Текст книги "Liberators"

Автор книги: James Wesley Rawles

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

45

LE DERNIER COMBAT

One of the most dangerous errors is that civilization is automatically bound to increase and spread. The lesson of history is the opposite; civilization is a rarity, attained with difficulty and easily lost. The normal state of humanity is barbarism, just as the normal surface of the planet is salt water. Land looms large in our imagination and civilization in history books, only because sea and savagery are to us less interesting.

–C. S. Lewis

Williams Lake, British Columbia—April, the Sixth Year

In the aftermath of the UNPROFOR headquarters bombing, it was learned that most of the casualties had been support and service-support troops. These were mostly pencil-pushing clerks, paymasters, bakers, supply NCOs, mechanics, and various technicians. There were also two French Directorate of Military Intelligence (Direction du Reseignement Militaire or DRM) agents in the building. Those in the French contingent who survived did so by virtue of being out “on the line” when the bombing happened. These were nearly all regular combat troops. The survivors reacted with predictable ferocity. Their new battle cry was: “Leurs têtes vont rouler”—their heads will roll.

All of their old smiles and feigned civility were gone. The UNPROFOR troupes de ligne were now quick on the trigger and had zero tolerance for insolence. There were more checkpoints, more searches, more raids, more arrests, and much more torture. If anyone had doubted it before, British Columbia was now clearly under the iron heel of military occupation. They even stopped cleaning up their messes, allowing ravens to police the battlefield.

The strong resistance in the western provinces—highlighted by the Williams Lake headquarters bombing—was well publicized in the east, and consequently the level of UNPROFOR brutality was stepped up nationwide.

UNPROFOR’s heightened oppression had a surprising effect: Instead of making people cower, it brought out their courage. French patrols could now expect to be sniped at wherever they went. Any UNPROFOR or RCMP vehicle left unattended would soon be firebombed or at least have its tires slashed. NLR and MOLON LABE! graffiti was spray-painted and penned almost everywhere imaginable.

Nearly everyone felt that there would soon be a general uprising, but that subtle breaking point had not yet been reached.

46

THE TRAP

Shortly before World War I, the German Kaiser was the guest of the Swiss government to observe military maneuvers. The Kaiser asked a Swiss militiaman: “You are 500,000 and you shoot well, but if we attack with 1,000,000 men what will you do?” The soldier replied: “We will shoot twice and go home.”

–Historian Stephen Halbrook, as quoted by Bill Buppert in ZeroGov: Limited Government, Unicorns and Other Mythological Creatures

The McGregor Ranch, near Anahim Lake, British Columbia—May, the Sixth Year

The continuing threat of UNPROFOR’s two remaining Gazelle helicopters based at Williams Lake weighed heavily on the minds of the McGregor resistance cell. The helicopters patrolled regularly, and they often engaged at any sign of activity. In several instances, woodcutters and fishermen were strafed without provocation. The FLIR sensors that they carried had been given the menacing nickname “The Eye of Sauron” throughout Canada, making helicopters greatly feared by the resistance.

Since the Gazelles sat in hardened revetments, they were invulnerable to small-arms fire. The helibase was also heavily guarded and lit with infrared floodlights. A Pilatus PC-12 patrol airplane that belonged to the RCMP at the same airport had been covertly sabotaged with a time-delay firebomb—apparently set by another resistance cell or a solo—but there had been no other successful hits in recent weeks. The Team Robinson cell spent many hours brainstorming ideas—everything from fabricating mortars to adulterating the base’s deliveries of JP4 fuel. In early May, news leaked out from the airport that one of the two Gazelle helicopters at Williams Lake was grounded with engine trouble.

It was finally Phil Adams who came up with a workable plan to eliminate the remaining helicopter. Phil had spent hours poring over topographical maps, comparing them with a set of aerial photos that had been pilfered from the unoccupied BC assessment office. Much of the region was a sea of trees, dotted with occasional clearings—either angular clear-cuts or more oblong openings from lightning-sparked timber fires.

