by Jeff Rovin
The speedboat was slapping the water, bouncing as it approached. Williams slowed as the boats neared. The greater the vertical separation between the vessels, the tougher it would be for Grace to time the throw. With the amount of gunfire the target vessel was spraying at them, Williams began considering an abort scenario: instead of swinging toward the speedboat he would swing toward shore, abandon ship, and return fire from behind it. The target was fifty feet and closing. He had seconds to decide—
Gunfire erupted to Williams’s left, from the port side of the fishing boat. Major Breen was bent low and moving forward, firing the Czech assault rifle at the speedboat. Breen had figured out enough of the plan to realize that Grace could use some cover fire. The men on the speedboat ducked just as the vessels were about to pass. Grace was crouched like a leopard, peeking above the tow ring, ready—
She pulled one pin, swung the belt over her head, and rose. Directly opposite her, one of the men in the speedboat did likewise, his semiautomatic pointed at her head. A single shot popped on the port side of the fishing boat, to Williams’s right. Rivette watched as the man in the speedboat flew backward, his chest spraying red. The grenade belt cut through the air like a bolo, Williams tugged the wheel to the left, and the boat swung past the target. Rivette dropped flat to avoid the return gunfire, which only lasted for a moment; the speedboat was suddenly rocked by a close succession of loud bangs, each of which spewed clouds of charcoal-gray smoke over the deck. There were shouts and cries of pain but no further gunfire.
Williams rose while there was a break in the shooting. “I’m going for the other one!” he shouted to the team as he swung the boat around.
The fishing boat took another tortured U-turn. The stricken speedboat had swung off to the south, idling. The other had tracked the enemy vessel, making its own tight turn so the two boats were facing each other. The speedboat charged in a serpentine pattern, making it difficult to pull up beside them—while the fishing boat was a big, slower target.
Rivette and Breen both ran to Grace’s side.
“Hull’s probably resin-coated fiberglass,” the major told the lance corporal. “Kill it.”
Squatting behind the rail, in the blood of the smuggler, both men opened fire. Big, black holes appeared near the waterline; every turn, every dip of the speedboat caused it to take on water and veer, slowing it and preventing the crew from returning fire. The passengers were thrown as the speedboat turned sideways and the pilot tried to right the course; Rivette simultaneously set down his Heckler & Koch MP and unholstered his Beretta M9. A moment later the man at the wheel crumpled. The other three passengers jumped into the water and swam for shore. With leisurely precision, Williams was able to pull along the starboard side of the speedboat. Grace did not bother wasting the grenade belt on the empty, twisting vessel.
“Let ’em go,” Breen said.
“Why?” Grace asked as Williams sped downriver.
“They’re unarmed,” Breen replied.
“They tried to kill us!” Grace said as the three men flailed toward a sandbar.
“And failed,” Breen said. “Let’s take the victory and get back on-mission.”
“Jaz?” Grace said urgently to the lance corporal.
Rivette was still for a moment. Then he shook his head once. “Not in the back. Can’t.”
“They’ll spread the alarm,” she said. “They know our boat!”
“Anyone within a mile in any direction heard what happened here,” Breen said. “The boat can be an asset.”
“How?” Rivette asked.
“We abandon it on the coast, move inland. Draws them in, buys us time.”
“How much time?” Grace asked. “Minutes?”
“It will take them longer than that to off-load the drugs and hide them,” Breen said. “Someone’s going to pay a lot to get them back.”
The lieutenant shook her head. “We’ll see them again,” she said as the men reached the shore, out of range, and scattered. She kept any further thoughts to herself as she turned to their wounded passengers. Rivette followed. Breen headed toward the badly splintered wheelhouse.
Williams had spread the paper map on the console, got his bearings, then looked out at the river. Rich with the smell of moss and mud, he would not say this was a particularly attractive region, but it definitely had local character. It struck him that for the first time since they landed he was not on a combat footing.
Williams watched the major as he approached. Williams had just witnessed something he had never seen during his military career: a fully improvised assault. There had always been impulsive, necessary, individual acts of heroism under fire. But never anything free-form, on this scale. And never anything this effective.
“Good call back there,” Williams said when the major arrived.
“I don’t know,” Breen said. “She may have been right.”
“Sometimes you have to err on the side of charity,” Williams told him. “Ever think you were assigned to this group as the conscience in the room?”
“Not as such,” Breen admitted. “Maturity, maybe.”
“Not a huge difference,” Williams said. “I worked on a policy paper years ago with the ambitious title of ‘Prevention Over Reparation: Training in Personal Restraint and Limitations.’ Warriors by nature have little devils on their shoulders. They need the angels whispering in their ears.”
