Uncertain Justice

Once he'd passed underneath, he ran around the massive boulder over which his enemies had appeared and scrambled into the gaping maw of its "mouth." He was out of sight for the moment; the helicopter crew and passengers lost him when he went behind the stone formation.

They were confused when they didn't pick him up again after coming back around full circle. From the air, the "mouth" where Miles hid seemed too small a place for a full-grown man could hide.

They spent the next ten minutes cruising in a spiral outward from the strangely shaped rock without seeing him. Then they returned to the point where they'd last seen him ... and found him.

Running hard, they saw Underwood drop into a narrow space between two boulders. The helicopter drifted closer so they wouldn't lose him again. The search parties were working their way closer all the time. It would all be over soon.

§

He'd had enough. They'd cut him off from escape in every direction and for the past hour or so, the damned chopper had dogged his trail without letup. There was nowhere he could go that they couldn't get to first. Even if he got to where he could climb down the mesa wall, they would have plenty of time to set up a welcoming committee at the bottom.

He had to break contact or give himself up; he wasn't going to do that.

Reassembling the sniper rifle was easy. It was specifically designed to be field stripped and put back together without tools and in rough environments. While he worked, he concentrated on controlling his breathing. If he continued to gulp air at his current rate, the movement of his chest would be transmitted through his arms to the weapon itself. The gun muzzle would wander through a big circle, making it impossible to shoot accurately.

Leaping out of the Skull's 'mouth', he ran for a field of boulders some fifty yards away. He was seen ... he hadn't even considered that he wouldn't be ... and the helicopter triumphantly swept closer, the crew apparently intending to land their fast reaction team a couple of hundred yards away.

When Miles rose from behind the concealing rock, the chopper was a slow moving target tracking from right to left. The Barrett was capable of putting a .50 caliber round into a man-sized target at nearly a mile's distance. Two hundred yards was less than pointblank range--with the twelve-power scope, he would have to try hard to miss from here. He wasn't going to try that, not today.

§

The co-pilot saw it first. The big, ungainly rifle pointing in their direction was unmistakably a deadly threat. He screamed a warning to the pilot, who was on the controls at the moment. He was stammering unintelligibly though; no one could understand him.

The pilot scanned all the cockpit gauges warning lights first, thinking there was something wrong with the aircraft. Finding nothing, his eyes came up. His partner's pointing finger showed him the danger. The pilot began to turn the helicopter away even as he dialed in more power. The thunder of the two engines began to increase, but slowly ... far too slowly.

§

Miles barely had enough time to catch his breath and he wondered if he'd ever breathe slowly and comfortably again. His pulse rate was still high. This wasn't good for expert marksmanship, but the range was short. Miles focused on the CH-53's left side engine and squeezed off a round.

It was a big target, much bigger than the man-sized targets on which he'd trained in the Army and the bullet hit exactly where he was aiming. The armor-piercing slug cut through the metal skin without slowing down materially and tore into the engine, promptly shattering the gearing and sending shrapnel flying. Two razor sharp fragments of metal ripped into one impeller blade and sheared it off its mounting. Unbalanced by the loss, the other rotating blades began to tear themselves apart.

A second and third round smashed into the engine and then a fourth. The last was an incendiary round and it sparked a flash fire. Ruptured fuel lines poured raw aviation gas poured onto the fire and the flames spread quickly. Smoke poured from the rear of the motor cowling.

A grinding crunch of destroyed machine parts signaled the end of the damaged engine. The pilot starting working fast to shut it off even before fire warning lights blossomed on the instrument panel but the spinning turbo fans inside the engine tore themselves to shreds anyway.

Pieces slashed out through the thin metal skin on the side away from the bullet's impact points and knifed into the other engine. That one began to tear itself apart too. The helicopter lurched in the air and turned away, smoke pouring from both engines.

Leaping on top of a waist-high boulder to see better, Miles watched the damaged aircraft limp toward the mesa's edge. The pilot didn't seem to be trying to gain any altitude but he was trying to put distance between himself and the ambush.