When scanning through an aerial map of the area five miles east of Nimpo Lake, Phil spotted one small clearing that was the only open ground within a one-mile radius. If they were going to have a good chance of isolating the helicopter anywhere, then this would be it. By comparing some distinctive curves of a stream bottom, he correlated the aerial photo to the topo map and was pleased to see that the opening was at the edge of a plateau, with a steep descent on one side.

He tapped on the map with a forefinger and said to himself, “Perfect.”

That afternoon he brought the map and aerial photo to present his plan to Ray and Alan, who had just come in from doing some fence work. They sat down across the kitchen table wearing their socks. (Claire was strict about allowing muddy boots in the house.)

Phil began, “I think I’ve found a way to ambush the last functional ALAT Gazelle at the helibase. If we present them with a target that they can’t engage effectively from the air, they’ll probably want to insert airmobile troops or an artillery forward observer. But we’ve seen that the ALATs certainly don’t like fast roping.”

“Mauviettes!” Ray blurted out.

“Yep, they’re wimps. Operationally, they’ve demonstrated that they prefer to pop into open LZs and land briefly or just hover for a few seconds to drop off troops.”

Ray jumped in. “So we create an attractive target and make them want to use a nearby LZ on a promontory terrain feature that we already have covered.”

“So how do we then take out the helicopter? With IEDs?” Alan asked.

“Much simpler than that: We use five-eighth-inch steel cable. There’s miles of it available, with all of the old logging operations around here. A steel cable in the main rotor will ruin your whole day.”

Ray shook his head and chided, “So we string a cable over an opening. Even if we were to paint the cable to make it blend in, depending on the lighting, they’d probably spot the cable and divert at the last minute.”

Phil pointed his forefinger toward the floor and said, “Not if the cable is hidden in the grass.”

Ray cocked his head. “What? How’s that going to work?”

“I’ll explain it all to you when we hike out there for a recon.”

•   •   •

Rigging the LZ for helicopter ambush took some time, but the terrain was advantageous, from the size of the trees to the steep drop-off just east of the clearing. One end of the cable was attached with three cable clamps in a row, twenty-four feet up a large cedar tree on the northwest edge of the opening. The cable was left slack, so that it touched the ground at the base of the tree. It was then threaded as deeply as possible through the knee-high grass, diagonally across the middle of the oblong seventy-yard-wide opening. At the southeast side of the opening there was a large cottonwood tree with a wide fork twenty-five feet off the ground. The cable was tossed over that fork, but again left slack on the side that faced the opening. The far end of the cable was carefully aligned through the trees to a large, dying western larch tree at the edge of the drop-off.

Now came the tricky part. Using a girth strap and a pair of tree-topper’s climbing spikes, Ray quickly climbed thirty-five feet up the larch, hoping that the tree wasn’t rotten at the core.

Watching him climb so deftly, Phil said, “Hey, that’s pretty slick. You climb with a purpose.”

Ray shouted back, “Just a Jedi trick that I learned from my cousin Obi-Wan.”

Phil laughed. Ray often joked about the actor Ewan McGregor, who shared their surname. He kidded about the actor being a first cousin, when he was more likely a fiftieth cousin.

Trailing from his belt was fifty feet of parachute cord. Once he’d reached the desired height, he reset his boot spikes solidly and leaned back in the strap. He felt solid, but the situation still made him nervous. Climbing a dying tree that might be rotted or hollowed out by wood ants was a dicey proposition.

He shouted down to Phil, “Okay, tie on the cable with a sheet bend and a half hitch!”

“Ummm . . . okay. What’s a sheet bend?”

“You’re such a rear-echelon pogue. Just use four or five half-hitches, and then stand well clear in case you screw up, so you don’t put your eye out.”

“Okay.”

Pulling up the paracord hand over hand, Ray pulled up the free end of the cable. After untying the paracord, he flung the cable around the tree. He misjudged the length required, so he had to adjust and try twice more before he was able to grab the free end. When he finally did, the needlelike frayed end of the cable filament drew blood from the meat of his hand. (He wasn’t wearing gloves because he would soon be working with the nuts on the cable clamps.) Ray visibly winced.