Breen considered that. “Maybe. General Lovett sold me on being a biometrics and battlefield analyst.”
“That’s a new one to me.”
“Basically, crime scene investigator on the go,” the major said. “That was my SITCOM. It was between me with crime scene training and someone in the Fourth Combat Camera Squadron who found all sixty-five differences between two digital photographs. I didn’t win because of my moral compass. I won because I’m an analog operator in a digital world.”
Williams chuckled at that.
“Before I agreed to join the Wasps, I talked with General Lovett about my own experiences with select troops,” Breen said, cocking his head toward Rivette and Grace. “We train our warriors to fight but not how to dial it down. Then we put them on trial for any excesses of zeal or cracking under the strain.”
“I was just thinking that about myself,” Williams admitted. “Then again, this is not a business where you can afford to be sloppy.”
“You have a personal reason for going after Salehi,” Breen said.
“I do,” Williams said. But that was all he said. With every minute that passed he felt a familiar old Chase Williams emerging—the man who did not react to events but ordered them. He did not want to revisit that interim bureaucrat. Not now. “By the way, you were also right about the boat,” Williams said as the mouth of the river came into view. “We’re going to have to abandon it. We’re almost out of fuel.”
Breen looked at the bales. “These guys were likely going to off-load the cargo and fuel up. That’s where the others probably were—local depot.”
“Makes sense. Map shows the clinic just within range of the fuel we’ve got left.”
Breen turned his mind back on the operation. “So we’re going to see the doctor?”
“Seems like the best bet for one-stop shopping about the terrorist infrastructure,” Williams said.
Breen nodded and looked toward the stern. “I’ll let the others know.”
The major left and Williams steered back toward the bay. As innovative as Black Wasp was, the commander could not help but reflect on the fundamental rules of engagement that guided every division of the United States military. Though it benefited the enemy not to be murdered in retreat or after surrender, there was a saying Anne Sullivan had quoted more than once in emotionally charged crises—most recently after the death of Op-Center’s international crisis manager, Hector Rodriquez, in Mosul.
“‘Become what you behold at the peril of your soul.’”
Mercy was not about sparing the life of a foe. It was about avoiding an act,
a moment, that could turn your own life into a godless nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Diego Martin, Trinidad
July 23, 6:49 a.m.
Having slept well for the first time in weeks, Captain Salehi was taking breakfast on the terrace. There was a well-stocked kitchen and a bathroom with a full and sophisticated selection of drugs, surgical supplies, and bandages. Added to the arms, these people were equipped for a siege.
As he sat there, Salehi was suddenly aware of his hosts talking agitatedly in the living room. He had no idea what they were saying, though they were talking over one another and gesturing with more animation than he had seen since his arrival.
It was still several hours until his scheduled departure and Salehi was suddenly concerned that something had gone wrong. He got up and went to see what the commotion was about.
Nik started to explain, then stopped. He grabbed a tablet, brought up a map of Trinidad, zoomed in on the river and then on a spot close to the bay. He dropped it on the sofa, held up both hands in the shape of guns, and made repeated firing motions.
There was a shootout. Salehi pointed to himself and looked at the men questioningly. They both shrugged.
Uncertainty was not good enough. He went to an end table where there was a Kalashnikov pistol. He picked it up, tucked it in his belt before either of the men could stop him. He raised his hands as they came toward him.
“To protect me,” he said, then pointed at himself. He pointed at the others in turn, shook his head. “I won’t hurt anyone.”
They seemed to understand and backed down.
The two started talking among themselves again, and one looked at his watch. They were obviously trying to figure out what they were going to do to secure Salehi for the next four or so hours. More men seemed to be the answer, since one of them started scrolling through numbers on his smartphone and preparing a group text.
Once again, the captain questioned the wisdom of having come here. It wasn’t that he did not trust Sadi. The captain was accustomed to dealing with individuals who operated well outside international law. He found them more trustworthy, as a rule, than people who worked for armies and governments. If they were not as good as their word, they did not survive in business; often, they did not survive at all. The problem, for Salehi, a man accustomed to the open sea, was that he had gone from being mobile to being sequestered. On the Nardis, if he did not like the speed or direction of something on radar, if he had a feeling that there was danger on the horizon—he changed course. He could not do that here.
The other men had continued texting. There were answers; some drew snarls of displeasure, a few nods. Salehi tapped one of them on the arm and made a walking gesture with two fingers.
“Stairs?” he asked, then jabbed his finger repeatedly over his head. “Roof?”
Vincent nodded and motioned him to the front door. He obviously trusted their guest now that he had spoken to Sadi. The man held up a hand for the captain to wait, then checked a series of security monitors on the wall of a hallway that led to the kitchen. Salehi had not noticed them before now. He wondered what the neighbors, if any, must think of what went on up here.
