Uncertain Justice

Miles fired the first incendiary bullet--the seventh one in the magazine--into the now darkened radio tent, searching for the expensive radio transmitter he knew had to be inside somewhere. Spacing his shots along the short axis of the tent, he found something solid with his third round, making whatever he'd hit flash brightly inside the hut. Spreading rapidly, flames took hold inside the tent. The tent began to glow in the night.

A man erupted out the front opening of the tent and sprinted around the corner to disappear into the dark. At the speed he was going, he'd get to the stream of icy water on the east side of the camp in no more than a few seconds.

The next six rounds went into the supply tent where Miles knew ammunition and extra weapons were stored. He couldn't see they had any effect though; the fabric of the tent and whatever the round had bored through had not been substantial enough to slow the slug enough to start combustion. Disappointed, he gave up.

Watching the camp for a long moment, he made a snap decision that the helicopter pad held much greater promise as a target for this raid. He reset his feet on different tree limbs and moved around to the western side of the tree. The lights were still on at the fuel depot. It hadn't occurred to anyone to switch them off yet.

§

Marshal David Owens was enjoying his first evening off in a couple of months.

Ignored by most of his former lieutenants, he'd decided to spend that evening in bed ... asleep. Evicted from his private accommodations, he'd moved into one of the big sleeping tents, one that was occupied by a half dozen of the more senior agents.

It wasn't that he'd been replaced or relieved of duty so much as just shunted to the side. As the day had worn on, more and more information and reports had flowed around him to get to Deputy Attorney General Brady. At first Brady had paid lip service to deferring to the marshal's experience and seniority.

Later, it became increasingly clear to everyone that Owens was effectively out of the chain of command. They began to treat him as if he weren't there.

Owens had tried hard to decide if he cared or not but finally deferred the decision until tomorrow. He was sleepy. Just before he surrendered to the need for rest, he wondered if today's events weren't the opportunity he'd been waiting for these past few years.

His brother-in-law had been after him for a long time to quit the federal service and set up a partnership in a private investigation agency. Make a ton of money ... couldn't fail, his sister's husband had said.

At the first sound of gunfire, Owens was jolted awake but he made no move to get out of his cot. Barely conscious of no longer being asleep, he wasn't sure why he wasn't still dreaming of hunting bail jumpers with his brother-in-law. The sound could have been a part of the dream.

The second shot got him vertical, sitting on the edge of the old Army surplus cot while he laced up heavy combat boots. Two more follow-up rounds got him moving for the tent flaps, grabbing his equipment belt and holster on the way.

Outside, he beside the tent while he fumbled the belt around his waist while he tried to figure out what was happening. There was another shot and the radio mast over the communications tent sixty yards to his left front suddenly snapped and jumped sideways. Held erect by guy wires, the bottom sliced through the heavy canvas to land with an audible crunch inside.

There were more shots from the darkness. Judging by sound, they were coming from somewhere south of the camp but he couldn't tell exactly where. With the floodlights atop the light poles scattered around the compound still on, everyone was effectively blind--the forest outside the tents a vague, impenetrable darkness.

Owens drew the heavy Berretta nine-millimeter from its holster and held it, muzzle up, while he searched for something to shoot at. A fire started inside the communications tent and the radio operator came galloping out to disappear around the corner of the tent. Owens caught a glimpse of a figure ... he presumed it was the same man ... running hard for the creek that flowed past the eastern edge of the camp. The marshal had a momentary urge to join the guy in his flight. An ingrained sense of duty held him motionless.

There were other running figures. Everyone was racing for cover in whatever direction their scrambled instincts told them they should. As they did, they shouted and screamed at the top of their lungs. Owens ducked as the pump mechanism by the showers behind him exploded into a thousand pieces and added another layer to the confusion and panic in the compound.

A few people, evidently hit by flying debris, yelped shrilly. A moment later, the cries changed to sustained shrieks as the injuries really began to hurt. If anyone had even the smallest control over what was happening, Owens couldn't see him.

