Vertical Coffin (2004) (34 page)

"We're losing light up here. It's gonna be slow going down at night. We can't get back there until around twenty-two thirty," Scott Cook said.

Not till 10:30 p
. M
. I looked over at Sonny and he said, "Looks like it's up to the dumb-ass arm-climbers to fix this mess."

We put our SWAT Tac vests back on, then drove along the fenced perimeter of camp Billy Machen. It had once been a tent city, but now all that was left were some poured concrete pads. It looked completely deserted. We kept going until we hit the Niland Blythe Road, which wasn't really a road, as much as a narrow dirt trail. Sonny slowed the truck to a stop and we looked to the left out across open desert. We were trying to decide which way to go, when I thought I saw something flash way out in the distance.

"What's that?" I pointed toward the spot.

We focused on the dark landscape, working on our night vision. After a minute it flashed again.

"See if they've got any infrared stuff back there," Sonny said.

"Good idea." I ducked through the opening into the back of the truck and started reading the labels on the equipment drawers, finally spotting one marked: light-gathering scopes.

Inside was a single pair of heavy-duty infrared binoculars. I brought them forward, then settled back into the seat, turned them on, and focused them through the windshield, toward the spot where the flash of light had been.

As they heated up, the picture first turned green, then slowly brightened. I was looking at the same landscape, only now I could see details, almost as if it were daylight. Something was racing around on the desert floor at least two miles away. It was still too far away to tell if it was Smiley's black truck.

"Something's out there. Some kind of vehicle," I said.

Sonny turned the wheel toward the spot and drove up the dirt road, heading deeper into the desert valley full of Joshua trees and cacti. Suddenly, the road veered right and we were running beside a ten-foot-high industrial-strength chain-link fence. Every quarter mile or so there was a large painted sign:

chocolate mountain aerial gunnery range danger explosives!

keep out!

by order of the
U
. S
.
G
overnment

Then under that:

peligro -- explosivos! prohiba la entrada!

por orden de la gobierna de los ustados unidos

Sonny had his eyes on the rutted road, trying to keep from breaking an axle, when I reached over and turned off his headlights.

"What're you doing?" he barked. "Can't see."

"I have a feeling we're gonna end up going in there." I pointed at the range. "I don't think we oughta be advertising our location."

Sonny grunted, but made no move to turn the lights back on.

We were soon passing what appeared to be a massive automobile graveyard. Bombed out wrecks, old county and state vehicles, yellow bulldozers, garbage trucks, and decommissioned road-maintenance equipment loomed behind the chain
-
link. Most of them were scorched by fire or blown to bits, some barely recognizable, others had signs painted on the sides in large white letters: Armored Column, Russian T-62 Tank, SAM Missile.

"What the hell is all this about?" Sonny said, slowing to look as we passed.

"I've heard about this place. Navy and Marine pilots fly practice sorties against all this old junk."

"Is it safe for us to go in there?" Sonny said, suddenly apprehensive.

"If that's where Smiley is, we got no choice."

Then I remembered the slip of paper I'd found out by his trash. I dug it out of my pocket and opened it up. "Pull over for a minute."

Sonny stopped the truck and I turned on the map light.

"Whatta ya got?" he said.

"I found this at his place in Inglewood. I couldn't figure it out back then, but you know what I think it might be?" Sonny shook his head, puzzled.

"A Marine Corps firing mission. MCAS could stand for Marine Corps Air Station. YUMA is the Yuma air wing. TACTS could be like Tactical Air Combat Training or Combat Target Systems--something."

We both studied the sheet
.

.

PG783783

N 33 13 57.1

W 11505 16.6

LIVE ORD

MECH INFANTRY REIN

PG726796

N 33 14 39.9

W 11508 58.2

LIVE ORD

SA-6 Site

PG771820

W 115 06 01.1

LIVE ORD

ARMORED COLUMN

PG773815

N 33 15 38.1

W 115 05 54.3

LIVE ORD

SAM SITE

PG735806

N 33 15 12

W 115 08 18.5

LIVE ORD

MECH INFANTRY

PG7718803

N 33 15 02.9

W 115 09 27.5

LIVE ORD

MECH INFANTRY REIN

PG771772

N 33 13 14.5

W 11505 57.4

LIVE ORD

NE-SW AIRFIELD W/SAM, AAA, RADAR SITES

PG736809

N 33 15 23.6

W 11508 17

LIVE ORD

MT. BARROW

NE-SW AIRFIELD W/SAM SITES

PG895707

N 33 09 42.1

W 114 58 10.8

LIVE ORD

.