Phil shouted up from the ground, “Ooh, that’s gotta hurt.”

“Yeah, thanks for the sympathy, pal.”

He pulled up the slack in the cable so there was just a slight sag in the portion that ran back to the big tree fork. Pinching the cable back on itself took the full strength of one hand, and he knew that positioning the first cable clamp and its pair of nuts would require the use of two more hands, leaving him one hand short. He had come prepared with some plastic cable ties. Pulling one of the ties tightly gave just enough tension to free up his left hand so that he could position the cable clamps. Even so, it was tricky and exhausting. He dropped two of the hexagonal nuts in the process, but fortunately he had brought spares. By the time he was done torqueing down the pair of Nylock nuts on the third cable clamp, sweat was dripping off the end of his nose.

He put the socket wrench back in his tool-belt bag, and shouted, “Okay. Done here. Coming down.”

When he reached the ground, Ray said, “Okay. The North Woods Lumberjack phase is done. Now it’s your turn, Mr. Gee Whiz Explosives Expert.”

Phil shook his head and said, “I’m no expert, but I think I can fake it.”

Phil had already sized up the tree. It was leaning slightly downhill, which was good. Rather than attaching the explosives at the base, he opted to position them six feet up the trunk. Here, the girth of the trunk was 30 percent smaller.

The explosives they had were not ideal for the job—he would have preferred to use C4 plastic explosives—but the dynamite sticks would suffice. Phil started out by reexamining the sticks of DuPont dynamite. They were the 80 percent variety, with diatomaceous earth filler, and brown cases and red warning labels. He checked them for any signs of weeping or leaking. The cases looked dry, and that made him feel less tense.

Phil spent a few minutes whittling a stick to a fine point, smaller than a pencil. He used this to drill transverse holes in the middle of eight of the dynamite sticks. Next, he dug a claw hammer and a handful of eight-penny nails out of his pack. Walking to the uphill side of the tree, he sighted upward and aligned a nail with the cable that was stretched back toward the opening. He reached up, and standing on his backpack, he drove a nail into the trunk at a forty-five-degree angle, at nearly nine feet off the ground. The head of the nail was angled upward.

Then he walked around the tree and did his best to estimate the counterpoint of the nail that he had just driven. He used a nail point to scratch a vertical mark, six feet off the ground. He drove the nail in at that spot with just a couple of light taps of the hammer. Then he stood back to size up the positions of the two nails. He walked around the tree twice, at a distance of five paces. He judged the angle at which the tree was leaning again. Not satisfied with the position of the lower nail, he repositioned it upward four inches and two inches to the right. Then he repeated his inspection walk. Finally, he drove the second nail straight into the tree trunk, leaving just one inch exposed.

He said softly, “This’ll be the center point of the lower charge.”

Ray gulped and said, “Whatever you say. You’re the expert.” After a pause, he added, “Is this something scientific, or is this all seat-of-your-pants Kentucky windage I’m witnessing?”

Phil palmed the side of the tree twice as he answered. “A little of both, I reckon. A lot of it will depend on just how solid the core of this tree is. I’ll try to err on the side of caution, and this old boy being more stout than he looks.”

He knelt and carefully threaded the end of a twenty-foot length of green parachute cord through the holes that bisected all six of the dynamite sticks. He then positioned them vertically in a flat bundle, straddling the lower nail.

“I’ll hold these in place, with each of them flat against the trunk, while you give it a couple of wraps around the trunk.”

Ray did as he was asked. Once the line was loosely around the tree trunk, he asked, “How tight?”

“Tight enough so that they won’t budge, but not so tight that the paracord digs into the cases. I’ll let you know.”

Ray applied tension to the paracord as Phil watched.

Phil nodded and said, “That’s good. Tie it off.”

Phil then began wrapping detonating cord at a forty-five-degree angle around the trunk of the tree with the high end looped around the uphill nail and the low end of the coil passing over the sticks of dynamite. In all, he applied twelve concentric wraps of the explosive-filled detonating cord. His goal was to have the det cord cut a deep gash around the tree while simultaneously collapsing the downhill-rear side of the trunk, by means of the larger dynamite charge.