Shaking his head, Marshal Owens grabbed the nearest officer, one of his own deputies, and wrestled the man to a stop. Yelling in the man's ear to get his attention, Owens pointed to the east where the creek banks offered cover from the firing and sent the man scuttling in that direction. Others, seeing a man making authoritative gestures took off in that direction of their own accord.

A few officers gathered round him and waited for orders. They were more pissed off than scared and wanted to know what to do. The firing continued, but no more rounds impacted in their vicinity.

§

Getting comfortable on the other side of the tree, Miles opened fire on the fuel dump. He was getting a little anxious. He'd been shooting for a full minute and he couldn't expect the cops to put up with it very much longer.

Trying for the refueling station on the helicopter hardstand first, he sent four quick bullets in that direction to no effect. Breathing deeply, he forced himself to calm down and began a measured firing. He saw sparks--hits on the pump and the generator emplaced there. A small fire started in the lean-to constructed over the machines as protection from the weather.

Ejecting the empty magazine and letting it fall away, Miles slapped another one in place. Putting his cheek back on the rifle stock and getting his sight picture back, he changed targets to the fuel dump higher on the hill. Four armor-piercing rounds punctured the two visible fifty-thousand gallon fuel bladders in a number of places and the stinging odor of gasoline began to drift over the site.

Deducing what was about to happen and deciding--quite correctly--that their lives depended on getting away from the highly flammable fluid in the bladder, the six guards assigned to the fuel farm jumped out of the nearby ditches where they'd taken cover and fled up the hill away from the firing. They made it to the top and continued down the other side, eventually finding shelter on the other side of a substantial crest.

Miles sent the last two AP rounds into the big pump engine next to the bladder and it began to tear itself apart. Pieces of hot metal fragments knifed into the wooden roof built over it. The wood, well dried in the low humidity during the weeks following establishment of the camp, burst into flame and spread quickly.

Aiming carefully, Miles put a couple more incendiary rounds into the area around the pipe couplings and followed them with three more on the other side of the connection. The six-inch synthetic rubber pipe gave way, the bullet holes expanded from the pressure of the fuel. More gasoline flowed over the ground and began to find its way down the hillside.

Aiming carefully, Miles shifted back to the pump and put four more incendiary rounds into the motor housing. With his last shot, a gas and oil mixture that had collected inside the engine caught fire and ignited with a loud crack. The pump, and the trailer upon which it was mounted, leaped into the air only to immediately slam back down. One of the wheels on the trailer collapsed.

Pump and trailer fell sideways, wrenching the input and output fuel hoses from their connectors and flinging them in different directions. Fuel flowed out of the bladders and the stream of aviation gas already flooding down to the helicopter hardstand began to grow in size and volume.

The flammable liquid splashed in all directions and the hut was quickly engulfed in flames. Gas from the perforations in the bladders burst into flames and spread quickly. The top of the bladder ripped apart from a sustained internal explosion, releasing thousands more gallons of fuel that splashed high. It began to vaporize immediately. Shattered metal fittings splintered and sent shrapnel flying into other parts of the bladder, ripping and tearing the rubberized fabric.

The still night air above the fuel storage area was already well saturated with a cloud of vaporized fuel. The fog of aviation fuel began drifting downhill toward the pumping station and the brisk fire that already blazed there.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the gasoline mist in the air ignited in a drawn out blast that made the earth quake. Most of the people in the camp below were knocked sprawling. From where they lay, they could see the reddish-orange, roiling cloud of fire and smoke that burned for an moment's worth of eternity, transforming the night into harsh daylight. The short vision of hell was enough to send many burrowing as best they could into the dirt for shelter.

There was more to come. Spreading flames found the open valves and set all the aviation gas in the bladders ablaze. Thumping explosions inside the bladders ruptured the skin still further and individual bonfires scattered about the big storage tank began to reach out to each other, combining quickly into one incredible firestorm. Released fuel, igniting as it flowed, raced down the slope toward the helicopters.