Soon it was clear he wasn't going to make it back to the main camp, or even off the escarpment. Miles watched as the thing descend erratically. The pilot couldn't have had a lot of control, it surged upward only to fall precipitously. In moments, it dropped out of sight over a low rise.

There was a crushing roar of torn metal.

§

It was more a crash than a landing. The second engine had failed ten feet up and the flailing rotors had been able only to slow the fall, not prevent it. Slamming into the unforgiving rock, the helicopter's underside was smashed and the craft tilted dangerously on the gentle slope where they'd come to rest.

Still moving at high speed, the rotors tried to slash into the rock but were torn apart, the individual blades ripping off and bounding away, tumbling and spinning. Two scrawny trees that got in the way were sheered off and sent flying themselves.

Still, rough as it was, the landing was a good one as defined by pilots ... they would walk away from it. Dazed by the impact with the mesa's rocky surface, the pilot looked out his side of the helicopter without comprehending what he saw. They had come to rest barely twenty yards from the precipice. They'd been incredibly fortunate. If the engine had failed after they passed over the edge, they'd had fallen hundreds of feet to the valley floor below. The crackling of flames above his head finally penetrated.

"Get out," he yelled at his co-pilot. Recovering himself, his partner nodded and opened the big window at his side. In seconds he was out and sliding down the metal side of the helicopter to the ground. The pilot unhooked his harness and turned inside to drop into the cargo area. Bodies were piled on top of each other, but everyone seemed to still be capable of moving. They were getting in each other's way trying to get up though.

Ruthlessly, the pilot grabbed an arm that came within reach and hauled its owner erect by main force. Once that man was on his feet, the pilot seized another limb and then a third. There was room to maneuver through the compartment now and he crab walked up the slope to the cargo doors. They'd buckled slightly and were jammed in the closed position. He wrestled with them for a long moment with help from the crew chief beside him and from the co-pilot outside. The doors gave way and cold mountain air began to flood into the interior of the wrecked machine. The pilot began to throw people out to his co-pilot.

They helped each other to stagger alongside the cliff until they'd gained enough distance for them to feel safe. Many sank to the ground; all turned to watch the burning helicopter. For the most part, they'd forgotten why they were here. They'd survived the wreck and that was enough for the moment.

§

Miles couldn't see the flames but the thick cloud of black smoke towered into the darkening sky. It marked the position of one group of pursuers very clearly. He didn't know where the other two groups were but he'd managed to destroy their aerial surveillance.

Now there was a good chance he could resume his escape down to the south, assuming there wasn't another chopper on the way; he'd have to leave that God 'cause Miles didn't have a say in whether one was en route or not.

He turned to look south, thinking to check for signs of either of the search parties before he dropped off the boulder. He felt the burn across the top of his right shoulder an instant before he heard the crack of the rifle.

Diving into the space between two boulders, Miles crawled on elbows and knees to the edge of the rock field before stopping. The shot had come from the north and from not far away. He had to move fast. Evidently, one of the bands of hunters had been attracted by the smoke from the crash and had found him far earlier than he'd estimated.

He cautiously peered over a boulder the size of a large sofa, searching for the shooters. He saw them, six heads projecting over a low rise in the terrain a hundred yards off.

Yanking the Barrett up and around, he squeezed off a round in their direction and saw dust leap from a rock near the largest man's feet. All six went to ground and turned in his direction to open fire.

Miles ducked as bullets began to snap past his ears. Crawling again, he wormed his way further west, trying to move in a wide circle around them.

§

"GOT 'IM! God damn his soul!" Brady yelled, talking to no one in particular. "The sorry bastard is dead."

He'd seen of the fugitive before anyone else in his group and fired instantly. Marshal Owens hadn't initially seen what the Deputy Attorney General was shooting at, catching sight only of a falling body a hundred yards away.

Caught off guard by Brady's shot, Owens and his two deputies went to ground, scrambling for any cover they could find, while Brady and his two staffers stood watching the boulders where Underwood had disappeared.

After a moment, the marshal and deputies got to their feet.

"God dammit, what the hell do you think you're doing," snarled the tall U.S. Marshal. Brady swung around to face Owens, amazement spreading over his features. Astonished by the words and more astounded at the tone in Owens's voice, Brady didn't speak.

