Operation Southern Cross - 02 by Jack Shane Page B

sizzling all around them. Smoke began filling the cabin. They started losing altitude.
    That’s when the rest of XBat showed up.
     
     
    EVERYONE IN XBAT HAD BEEN IN THIS SITUATION before.
    There were people on the ground shooting at their colleagues. This meant the first order of business was to shoot back. It was also important, in the shadowy world of black ops, to make a statement, to leave a calling card, so to speak: This is what XBat did to people who shot at them. Fuck around with us, and this will happen to you too. In other words, they would now lay waste to this place—whatever this place was.
    Autry knew this. So did McCune.
    It was up to Autry to get the taxi copter’s crew out safely before the roof really fell in on El Tapos.
    The pair of Killer Eggs swooped in first. Both had powerful searchlights attached to the chins. The pilots flipped their switches, and in a flash, the battleground around the edge of the lake where McCune’s copter had been forced down was illuminated brightly. For the first time XBat could see exactly who they were fighting.
    These people weren’t in uniforms—not typical ones anyway. Instead the gunmen were dressed in what could only be described as gang colors. Floppy tropical shirts or no shirts at all. Huge floppy shorts, sneakers, and many, many red bandanas. Though many militias around the world, especially in Africa and parts of Asia, were known to dress like this, at the moment, it appeared as if XBat was descending into a nest of Cripps. Or would that be Bloods?
    With the glare of the searchlights, several things became much clearer. This was obviously some kind of training site for irregular forces, guerrillas, tough-guy mercenaries and such—maybe under Cuban command, maybe not. In any case, there were a lot of these characters down there—and a lot of them were now converging on McCune’s downed copter.
    The Killer Eggs swooped in together, side by side, searchlights blazing, their mini guns firing into the swarm of advancing gunmen. Meanwhile, the rest of XBat fell into a tight orbit above the burning camp. They were gradually opening up with their weapons. But not full bore—not yet.
    Autry took his cue. He pushed his copter’s controls forward and the bottom fell out of his Black Hawk. The guys in the back, along with their weapons, became weightless for a few moments, this was how sharp Autry’s plunge became. They came over McCune’s position, not twenty feet above the hard deck. McCune’s five-man crew had set up a ragged circle around the burning copter and were firing madly at the gangs of gunmen approaching from three sides. It was the standard defensive tact to take, but it reminded Autry a little too much of Custer’s Last Stand—or worse, downtown Mogadishu.
    And there was no way he was going to let that happen again.
    The pair of Killer Eggs came down nearly on top of him, their weapons still spraying cannon shells in every direction. Two of the Black Hawk Special K flying trucks screeched in a moment later and added to the barrage—this as the rest of the unit started firing on other elements of the gang soldiers still inside the Wild West town.
    As soon as the Special Ks arrived on the deck, Autry slammed his Black Hawk into the ground fifty feet from McCune’s burning copter. He could hear McCune’s distinctive voice rising above the fray, yelling to his guys to get their asses on Autry’s copter. They didn’t need to be told twice. With dozens of these bandana soldiers moving in on them, it was clearly time to go.
    They sprinted for Autry’s copter even as a long spray of tracer fire lit up the Black Hawk from one end to the other. Autry’s crew were helping to haul them in while still firing their weapons. McCune was the last to leave the wreck. Given enough ammunition, he would have stayed down there forever, fighting off those assholes.
    Finally he too jumped onboard. Autry yanked up on the controls and the Black Hawk began to rise,