the highway than in the fields, and we will get off and cross the border as soon as we are clear of the fence.”
Instead of getting on Interstate 8 near Holtville, they took the Evan Hewes Highway, which paralleled the freeway, being very careful not to go too fast or do anything to attract attention; Zakharov slumped down in his seat so he wouldn’t be recognized. Soon they saw one, then two, then several California Highway Patrol interceptors, lights and sirens flashing, cruising both sides of the interstate highway. A few minutes later, they saw a gray military helicopter fly overhead. “A Navy helicopter, probably from El Centro,” Zakharov said. “They want us very badly, I think.”
It appeared they made the right decision by going east instead of straight south, because most of the police action seemed to center near Bonds Corner and Highway 98, close to the border. But Zakharov’s military-trained sixth sense told him that even this dusty highway was no place to be for very much longer. “We need to get off this road,” he said, after trying for the umpteenth time to make a connection with his satellite phone. “We are violating all
the rules of tactical evasion. The police will have the highways closed off soon. We will hide this truck and go to ground until nightfall, then find a way across the border.”
The highway was so straight and flat that it was easy to see several miles ahead, and soon Zakharov saw what he had feared: a roadblock set up ahead, both on the interstate and frontage road. They turned north off the highway at a farm access road and stopped at a portable restroom set up at the edge of a field. The men began arming themselves, preparing at any moment to jump out of the truck and fight if necessary. They were surrounded by fields of durum wheat and alfalfa, which would provide cover from ground searches but no cover at all from the air. “Our only option is to try to escape in the fields,” Zakharov said. “We have perhaps an hour or less before the roadblocks are set up on the highways and the searches can extend into the…”
But at that moment they heard the sound of a helicopter approaching. They took cover inside the truck. A gray HH-1N Huey helicopter with the words “U.S. NAVY” on the side could be seen flying at a moderate speed down Evan Hewes Highway, in the same direction they had been traveling. The noise from the Huey search and rescue chopper got steadily quieter…before becoming louder again. They did not need to get out and look to know the helicopter was coming toward them.
On Zakharov’s orders, one of the commandos unpacked the long green fiberglass box in the back of the pickup and hurriedly got the weapon ready to fire. It took less than a minute, and soon he had the SA-14 Strela antiaircraft missile launcher ready and was hiding with the Porta-Potty between him and the oncoming helicopter. Zakharov made sure the commando had the weapon powered up and steered him south and east toward the sound of the helicopter’s rotors, then stepped out onto the dirt road with his sniper rifle in his hands.
“Zhdat’,”
Zakharov said. “We do not want that thing crashing down on top of us. Be patient. He will try to get away. That is when you nail him.”
Seconds later, the Navy helicopter appeared, just a few hundred yards away. It had descended to just a hundred feet over the fields. As soon as he clearly saw the pilot’s white helmet, he raised his pistol and fired a round into the helicopter’s windscreen. He had aimed it quickly and didn’t expect to hit anything, but he must’ve hit the pilot because the helicopter veered sharply backward, wobbled from side to side, spun almost an entire revolution, and dove almost to the ground before the copilot managed to take the controls.
Zakharov raised a fist at the commando, hoping he knew that it was the signal to stop and that he would not waste a missile on the stricken chopper. They piled aboard the pickup truck, with Zakharov driving, one commando in the cab with Richter, and the other commandos in the back with the SA-14 MANPADS, and raced down the dirt road north. A few minutes later, a commando pounded on the roof, and Zakharov came to a stop. The missileer dropped down off the cargo bed, crouched below the front of the truck to conceal himself the best he could, and took aim on another helicopter coming toward them.
“If you get a clear shot at the engine exhaust, shoot,” Zakharov ordered, and he began jogging back down the road away from the truck.
This time it was a U.S. Marine Corps AH-1W Super Cobra attack helicopter chasing them. Zakharov could see its twenty-millimeter cannon sweeping back and forth along the fields as the crew looked for targets—but he was relieved to notice that the four weapon pylons were empty. He had to take a chance that they hadn’t had a chance to load an ammunition canister for the cannon either. Zakharov aimed and fired a round from his pistol at the helicopter. He didn’t expect any damage, nor did he get any indication of it, so he started trotting back south along the dirt road toward the helicopter.