"NOW what are we supposed to do, Mister Brady?" Owens asked the surprised Department of Justice bureaucrat. Owens had just reprimanded a senior FBI agent for allowing his team to shoot at a fleeing, apparently unarmed Underwood ... and in Brady's presence. Now Brady had done essentially the same thing.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" asked Brady quizzically. "That was who we came out here to get, or have you forgotten?" He was genuinely perplexed, but he'd recovered from the surprise enough to start feeling anger. This marshal worked for Brady, not the other way around, and it had been a long time since the politician had had to take any kind of chastisement from anyone.

"You can't just start shooting at someone," Marshal Owens explained, surprising himself with the evenness of his voice. "What you just did, sir, would be considered murder in a Federal court."

Owens bit his lips as the idea penetrated through Brady's shield of arrogance. The man blanched at the concept of a murder trial. Then another thought came to him.

"Preposterous," he retorted. "The man was firing at our helicopter ... he shot it down, in fact. All I did was return fire; I was trying to keep him from shooting again ... maybe at us. Hell, he probably just killed everyone that was on the helicopter!" The last words came in a rush as the defense of his actions came to him.

"Yeah," Owens said wearily, "you were just making sure he didn't kill us. Okay, Mr. Brady, we'll see how that plays. The whole thing is going to go in my report of course." Owens looked down at Brady and snorted his distaste for the diminutive senior official. He shook his head in disgust.

Brady's eyes bulged and his face flushed beet red. "You can take your report and shove it up your...." he sneered. Whatever else he'd been about to say was cut short by the booming report from a high caliber rifle.

A heavy slug smashed a rock by Marshal Owens's left foot and screamed away into the distance. After a stunned moment of disbelief, all six men dove for the ground and started shooting.

Only one of the deputies actually had a target ... and it vanished almost immediately. He kept pumping rounds out in the direction where the fugitive and his long barreled rifle had disappeared again.

§

Miles crawled as fast as he could manage in the rough ground all the way around the men shooting at him and got to the massive boulder he called Skull Rock without any bullets coming near him. They were still firing intermittently, but he didn't know at what.

Without pausing for rest, he slipped inside the gaping mouth and retrieved the M-4 carbine he'd left there when he took the Barrett sniper rifle minutes earlier. He was almost out of ammo for the Barrett ... he had a half dozen full magazines for the M-4. Outside again, he moved purposefully in the direction of the shooting.

Five minutes of slow stalking brought Miles close to the place where the six lay hidden, shooting at shadows in the gathering dusk. He got on his belly and began snaking his way through the field of boulders toward the men.

Abruptly, a darker shadow detached itself from a massive slab of stone in front of him and stood up straight. Taking quick aim, Miles fired, deliberately holding the M-4's muzzle low. He watched the man disappear as the high velocity bullet knocked him off his feet.

Cradling the M-4 in his arms, Miles crawled again, moving twenty yards west before he cautiously peered between two rocks toward the place where the rest of the group of law enforcement officers seemed to be concealed.

§

Owens whirled around at the report of the rifle behind them and the nearly simultaneous scream of pain. He saw his female deputy thrashing around on the ground behind him. Drawing his pistol, he threw a half dozen quick rounds in the direction of the rifle report.

Scrambling on hands and knees, he got to the deputy and dragged her into a shallow depression. Working fast, he got a tourniquet around her upper thigh and tore open her BDU pants to examine the wound. To his relief, the small hole was a little to the outside of her thigh, too far away from the femoral artery on the inside of the thigh and the bullet probably hadn't done more than nick the thighbone either.

Owens had seen a man die from a leg wound once. The femoral artery on the inside of the thigh had been cut and retracted inside the leg muscle. The man bled out in no more than a minute.

There was no fountain of bright arterial blood here though. The woman would live ... if they could get her to a doctor. Glumly, Owens faced the prospect they might not be able to. Underwood was out there somewhere stalking them. The hunters had become the hunted.

A flurry of shots came from a few yards behind him. The firing was followed by another cry of pain.

