The New Madrid Run (33 page)

Cody’s voice was getting louder and more insistent through the headphones as they ate up the last two hundred feet between them and the forest below. “Come on! Come on, you son of a –” Suddenly the engine roared to life. Cody slammed the throttle forward and leveled her out, the final seconds taking them so close to the earth that the tops of the pine trees nearly took the paint off the undercarriage of the plane. “Hang on, buddy!” Cody yelled as he yanked back the stick and climbed toward his opponent one more time.

Marshall couldn’t believe it—the goddamned missile must have been defective.
It
missed!
Expecting to see the kill first hand, he had flown right by them when it failed to strike its target. Cursing, he turned and climbed.

The jet, twice as fast as the ’51, tore open the sky as its afterburners kicked in and climbed, in seconds, to five thousand feet. The ’51 had barely reached a thousand feet when the jet rolled over on its wing and dropped like a steel falcon. Marshall laid his finger on the trigger of the Gattling gun as he closed once more on the Mustang.

Cody, seeing the jet coming at him, snapped the plane over and dove, zigzagging, hugging the rugged terrain in an attempt to evade. He knew that if the cannon on the Falcon locked in on him for two seconds there wouldn’t be enough of his plane left for a Christmas tree ornament. Survival depended on timing—but timing was one of Cody’s strong points.

Marshall dropped down on the fleeing ’51 like a hawk on a pigeon. When he had closed the distance to killing range and finally locked his target on the elusive Mustang, he smiled and pulled the trigger of the devastating Gattling gun.

Cody, the iceman, waited until the last second before Marshall fired, then snapped the stick back and to the right and all but stalled, practically stopping in mid-air.

Marshall had never been in combat. He was a good National Guard pilot, but certainly not a great aviator. Unfortunately for him, he was up against a man who made the airplane a part of him—whose body fused with the metal, the leather, and the instruments. Cody’s lack of fear and his natural, intrinsic understanding of flight made him closer to a bird than a man. Cody Joe was as good as they got.

Marshall was concentrating so much on the kill that he was amazed when he pulled the trigger and two things happened: First, a millisecond before the murderous cannon fire erupted from the belly of the Falcon, Cody’s plane broke hard to the right and arched upward. The fusillade of projectiles passed harmlessly under the P51. Secondly, Marshall, being inexperienced, came in too hot and realized too late that he was overshooting the Mustang, screaming right by and below it. An experienced war pilot would have hit the afterburners and been in Louisiana before the man in the ’51 had a chance to think about it. Marshall did just the opposite. He chopped the throttles and hit the air brakes in order to slow the plane and bring it around quickly for another shot. That was exactly what Cody had hoped he would do.

When the jet passed beneath the Mustang, Cody slammed the throttles to the firewall and hit the water/alcohol injection system switch for that powerful burst of additional horsepower and speed. The big Rolls Royce engine whined and Cody dropped onto the tail of the slowed F-16 at over five hundred and forty miles per hour, his machine guns relentlessly hammering out a tempo of destruction for the trapped jet and its careless pilot. The few moments that Marshall used to slow and control the speeding aircraft were fatal. As he banked out, the ’51 closed on his left rear quarter and hammered the plane with a line of .50-caliber bullets from stem to stern. The glass in the cockpit shattered as the huge machine gun rounds impacted and tore through, slamming into Marshall and bouncing his body like a man attached to a live electric wire. A red mist filled his vision, and as the calm darkness of death crept over him, his last thought was:
Who the hell was that guy
? The jet rolled over and began a gliding trajectory toward the far mountain where, seconds later, it buried itself in a ball of smoke and flame.

That guy was William J. Cody, Jr., probably the finest light plane pilot in what was left of the United States of America. And as he did a victory roll across the cloudless, blue, Arkansas sky, he realized that even for a man as accustomed to living his fantasies as he was, he had just experienced the nearly impossible challenge—and had come out on top. Cody howled like a wolf and rolled the plane again, just for the sheer hell of it.