As he surmised, the helicopter merely tracked him, but did not attack—it had no ammo. When he walked underneath the helicopter, it slowly pedal-turned around and began to descend,
preparing to “dust” him—inundate him with sufficient prop wash that would stir up enough dust and dirt to make it impossible to move or see.
Zakharov could sense his man ready to fire, so before the swirling, blinding dust and dirt got any worse, he started running faster toward the highway—and as he did there was a brilliant flash of light behind him, followed by an incredibly thunderous
boooom!
and a gush of heat. Zakharov ran until he could run no more, then dove to the ground. The Super Cobra, hit point-blank by the SA-14 missile, careened to the east of the dirt road in a death’s spin and crashed-landed into the alfalfa field beyond.
Zakharov jogged back toward his truck, dispatching the Super Cobra’s pilot with a shot to his chest as he tried to climb out of the cockpit. In moments his commandos had picked him up, and they raced northward along the dirt road deeper into the fields.
But soon the dirt road ended. Not daring to head west toward Brawley and Naval Air Facility El Centro, they headed east through the fields until they were stopped by the Coachella Canal. They turned north toward the nearest bridge they could see, about a half-mile away. Just as they began heading toward it, however, two more helicopters could be seen rolling in on their position from the south and southeast, another gray Marine Corps Super Cobra and a blue, white, and yellow California Highway Patrol H20 Aerostar patrol helicopter.
“What weapons are left?” Zakharov asked.
“None, except a couple grenades and our personal weapons,” one of the commandos said. Zakharov nodded grimly. They’d brought all the weapons they could gather on short notice and could carry, knowing they would have to fight the TALON robots—they did not expect to take on U.S. Marine Corps helicopters too. “What should we do, sir?”
“We stay together and fight,” Zakharov said finally, checking the ammo supply for his pistol: three rounds left in the magazine, plus two more ten-round magazines—not much at all, but perhaps enough. “They are not going to take us alive.” He motioned
to the smoke and fire caused by the destroyed Super Cobra. “I am betting none of their helicopters are armed, so that is our chance. I will try to bring another helicopter down—the smoke and fires will intensify, and the confusion will grow as the authorities try to guess what weapons we have. We can jump across to…”
“You two on the road, drop your weapons, raise you hands in the air, turn around, and kneel down!”
they heard from a loudspeaker on the CHP helicopter. “You will receive no more warnings!” The message was repeated in Spanish.
“Come and get us, filthy Americans!” one of the commandos shouted, and he pulled a grenade from a pocket and threw it toward the helicopters. But milliseconds later, the commando disappeared in an incredible cloud of red gore—and then Zakharov heard the loud, chilling
brrraaappp
! sound of the Chain Gun firing, sending fifty twenty-millimeter shells dead on target in one second. There was nothing left of the commando but bits of his boots.
The grenade sailed in front of the CHP helicopter, missing it by several dozen yards, but the mid-air explosion had the desired effect—Zakharov could hear the helicopter’s engine whine louder and louder as shrapnel was sucked into the turbine and started to shred the compressor blades; the helicopter spun, then dipped, then smacked hard into the alfalfa field.
“Forget the robot!” Zakharov shouted. “Grab Richter! We’ll use him as a human shield!” Zakharov turned and started running toward the bridge across the Coachella Canal, but he hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he heard the Super Cobra’s cannon fire again. He waited for the slugs to pierce his body…but they were just a warning shot, the shells impacting the ground behind him where he had stood just seconds earlier, hitting so close that he could feel the ground shake. He froze, his pistol out of sight in front of him. He had one grenade in his coat pocket and if he could get a lucky shot off with the pistol…
Just then there was another warning burst of fire, just a meter to his left, the shells whizzing by so close that he felt as if he was
being sharply patted down by a police officer. He had no choice: he slowly lifted his hands, the pistol still in his right hand. The cannon roared again, this time close enough to his right arm to blacken his sleeve. Zakharov screamed, and he sank to his knees, clutching his thankfully uninjured right hand, his arms and legs shaking so violently that he thought he would pass out if he didn’t fall down first. Off in the distance he could hear sirens—the police, moving in for the arrest.