§

Owens' second deputy made a bad mistake. Thinking he'd seen the fugitive, he'd lunged to his feet and fired wildly into the shadows behind a bush swaying in the wind. Thirty yards from the brush being killed so enthusiastically, Miles squeezed the trigger on the M-4.

The recoil slapped back against his shoulder and he ducked back into cover. The man went down, clutching a smashed shoulder. Blood began to ooze between the fingers of the hand he clapped over the small hole. In seconds, he was unconscious from shock.

Miles moved quickly, leaping over a knee high jumble of rocks to run another twenty-five yards to the west, circling farther around the place where the shooters had gone to ground. He stopped behind a thicket of straggly underbrush to catch his breath and decide on his next move.

He hadn't made a conscious decision to attack the team of officers. It had been instinctive. The 'fight or flight' principal had governed his actions since the chopper had first sighted him in the early afternoon and it was in full control now.

He'd fled before, but this time he felt he had to fight this bunch. With his brain fogged by weariness and lack of sleep, he never considered running. And he wasn't going to give the enemy any time to recover and regroup.

Crawling forward, he searched for the next target. Two down, four to go.

§

Owens crept toward his second wounded deputy. He'd just gotten to the man's side when a shadow moved at the edge of his vision. Twisting around, Owens's right hand darted for his holstered nine-millimeter Browning. Even as he began the move, he knew he was too late. His arm was kicked sideways into his hip as he reached for his weapon, the pain coming a half-second later as the bullet smashed his elbow.

The lightweight military round was deflected by the contact and flew off into the darkness. Owens collapsed, his left hand around his right elbow as agony swept over him in waves. The shadow moved again to his right but no more shots were fired.

Abruptly a shrill screaming erupted from the space between three boulders where Brady and his two staffers had hidden themselves.

"DON'T SHOOT!" someone yelled. "STOP SHOOTING!" Owens didn't recognize the voice of Brady's senior advisor. The man had to shout louder to override more shrieks coming from beside him.

Owens concurred with the man's reasoning. The day had begun badly and soured more the longer it progressed. It was a complete disaster now.

"CEASE FIRE OUT THERE!" Owens called out. "WE SURRENDER ... WE SURRENDER!"

Miles had been about ready to withdraw anyway. In the U.S. Army, any unit suffering twenty percent casualties was considered combat ineffective and by his count, he'd taken three of the six officers out of the fight. He'd cut this group down by half. They were out of it.

He should have pulled back and started marching to the south. There was one more party of searchers out there and they would be coming hard in this direction. The still faintly visible column of smoke from the downed helicopter was a beacon they could not miss.

§

"Alright, I'm not shooting!" Miles said irritably. "Cut out all the noise, dammit."

Owens whipped around to face the direction from which the voice came. The quick move jolted his damaged elbow and the breath hissed between his teeth as he clinched his jaws tight. Ignoring the pain as best he could, the marshal stood erect, balancing on legs suddenly weak and unreliable.

"All of you," the man out in the darkness said. He sounded almost casual. "Y'all come out where I can see you ... get over to that clear space over there." Owens saw no motion to indicate where Underwood meant, assuming it was Underwood out there, but a quick look around revealed a small open area a few yards away. The marshal moved slowly to the middle of the clearing.

Three shapes rose from a hollow and walked that way. Two of them changed direction and helped the wounded deputies to stagger over to the others. For the first time, Miles saw the first federal agent he'd shot was a woman.

At first appalled, he quickly resolved the problem in his mind. She'd been shooting at him when he fired.

The officers saw a shadow detach itself from a small boulder. Seconds later, for the first time, they got a clear look at the man for whom they'd been searching.

"Shoot him," a voice urged thickly, "God damn you, shoot him." It was the third man of the three who had come up from the hollow. "It's Underwood; don't let him get away!" Owens watched Underwood, still indistinct in the approaching darkness, as he dropped to one knee and aimed a short barreled rifle toward the voice.

"NO!!!" shouted Owens. "No one move," he called out more calmly. He turned around to face the DOJ deputy. "We can't fight any more ... it's over, Mr. Brady," he finished, his voice trailing off.