Miles felt the crunching detonation through the tree and threw his free arm around a thick limb, just in case the rope gave way. When the tree trunk quit swinging in broad circles, he resettled himself for more shooting. He still had five rounds in the magazine. He looked for a target. The only thing he could see not already on fire up there were the five helicopters on the hardstand.

Shrugging to himself, he opened fire on the aircraft, aiming for the cockpits to destroy as much of the instrumentation as he could. Wolf Clan warriors around the base of the tree capered and jabbed their spears and bows in the direction of the big choppers. They reveled in the damage to the enemy's vile machines.

He was out of armor piercing rounds. Five shots into the first chopper generated a faint radiance inside as something flared. He dropped the empty mag to the ground around the tree and slapped in the mag with the final six rounds he was going to expend tonight. He looked up to find a target.

Flaming fuel pouring downhill from the burning fuel dump suddenly reached the far side of the hardstand. Before Miles could shoot at another helicopter, flames began licking at a chopper set near the rear of the stand. A moment later, the aircraft was fully engulfed. Flames soared high into the night sky, joining and adding to the conflagration. Internal fuel tanks aboard the chopper exploded, sending shards of metal flying in all directions. Low clouds reflected the intense light and heat. Small pieces of hot metal rained down on the tents nearest the fire, setting them ablaze in a number of places.

The river of fire swallowed a second chopper and the on-board aviation gas detonated almost immediately. Its huge rotor was blasted upward and in the direction of the camp. Spinning from the force of the blow, it slammed to the ground in front of a group of aircrew members running uphill to see what they could do. Reversing course in unison, they raced for the safety of the stream on the other side of the camp.

Rousing himself, Miles fired into the helicopter on the near edge of the hardstand. This one seemed far enough away from the others that the flaming fuel might not reach it. As far as he could tell, the six shots did no harm. He could do no more tonight; he had fired all the ammunition he was going to spend. He paused to survey the devastation he'd accomplished.

He was impressed. More ... he was awed by the destruction, amazed at what he'd been able to do in a short amount of time. The entire fuel farm was ablaze. Flames were shooting a hundred feet into the sky and lighting the topmost peaks of mountains miles away. At intervals, there were thumping explosions and flaming debris and fireballs flew skyward. Smoke from the burning installation was a malevolent black, so thick the columns climbing high seemed solid.

The helicopter hardstand was on fire from end to end. Aviation gas flowing down the short slope from the fuel dump had found the flat hardstand a perfect place to pool and the liquid dynamite was inches deep in some parts, the topmost liquid burning as quickly as it could be atomized only to expose more fuel ready to be added to the angry flames.

Three of the helicopters were completely engulfed already. A tendril of burning gasoline stretched toward a fourth, threatening it with destruction too. The gas was burning faster than the liquid was flowing down the hill though. It might not get all the way to the last of the big rotary-winged aircraft. That one, the last one he'd shot at, looked like it might survive, but it would be a close thing.

The heat was tremendous, a palpable force that reached across the intervening distance. He could feel it on his face as he squirmed around the tree trunk, trying for a better view.

A few leaves flicked away in random directions. He felt a quartet of sharp raps on the other side of the tree trunk. The sound of angry bees flicking past filled his ears.

Yanked back to alertness, Miles hastily moved to the rear side of the tree, interposing its thick protection between himself and the main camp. Cautiously, he leaned around the right side and brought up the rifle to a firing position to look through the scope.

There ware twenty or more individuals visible against a fiery backdrop on this side of the camp. Kneeling in a long line, they held rifles against their shoulders and fired rapidly in his direction. The sparkle of muzzle flashes all along the line was deceptively attractive.

Snapping back into cover, Miles jerked the loop of rope free from its slipknot and let it fall free. He took a second to sling the rifle over his right shoulder and began to descend the tree, careful not to expose his hands or feet out to either side of the tree.

A career in the Army was behind him, but still fresh in his mind. The line of people shooting at him was instantly recognizable as a professionally organized base of fire.