"I don't know what column one is, but column two is the target description," I continued. "Mechanized Infantry, Armored Column, SAM site. They drag these old garbage trucks and bulldozers out on the gunnery range, set them up to look like armored columns or a SAM missile site, then the jet jocks roll in and hit all this stuff with Tomahawk missiles. Column three is something. Numbers--I don't know what."

"Could be the coordinates of the target. The latitude and longitude." Sonny said.

"No, it looks more like military time. Thirteen thirty-five hours is one thirty-five p
. M
. Columns five and six look like the coordinates. That N33.13 would be longitude, W115.05, latitude. Then the next column says LIVE ORD. Means they're shooting hot ammo."

"As opposed to what?" He grinned. "Rubber pellets?"

"Inerts. We trained with the air wing when I was in the Corps. Inert ordnance is like bombs made out of concrete. They use that stuff to test for target accuracy, but it doesn't explode."

"And that last column?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"So why did Smiley print this out?" Sonny asked.

"I don't have a clue," I answered. Again, we sat in silence. "Okay, we have a couple of ways to go here. Your choice," I said.

"Don't do that 'your choice' BS on me again, Shane. I remember the choice you gave me up at Hidden Ranch Road."

"Hey, Sonny, if we call the authorities, the Marines are gonna chopper out here in those big double proppers, bullhorn this place, and before they can catch him, Smiley will be long gone across the border into Mexico. Let's just go under the wire and get this puke."

"With no backup."

"Our backup is five miles south of this range, still up on the mountain, and we've got the truck."

He thought about it for a minute, nodded. "Okay, I'm down. Let's see if we can find where he went in."

I checked my cell phone again. Still no signal. We continued past the auto graveyard until, off to the right, I saw a wash leading away from the gunnery range with a lot of dune buggy tracks marking the deep sand.

"Turn down there," I said, "Follow those tire tracks. Somebody must live down there. Maybe we can find out more about this place and use their phone to call in the locals."

Sonny hung a right and headed into the wash. The SWAT truck was muscular but heavy, and the minute we slowed, the tires started to dig in and spin. Sonny had to keep the speed up or we'd be stuck. We followed the tracks. Then, off to the right, I spotted a small homestead. A trailer and junkyard sat next to a fenced parking area containing a bunch of radical-looking sand rails. I estimated we were about a mile east of the gunnery range.

"Pull up," I said.

"If I stop we're never gonna get dug out," Sonny answered.

"We have to take a chance. We can't off-road in this truck. Look what's parked back there. Just stop," I said.

We rolled to a stop and our tires immediately sank into the soft sand. Behind the six-foot-high fence we counted half a dozen unpainted dune buggy-like vehicles of various sizes. All were equipped with big, exposed V-8 engines and had massive tractor tires on the rear wheels, with smaller ones up front. The buggies were light and lean with open cockpits, bucket seats, and no windshields. A few had large flatbeds resting between the rear axles. None of them had headlights.

The chain-link gate was bolted shut with a large heavy-duty padlock. Off to the left an old, rusted-out silver Airstream trailer was parked under a lone olive tree. All the lights were off inside. No phone wires anywhere. Whoever lived here was some kind of recluse. I walked to the trailer, climbed up on a creaking wood porch, pulled out my badge and knocked on the front door. It didn't look like anybody was home. Sonny followed and stood behind me.

"What kinda fool lives out here, less than a mile from a live gunnery range?" he asked.

"Desert Rat," I said. "Since nobody's home to lend us one of those dune buggies, whatta you say we just borrow one and call it a police emergency?"