CHAPTER 21

A jubilant Travis and Cody returned to the homestead to find the preacher and the sensei sitting on the steps of the front porch. One look at their faces, and Travis’ excitement evaporated. “What’s wrong? Where’s Christina? Where’s Todd?”

The preacher looked up, his eyes filled with apology. “They hit the place while we were gone. Travis, I’m sorry. Will was killed, and they shot Carlos and left him for dead. They must have taken Christina and Todd with them.”

Travis felt tentacles of fear wrap around his insides and squeeze. Perhaps for the first time, he was fully aware of the width and depth of his love for those two people. They had taken his family. His
family
. At the thought of them being harmed, he was consumed by a coldly murderous detachment. He would get them back, and he would kill Rockford or anyone else who stood between him and those he loved.

Travis looked down at the preacher. “How long ago? What happened?”

“All we know is what Carlos was able to tell us, son. He’s sleeping now, and lucky to be alive. Seems they shot him as he ran for the back of the house. The bullet only grazed his head, but it was enough to knock him out, and he tumbled down the cliff in the back. Like I said, it wasn’t a real bad wound, but it bled a lot. He musta looked dead, layin’ down there on the side of the hill, with his forehead all bloody, so they left him. We found him and bandaged him up. He’s a little dizzy, but he’ll be okay.

“Carlos said about thirty or forty of them came out of the woods on the run. They shot Will as he headed for the house to warn Chris. She musta’ put up some kinda’ fight. There were two of them dead in the living room and one dead on the front lawn. There was one more in the kitchen, but it looked like Ra got him.”

At the mention of Ra, Travis panicked again, knowing that the animal would die before letting them touch Chris or the boy. “Ra, where is he? What happened to—?” Just then, the dog came through the front door, moving a little slowly, and favoring his front paw. Ra limped over and nuzzled Travis gently, almost as if he sensed the tragedy in the air. Travis breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the great, black animal, realizing once again how expansive his family had become.

“Somehow they locked Ra in the cellar,” the preacher continued. “Close as I can figure it, they must have knocked him down there after he attacked the guy in the kitchen. He’s got a good lump on his head but it looks like he’ll be all right.”

Cody put his hand on Travis’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, buddy, I’m really sorry. Whatever you want to do, whatever needs to be done, you know I’m in.”

The preacher stood up. “Travis, I’m sure I don’t have to say it, but the sensei and I are ready when you are.”

Behind him, the sensei, who was still sitting on the porch, got up. “Travis—all of you—we want the same thing, but now is not the time to go off unprepared. We need information. We have to know where they are, and what to anticipate. Cody, do you think your man in the camp can get us this information?”

Cody paused before answering. “He missed it on this one, and I’m sorry. But given the circumstances, my bet is, he’s going to know exactly what’s happening now.”

“Very well,” said the sensei. “Then return home and make sure your property is secure. Contact your man. Get the knowledge we need as quickly as possible and call us on the van radio tomorrow morning.” The Japanese turned to Travis. “Trust me, my friend, and try to remain calm. We can only succeed if we prepare intelligently.”

Travis sighed and looked up at the afternoon sky. “I know you’re right, Sensei, but at this moment all I want to do is get in that van, drive into Rockford’s camp, and rip his heart out with my hands. Right now, I need a large dose of your Oriental calm.”

“It is there inside you, Travis. Simply go to the well and draw it up. The lives of Christina and the boy depend on your actions. Remember that.”

Travis took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay, Cody, get going. Find out what you can, and we’ll monitor the radio tomorrow morning. Get us what we need to know.”

Once again, Cody grasped his friend’s shoulder. “We can pull this off, Travis. Trust my old instincts. We’ll get them back, I promise.”

“Thanks,” replied Travis with a wan smile.

Travis’ old friend ran to his Jeep and was gone.

The three of them went inside, and the preacher made a pot of their precious coffee. They talked for a while, then Travis went to check on Carlos.

When he opened the door, Travis saw Carlos was awake. He was propped up on some pillows, looking out the window, a bandana-like bandage wrapped around his head. The Cuban turned a little too quickly and winced as Travis walked over.

“Carlos,
mi amigo
, how are you?”

