craned his head up a bit and saw the plane far off to the northwest, one wing tip high, the other low as it fluted in its approach to the landing path. It seemed to waver in the air as it turned, then straightened, then lowered itself. The gear was already down. It was some kind of low-winged twin-engine Beechcraft, a sturdy, prosaic aircraft. The pilot found his angle and seemed to come in on a string, bearing straight for Earl, coming faster and faster and lower and lower.
Earl's fingers flew involuntarily to the weapon's controls, to test them for the millionth time: the one lever was cranked fully forward to FIRE and the other fully forward to FULL. Then his fingers dipped under the weapon and touched the bolt handle on the other side, to check again that it was drawn back and cocked.
The gun seemed to rise to him and he rose from the grass. The butt plate found his shoulder and all ten pounds of the weapon clamped hard against himself as his vision reduced only to that narrow circle of visibility that was the peep sight. He saw: the flat of the receiver top, the diminishing blunt tube of the barrel and the single central blade of sight. The plane seemed to double, then double again in size as it roared at him, dropping ever lower. He knew that the increase in speed was a function of its closing the distance and it seemed to double again, its roar filling the air, and he pulled the gun up through it, sighting on the right-side engine, leading it, and when the computational machine in his brain so instructed, pulling the trigger and holding it down while running the gun on a smooth rotation from nine o'clock up to midnight and then over to two o'clock.
The gun emptied in one spasm, the sound lost in the roar of the plane. He could sense the empties tumbling, feel the liquid, almost hydraulic pressure of the recoil without a sense of the individual shots as it drove into his shoulder, but most of all he could see the tracers flicking out and extending his touch until he was an angry God destroying the world from afar. The arc of tracers flew into the engine and wing root and the plane trembled ever so slightly, then changed engine pitches again as it pulled up, banked right and flew out of the zone of fire. It seemed to dip, for flames poured from the engine, but then the pilot feathered it, and only a gush of smoke remained, a stain he pulled across the sky with him, and he waggled his wings and headed elsewhere.
Owney watched the plane come down. The pilot was good. He was very good. He had his course, his gear had been lowered, his flaps were down, he was coming lower and lower and seemed just a few feet from touching down.
Then a line of illumination cracked out of the darkness and lashed upward; it was so sustained that for just a second Owney thought it was a flashlight beam or some other form of light until he realized he was deluding himself. The streaking bullets caught the plane experdy, speared it, and the plane seemed to wobble. Owney thought it might explode. Smoke abrupdy broke from the targeted engine and the plane quivered mightily as fire washed outward. Then the pilot yanked up and away and almost as if it had been a dream, the plane was gone. It reduced in size arithmetically as it sped away, trailing smoke.
'What the fuck was that?' asked Owney.
'It's him.'
'Him?'
'The cowboy.'
'AGHHHH!' Owney bellowed, a great spurt of anger uncontaminated by comprehensibility. 'That fucking fucker, that fucking dog!' His rage was absolute and immense.
But Johnny spoke calmly.
'You just saw some tommy-gunning, old man. Isn't but one man in a thousand can hold the Thompson so perfectly on a moving target, leading perfecdy, not letting it bounce off target. I suppose the tracers help some. They verify impact. But the bastard's bloody good, I'll tell you that. I know only one better. Fortunately it's me.'
Around him the others had already unlimbered weapons and were quickly readying for action, the usual fitting of magazines and snapping of bolts. Hats and coats were coming off, automatics being checked for full loads.
'That fucking bastard,' said Owney. 'Oh, that hick bastard! I should have settled his fucking hash at the railway station. Who the fuck does he think he is?'
'Right now, he thinks he's going to kill all six of us, I should imagine. Owney, dear, you stay here. Johnny and his boys will take care of all this. Right, fellows?'
But there was no cheer from the boys. They had read the fine blast of sustained, controlled automatic fire just as surely as Johnny, and knew they were up against a professional.
'We've got the Ford,' called Vince the Hat. 'We could just get the hell out of here.'
'He'd just ambush us. If he knows the way in, he'll know it out. Anyhow, we've got to deal with him now, or look over our shoulders forever. Evidently that railyard business upset the fellow.'
'You bastard!' Owney yelled. 'We'll fuck you but good in a few minutes!'
'Feel better, now, Owney? There's a good lad. You stay here while the men handle it.'
'Johnny, what's your plan?' asked Herman Kreutzer, his BAR loaded and ready.
'He's probably slithering toward us right now. I'd stay wide, separated so he can't take more than one down with a single burst. I'd say let's move now and fast, because if it's only tracer he has, we'll be able to track them back to him better before the light is full up. Herman, you've the heaviest weapon, you'll provide sustaining fire. Take all your magazines. No point in saving them for a rainy day. It is the rainy day. Let's form a line abreast and move in spurts. Stay low, keep moving. Look for the source of his fire. When you spot it, Herman, you must pressure him while we move in. Anybody have a better suggestion?'
No one did.
Earl knew they'd come quickly and they did. His every impulse told him to advance. Get among them, shoot fast from the hip, trusting instinct, their panic at his aggression, and luck. It never remotely occurred to him that he might die. His focus was entirely on destroying them.
All his voices were still. He did not think of the father who had failed him or the men he believed he had failed or the wife alone somewhere. He didn't think of D. A. Parker ordering him to get out or the long rim through the sewer or the rage that the raid-team tragedy had been turned into farce for the good of a politician. He had no sense of failure at all, but only a sort of battle joy, hard and pure, and the need to get in close, put the bursts into them and punish them for their transgressions and for his own.
He squirmed ahead, low, sliding through the grass. The blood sang in his ears. The air tasted magnificent, like a fine wine, a champagne. The gun was alive in his hands, marvelously supple and obedient. He had never felt this way in the islands or in any of his other fights. There, fear was always around. Now he was shorn of fear.
A burst of fire came. It was duplicated instantly by three others, as Johnny's boys panicked, even though they were so professional. Bullets hurled through the grass, and where they struck, they raised a great destruction. Smoke and debris, liberated by their energy, rose in a fog, obscuring the field, but Earl saw his advantage. He quickly flicked the fire-control lever on his Thompson, setting it to single shot, rose slightly into a kneeling position even as the random bursts filled the air with a sleet of lead, found a good target and fired one round, its noise lost in the general thunder. He shot low, through the grass, so that his tracer might not be seen, and knew he'd made a good shot.
'Stop it! Stop ity goddammit!' screamed Johnny.
The firing stopped.
'Jesus Christ, don't panic, boys. You'll make it easy on him.'
'Johnny, Johnny?'
'Shut up, Vince, you've got?'
'I been hit!'
It was so. Vince the Hat de Palmo lay on his side, astounded that he was bleeding so profusely. He'd taken it at the ligature of thigh to hip, and the wound spurted wedy, the blood thick and black across his suit. He looked at Johnny as his eyes emptied of meaning and hope.
'Take his magazines, boys,' said Johnny. 'We may need them yet.'
'Johnny, I?'
'Easy, lad,' said Johnny to the youngest of his men, shordy to be the deadest. 'Don't fight Ding-Dong.'
In his last motions, Vince cooperated with Jack Bell as the older man rolled him over and grabbed the two flat drums that were wedged between his belt and his back.
'You'll come back for me?'
'Sure, kid,' said Ding-Dong. 'You can bet on it.' He gave the kid a wink, which Vince may or may not have