"How? They're all locked up," Sonny said.

"I think I saw some bolt cutters in the back."

Sonny nodded and took off running to the truck. He returned with a set of heavy-duty bolt cutters, put them on the padlock, and easily clipped through it. Then he carried the cutters back to the truck and disappeared inside.

When he reappeared he was carrying two AR-15s and four circular C-mag hundred-round clips. He reset the complicated alarm on the truck, while I swung the metal gate open. He handed me one of the AR-15s and two of the heavy C-mags. Then we surveyed the motor pool.

"How 'bout this one here?" Sonny said, checking out a two
-
seat racer with no flatbed. He unscrewed the gas cap and stuck his index finger inside. "Full. I can hot-wire it easy."

A few minutes later Sonny had unhooked the ignition wires, twisted them together, and we had the sand rail going. It had straight pipes with no muffler, and the roaring engine fractured the still desert night. I climbed into the passenger seat. The owner had screwed in a metal pole between the seats, about where the windshield would be. The thick mast went up about a foot above our heads and had a huge bolt welded to the top.

"What's this thing for?" Sonny said, pointing at it.

"It probably ain't for water skiing," I quipped. "Let's get out of here."

I stacked the two automatic weapons between us, then Sonny hit the gas and we careened out of the enclosure, passing our SWAT truck sitting low in soft sand.

We raced back up the wash to the gunnery range fence, turned right, and continued running on the road beside the range, which was situated in a desert valley halfway between the Chocolate and Chuckwalla mountains. We were speeding along under a quarter moon, without a windshield or headlights, the wind stinging our eyes, tears streaming down our faces, running almost blind at about forty miles per hour in a two-seat dune buggy with no suspension. I was bouncing hard and holding on with both hands. Every time we hit a pothole my cracked ribs talked to me. After this ride, I was going to need to get my prostate checked.

Up ahead I saw a spot where somebody had cut a hole in the government fence. I pointed at it and Sonny steered over and parked. I got out and peeled back the wire flap. He slowly edged the rumbling, vibrating dune buggy through the opening and I jumped back aboard.

We were inside the restricted area of the Chocolate Mountain Aerial Gunnery Range.

I still had the night vision binoculars around my neck, so I pulled them up and focused them toward the center of the vast area. There had to be thousands of acres out here. I saw burned cacti and sand charred black from Nadaum drops. It looked apocalyptic, as desolate and bombed-out as any place on earth. Then I noticed a small outcropping of low buildings a mile or two away. I pointed them out to Sonny but didn't speak, because the straight pipes on the sand rail were so loud I would have had to scream to be heard. Sonny floored it and we were off again, heading toward the buildings, flying over the sand, jumping berms, Sonny driving like a man who had lost his mind.

As we approached I saw that this was some kind of target town. There were two or three transecting streets and a main drag. The houses were all one-story, built out of adobe bricks and corrugated metal. Many of them had been leveled by past bombing runs, then rebuilt and tumbled down again. We slowed the sand rail and came to a stop on the outskirts of this little unmanned village. Our engine idle filled the night and vibrated the sand rail energetically. A hand-painted sign was posted directly in front of us. It said:

cactus west city limits
.

Chapter
47

DEADLY
PREMONITION

Sonny pulled slowly into Cactus West and drove through the little empty village once, taking each street to the end before turning around and retracing the route. After we looked the place over he turned off the engine.

"Wait here," I told him and found a building that had a tumbled down wall I could use to climb up to the roof, one story up. I stood gingerly on the flexing corrugated metal and surveyed the flat, ugly terrain. From up there I had a good view of the desert gunnery range. I could see more vast, blackened napalm drops. The few yucca trees that had survived were also scorched black. I slowly scanned the landscape with the night vision binoculars. The strong lenses pulled the eastern mountain range into focus.

The Dodge was parked about half a mile away. I saw a figure that had to be Smiley, walking around examining things on the ground. He picked up something large and loaded it into the back of his truck. It was hard to make out what he was up to, because he was so far away. The night scope bathed everything in a strange green hue but afforded me a lightened view of the area. As I watched, Smiley got behind the wheel, the truck started up, then turned and headed right toward us.