They spent another twenty minutes camouflaging their handiwork with slabs of bark (attached with commo wire) and festoons of light green old man’s beard moss.

As they worked, Phil said, “You know, with tamping, we could get by with only half this much dynamite.”

“Yeah, but with the charge that far up the tree, and it being on the downhill side, it would take a great big long brace to hold a box or maybe a burlap sack of tamping mud, and the sight of that would be all too obvious from the air.”

“I agree.”

The final step in the process was using the sharpened stick to puncture the ends of two of the dynamite sticks, and then insert a pair of electric blasting caps. Their wires were secured with plastic cable ties in place of the traditional tied girth hitches. Although these were wires connected in parallel to a piece of commo wire, they were left shunted for safety.

The commo wire was carefully routed around the small meadow and led up to an observer’s position twenty-five yards east of the opening. Here, by looking straight down the length of the cable, the observer could determine the precise moment to explosively fell the larch. They were confident that the falling tree would hoist the “chopper stopper” cable to full height in just a couple of seconds.

47

THE CHEESE

Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.

–Benjamin Franklin

Near Nimpo Lake, British Columbia—May, the Sixth Year

After some discussion, it was decided that the key observer’s position should be an earth-covered trench to provide thermal shielding, thus countering any use of FLIRs. They also decided to bury the commo wire just a few inches under the ground. Then two more trenches with overhead cover were constructed—one for Alan at the east edge of the opening, and one for Phil at the north end. Each of these took the four men a full day to construct and camouflage.

The “cheese” for their trap was a smoky campfire. Stan, who was the fastest runner of the three, had both the hazardous and tedious task of keeping the campfire going and walking back and forth to the cable ambush site, doing his best not to leave a trail. His hide, ninety feet north of the east end of the cable, was the only vertical entrenchment. It had a unique tablelike top cover with a waterproofed sod covering that afforded him a view of both the landing zone opening and the smoke plume from the bait camp.

Once they had the entrenchments and the “cheese” camp set up, they had Malorie translate and transcribe a short handwritten note composed by Claire. The original had read:

Messieurs,

I am a proud loyalist. I have a reliable report that there is a bandit training camp being built about five kilometers to the northeast of Nimpo Lake. I trust that you will find this information useful. Amitiés.

—Giselle

The note, in a sealed envelope, was passed to a gate guard at the new Williams Lake UNPROFOR Headquarters (the old Service BC building on Borland Street) by an eleven-year-old boy on a bicycle.

•   •   •

The Gazelle arrived the following afternoon. The pilot wasted no time and began orbiting the bait camp, which was in heavy timber six hundred yards northeast of the cable ambush opening. Predictably, as the Gazelle orbited in a counterclockwise direction, the door gunner poured four hundred rounds of 7.62 into the vicinity of the base of the smoke plume at the “fromage camp.”

The Gazelle then swung into an even wider orbit and headed for the opening that Team Robinson had rigged. Phil waited until the helicopter slowed and its skids were about to touch ground. The cable was about eight feet ahead of the helicopter’s nose. With a diameter of thirty-three feet, six inches, the rotor disc made for a big target.

Phil whispered to himself, “Perfect,” and twisted the handle on the ten-cap blasting machine. The explosives at the base of the big larch tree went off with a loud bang, and the tree fell. Before the Gazelle pilot could react, the cable snapped up out of the grass just as planned. In an instant, the cable caught in the rotor, the helicopter spun violently, and the three fiberglass composite rotor blades were sheared off. Two men were thrown out, and the fuselage pitched violently over on its side. The helicopter’s fuselage thrashed around violently on the ground like a gored beast, and it spun 270 degrees before coming to a halt. The stubs of the rotors, now hitting the ground, were further shortened as the rotor mast shuddered to a stop amid a cloud of dust, dirt clods, and tufts of grass.

One four-foot-long shard from one of the helicopter rotor blades came bouncing across the meadow directly toward Phil’s hide. Though it passed harmlessly overhead, it made Phil gasp. If the shard had flown a few feet lower, his fate would have been much different.