“
Bien, Jefe
, I be okay, just a little dizzy.”

“Good. I’m glad. You didn’t see what happened to Christina and Todd, did you?”

“No,
Jefe
. They shoot me and Will first, then they take the house.
Lo ciento
. I’m sorry,
Jefe
. I did not protect them.”

“It’s not your fault. You did your best. We’ll get them back.”

“
Sí, Jefe
, if we have to shoot every one of them goddamned sons- a-bitchees!”

“Yeah, every last one,” Travis said, who reached over and patted Carlos on the back. “You just rest today,
amigo
. We’ll need you soon. I’ll make sure you get some supper, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“
Gracias, Jefe
.”

Travis stood on the porch a half hour after sunset and looked out across the darkening valley. Torn by conflicting emotions of rage and fear, he gazed for a moment at the little cherry tree that Will had planted by the side of the house. It stood there in defiance of the darkness, its white petals blossoming, issuing a statement of serenity to the night. A light breeze carried the fragrance of the flowers across the yard and, at that moment, Travis could almost hear the sensei’s calming words and confident voice filling him with peace and strength. Desperation turned to hope, and in the hope he found faith. He raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed that God grant him one last favor—the return of his family.

At seven the next morning, Travis had just begun to monitor the radio when Cody’s urgent voice broke the silence. “Travis, come in. Come back to me!”

“I’m here, Cody, what is it?”

“Thank God I got you, buddy! Listen up! Rockford wasn’t in the camp when we hit it yesterday. It was him and his people who killed Will and took Christina and Todd. When he got back and saw what was left of his compound, he had a fit—actually several of them from what I hear. He’s coming for you today with every man he has left, which I figure to be about two hundred and fifty after casualties and desertions.”

“How much time do we have?”

“They’re on their way now, so I figure you’ve got maybe two hours. I’m sending over a dozen of my men for support. They’re all I’ve got, buddy. I’m gonna try to fuel and arm the Fifty-One again, and hit Rockford as he heads toward you. I should be able to change the odds a little, if I can get ready in time. Good luck,
amigo
.”

Travis paused. “Thanks, Cody. See you next sunrise.”

“Damned right you will.”

Travis put the mike in its cradle and turned to find the preacher and the sensei, along with the wounded but willing Carlos, in front of him.

“So we fight ’em,” the preacher said.

Travis paused, looking at the men in front of him. “Listen, the odds are not good on this one. Even with the people Cody is sending us, we could be outnumbered ten to one. I’m not asking you to stay for this. I want you all to get in the van and get the hell –”

“Save it, son,” interrupted the preacher. “We ain’t got time for no last-stand-at-the-Alamo speeches. This is our home and our fight, too, and there ain’t one of us here who don’t owe you his life. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Travis looked at each of his friends. They nodded.

“We fight them sons-a-bitchees!” said Carlos fiercely.

Travis was once again filled with an elemental, deep-seated pride in the companions fate had provided him. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do: They’ve got to come at us from the front, through the woods and along the road. We’re going to rig up some surprises for them with the grenades we have left—a little something I saw done in ‘Nam.”

The sensei brought out the box of grenades, Travis got some monofilament fishing line and two rolls of duct tape from the shed, then they all headed down the dirt road to the entrance of the property.

Travis paced off about seventy-five feet into his driveway from the main road and found two big trees, one on either side of the drive. With the clear fishing line, he bound a grenade to each tree trunk, about three feet up from the ground. Then he tied the line to the pin of the first grenade, ran it across to road, pulled it tight, and tied it to the pin of the other one. From there they moved about fifty yards closer to the house, where Travis showed them how to set up the second surprise. The preacher kept watch at the entrance of the driveway as Carlos, the sensei, and Travis moved into the woods on both sides of the road, shinnied up each of the larger trees, and taped a grenade to the bottom side of one of the branches. They then tied a piece of fishing line from the pin, which was pulled out slightly, to a large rock, and set the rock firmly in the crook of the branch. The three men did this throughout the wooded area in front of the house. When they finished, Travis sent the other two back to the house. He found himself a protected spot in the woods, near the road, and settled in.