I scrambled down off the roof and ran back to the sand rail.

"He's coming this way," I shouted.

"The black truck?"

"Yep. Pull this thing around behind that bombed-out shed." I pointed to a structure that had only three sides. "Back it in so you're heading out. Gimme one of those AR-fifteens."

Sonny handed me a carbine with a hundred-round clip, then twisted the ignition wires, restarted the rail, and drove it around to the back side of the nearest building. He put the dune buggy in reverse, backed it in, and shut it down. Suddenly the desert was very still. A second later Sonny ran toward me carrying the second AR-15, jamming in one of the large C-mags and tromboning the slide.

The temperature fluctuation out here was amazing. Over a hundred degrees at noon, it was now close to freezing. The stars twinkled and winked as if somebody had punched a load of buckshot through a dark blue blanket. The quarter moon shed almost no light on the little uninhabited town.

"Let's set up a cross fire," I said.

"I'll take that wall over there." Sonny pointed to a bombed
-
out structure that would give him waist-high cover if he was standing, and would completely hide him when he kneeled. I picked a little square adobe shed with an open front window and corrugated tin roof. I pointed to it and we split up to take cover.

Way off across the desert we began to hear the sound of th
e t
ruck approaching, its engine growing louder, growling in low gear. It sounded like he had it in four-wheel drive to keep from sinking into the sand. Less than a minute later headlights appeared around the far end of the last building in Cactus West. The high beams shot light up the center street of the empty town. I was hunkered down under the small window, holding the AR-15 at port arms, listening to his truck engine idling. Then I rose up cautiously and peeked over the top of the window frame.

"I see you, asshole," Smiley shouted, then opened up on my position.

The walls all around me started to disintegrate. I immediately knew from the sound and fury of his weapon that this time he wasn't firing an AK-47. He was shooting at us with a .50
-
caliber Browning machine gun. The huge antitank exploding rounds were cutting the bricks in half, knocking my cover down around me with devastating efficiency. The .50 slugs contained exploding tips. If he kept this up, my little adobe shack would soon be dust. Sonny opened up on him trying to take some pressure off me.

Smiley laughed maniacally, then turned the weapon on the low wall where Sonny was hiding. I heard the exploding shells tearing Sonny's cover down. I popped up and squeezed off a twenty-round burst. The .223 bullets ripped into the truck, but didn't seem to be doing much damage. Before I could fire a second burst, Smiley spun back and started unloading on my little adobe shack again.

The AR-15 is a good assault rifle, but it's no match for a .50
-
caliber antitank weapon. Adding to the problem were the truck's high beams that were shining right at us, blinding me.

Sonny made a move away from the crumbled wall, firing the AR-15 as he ran. I popped up and gave him some cover fire. He dove behind an old burned-out van just as Smiley started ripping holes through it. Suddenly he stopped shooting and I hear
d h
is engine accelerate. The black truck sped right down Center Street. I caught a glimpse of him as he roared past. His eyes were wide, the cords of his neck bulging. Then his tail lights receded as he headed back out into the desert.

Sonny was on his feet, running toward me. "He's got us outgunned with that thing!"

"Get the rail. We're going after him," I shouted.

Sonny ran for the dune buggy and got it going, while I stood in the center of town with the night vision binoculars up, watching the truck disappear into the dark desert night, trying to see if he made a turn before I lost sight of him. Sonny skidded to a stop beside me.

I jumped into the passenger seat, Sonny popped the clutch, and we shot out into the gunnery range speeding after Smiley.

We were running at breakneck speed across the desert. The moon was almost no help. The ravines and gullies were hard to see and came up fast in the dark. Sonny was not slowing for any of it, swerving at the last minute to miss the few tall cactus plants that had managed to escape the napalm drops in this charred, bombed-out no-man's-land. Occasionally we were airborne, landing in soft sand throwing a rooster tail off both of the giant rear tractor tires. We were slowly gaining on Smiley, who was forced to use four-wheel drive and couldn't run the truck as fast.