Either the pilot had shut down the Turbomeca turbine engine, or some automatic safety feature triggered a shutdown, because it soon was quiet enough for the ambushers to hear shouts from inside the Gazelle’s fuselage.

There were four ALAT personnel still onboard. The two others who had been thrown free in the crash were not moving. One of them was clearly dead—since the top half of his body was fifteen feet away from his pelvis and legs.

The fuselage was lying on its side. The shorn rotor mast had stopped spinning. A wisp of smelly white smoke was coming from the engine compartment, apparently from leaking oil that had reached something hot. The door gun’s muzzle was pointed straight upward. After more shouting from inside the helicopter, the pilot, copilot, and door gunner all crawled out in rapid succession. They were apparently not badly injured in the crash. The pilot and copilot started shooting wildly at the tree line with PA-50 9mm pistols. Meanwhile, the door gunner was reaching up, attempting to detach his FN-MAG-58 light machine gun from the mount.

Phil had a good angle on the pilot, and Alan had line of sight to the copilot and door gunner. With deliberate neck shots, all three of the men were shot down and bleeding out in less than twenty seconds.

The ambushers quickly advanced on the downed helicopter, firing coup de grâce head shots once they were within forty feet. Inside, they found another crewman dead, apparently from a broken neck. His weapon was a FAMAS bullpup, but it had a bent barrel and a broken stock. They decided to bring it with them to use for spare parts.

Phil exclaimed, “Hoo boy! This is better than a box of Cracker Jacks. I always wanted an M240, and here’s a MAG-58, which is almost identical.”

He detached the machine gun from its dogleg mount and examined it. Except for a scraped flash hider and a gouge in the pistol grip, the MAG had survived the crash intact. Once it was detached, it could be fired from its bipod. The door mount included a four-hundred-round ammo box of linked ammunition, but the gun could also be operated from a teaser belt and a Bulldog two-hundred-round camouflage nylon shoulder bag that they also found onboard. In addition to the four hundred linked rounds in the ammo can and the two hundred linked rounds in the Bulldog bag, there were one thousand rounds of ammo in narrow, brown-painted European-style two-hundred-round ammo cans. All of the ammo was FN-made 7.62mm NATO, a four-to-one alternating mix of ball ammo and tracers.

Ray warned, “Okay, the clock is ticking. We need to strip anything useful off this bird, burn it, and get out of here before they send anyone to investigate.”

They worked quickly. There wasn’t any time to remove the Gazelle’s built-in avionics. They did strip a notebook and a callsign/frequency card from a clear pocket that was built into the pilot’s flight suit, just above his knee. They also took a satchel that held a sectional aeronautical chart and a notebook. The loose belt of ammo for the door gun, ammo cans, six extra FAMAS magazines, the two pistols, and the broken FAMAS carbine were all distributed and stowed in their backpacks. Almost as an afterthought, Alan pulled out the helicopter’s plastic first-aid chest and stuffed it into his own pack, along with one of the two-hundred-round ammo cans. Phil carried the twenty-eight-pound MAG and the Bulldog bag. Since he was also carrying his M4, his combined load was almost eighty pounds.

They walked thirty-five yards to the tree line at the north end of the opening. Phil got down prone and pulled back the cartridge from the loose end of the MAG’s teaser belt and clipped on the first cartridge from the Bulldog bag. He fired two short bursts from the MAG into the Gazelle’s fuel tanks. The tracer bullets (interspersed every fifth round on the belt) soon set the fuel ablaze.

A year before the Crunch, Phil had the chance to buy a nearly new semiauto version of the M240 light machine gun, made by Ohio Ordnance Works, but he had balked at the eleven-thousand-dollar price tag. In retrospect, when the purchasing power of his savings dropped to nearly nothing and the value of an M240 soared to an incalculable level, he wished that he had bought it. Now, with the capture of the MAG, he felt redeemed from his previous mistake.

Alan shouted, “As they often say in the French army: ‘Nous devons fuir!’”

They did just that. They ran away, heading into the dense timber to the north. They didn’t slow down until an hour and a half later, when they had covered five miles of rough ground.