The purpose of such a base was to fix him in position while other people raced around each edge of the line, trying to outflank and surround him. He cursed silently, mad at himself for having been mesmerized by the destruction of the camp's facilities. He'd been lackadaisical and now time had run out.

Shinnying down the last ten feet, accepting the scrapes on exposed skin from the rough bark, he was soon back on the forest floor. He was reasonably safe there from the M-16 fire coming from the camp in an ever-increasing stream. They were a long way off though, right at the edge--if not beyond it--of aimed fire for those weapons. He gathered the rope, looping it around his left shoulder and retrieved his own M-4 from where it leaned against the tree.

A few running steps south and he was well off the crest of the hill. It was unlikely a slug from one of the distant rifles would find him now. A stray bullet from over the hill might hit him once he moved away from the back side of the rise, but he was really in greater danger of running across a mountain rattler beginning to stir about in search of prey than he was of being shot.

He'd only just finished telling himself that when a bullet clipped a pinecone over his head and sent it skittering to the ground near his feet. He bolted, his heart in his mouth. He raced along the deer trail into deeper forest.

It was quite safe. The light from the fire lit the path as well as the noonday sun would have.

Warriors from both the Wolf and Bear clans ran with him, scouting ahead and to each side to clear the way. The sound of heavy firing followed them, but there were no more close misses. He wondered why they were shooting.

After a while, and with the diminished supply of adrenalin in his system, the load of two rifles, eight pounds of synthetic-fiber rope, and all the other gear he carried seemed to grow heavier by the minute. The light from the fires was fading with the distance and it wasn't a good idea to keep going at this pace anyway. Sooner or later, he'd brain himself on a thick tree trunk or run off the edge of an unseen precipice. He calmed and modified his pace.

The gunfire behind him faded and finally ceased. He stopped to kneel in the cover of an old ravine, listening for the sounds of pursuit but he heard none. His feet dragging, he pressed on.

As he walked, he looked for a place to hide the sniper rifle--this heavy a weapon was not what he needed to be lugging around--but nothing caught his eye for a place to stash the thing. He'd have to carry it for a while longer. He set off again, using a ground-eating trot that would put him miles away by dawn.

Intending at first to make only a mild escalation of the fight with the law enforcement officers, he'd wound up poking a stick into a beehive. Now there would be a violent reaction from the inhabitants of the campground and he needed space ... a lot of space ... between their base of operations and himself.

In the pre-dawn darkness, with the moon already down, he stopped and searched out good cover beneath a squat fir whose branches drooped nearly to the ground. He was exhausted. Lying flat on a carpet of last year's needles, he slept for a couple of hours.

Shortly before the sun rose, he rose and ate a meager breakfast of jerky and water. Breaking off to the west, he set off at a walk as he began to ascend the gradual slope leading up toward the towering mesa to the west and south of the valley of the People.

It was more open up there, but once he was on top he could find a crack in the rocks somewhere to safely store the big rifle. There were places where he could hole up for a while for a little rest too. He opened the big canteen and took long swallows of cold creek water without stopping.

§

It was mid-morning before Marshal Owens could get a good head count from his subordinates. By some miracle, there were no fatalities but many were injured.

The one doctor and three nurses they had on site were reinforced by a team of doctors and nurses from the Colorado State Disaster Preparedness Center in Denver and they did their best to treat the myriad of burns and miscellaneous injuries.

One man had tried to go back inside a burning tent to retrieve his wallet. The tent collapsed over his head and he'd suffered third degree burns over forty percent of his body. His injuries were the worst but there were others nearly as bad.

The doctor put all the burn victims in the shallow creek with companions to make sure they didn't float downstream. Their prognoses were later found to be surprisingly optimistic. The cold water had drawn much of the heat from their burns and stopped the damage from spreading.

Dozens of law enforcement officers had managed to get in the way of a piece of steel flashing through the air ... some because they were gawking at the fire, others because their luck just wasn't good that night. Many survivors considered their lives were saved by inches as metal passed to one side the other instead of through them.