The man ran his eyes along the screens, then picked up a shoulder bag that concealed a semiautomatic and cracked the door. He looked out, then stepped into the corridor and indicated for Salehi to follow him. As they did, a door ahead of them opened and a statuesque young Caribbean stepped into the hall. She was wearing a terrycloth robe and greeted the two men as they passed. The room behind her was dark but Salehi could see a man standing inside. That answered his question about the other residents. This floor, if not the entire building, was replete with illicit activity. This woman was probably the mistress of one or more government officials or businessmen. It distressed Salehi that men like this had nothing better to do. It made him think that patriotism was only a part of the equation, that perhaps Sharia law was something he should support with greater enthusiasm. The captain did not allow his own urges and needs to interfere with his work. He had seen, in others, how relationships sapped time and energy, how secrets were seduced from careless men, how focus was lost and never fully recovered. He could not live like that. His vision, his ambition, his sense of dignity transcended petty moments of relief or distraction.
Salehi was happily distracted when they reached a stairwell. This was his life. Finding active solutions to problems.
He looked down, counted eight flights of concrete stairs. Since the building was only seven stories, the steps probably led to the parking garage. That was good to know. He was more interested, however, in the half-flight above him. If someone were going to come at him, it might be from above—not necessarily down the staircase but onto the terrace.
Easing around his companion—who was either guardian, jailor, or both—Salehi trotted up. There was a landing and a square, cinderblock cupola with an aluminum-plated door. In all likelihood that was not for security but to prevent flooding during storms. The impression was reinforced when he tried the door and it opened easily.
The man behind him said something softly—probably “be careful.” Salehi cracked the door and looked out. Hearing nothing except the wind he stepped out and looked around. The roof was covered with flat concrete squares, save for six areas where there were metal drains roughly eight inches in diameter. Except for the building across the way, there was no roof access from adjoining structures. Any approach would have to come from the air, and that would be heard.
Up the stairs or by elevator, he concluded, going back inside. And enemy operatives would be spotted by the security camera.
Which left only one possibility. Anyone who tried to take him would have to do so between the garage and the airport.
Going back inside, Salehi communicated to his hosts that he wanted a map of the area and they brought one up on the tablet. He checked the most direct route, the most heavily trafficked. The trip would take just over an hour. But with the volume of traffic, the opportunities for ambush were greater.
He looked at alternative roads. If someone followed him from the building, there were numerous lights and stops where he could be shot or taken.
The Trinidadian sought, by gestures, to assure him that everything would be all right. That did little to assuage one of the most hunted men on the planet, with a face that was on every news site.
And then, looking around, it occurred to him that he might not have to risk the worst-case scenarios he had been considering. With hand motions, he told his companion what he was thinking.
Vincent smiled broadly and flashed an OK sign.
Now, all I have to do is survive until then, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cocos Bay, Trinidad
July 23, 7:08 a.m.
“Good call on the hull, sir,” Rivette said as Breen walked over. “And you weren’t even the guy raised in a marina.”
“Once had to investigate Combatant Craft Assault stealth boats,” he said affably. “You pick things up.”
“Oh yeah, like who the hell is Barney Oldfield?”
Breen smiled. “An old-time race car driver. Real daredevil.”
“I gotta look him up,” the lance corporal said.
The major walked over to Grace, who was squatting beside the man whose leg she’d cut. The other crewman was unconscious.
“We’re headed to the clinic,” Breen said. “Anything here?”
“He’s pleading with me to leave him and the cargo on the boat,” she said. “He said they’d all be killed if it’s lost.” She squinted up into the sunlight at Breen. “What’s your take on that?”
“He’ll be safer with us,” Breen said, more to the injured man than to Grace. “Word gets around about salvage, the pirates out here will descend like ants on sugar.”
“No!” the man said, nearly weeping. “Please, no. Please.”
Breen squatted beside Grace. “What’s your name?” he asked the crewman.
; “King,” he said. “Kingston.”
“King, if you work with us, I promise to get you safely away from here. If you want, you can have a new life somewhere else.”
The man shook his head. “I have my mother—she is alone.”
“You can send for her,” the major said. “We’ll help get her out.”
“No, I … I can still work with one leg. Please!”
Grace was glaring down at the man. The tension in her face suggested that she was losing patience.
“King, that’s a bad call,” Breen said. “Please … work with us.”
The man shook his head. “They kill us both.”
Grace drew one of her knives and put it hard against the man’s throat, drawing blood. “I’ll kill you right now,” she said. “One last time, King. Where do we find Jamaat al-Muslimeen?”
“I do not know them!” he cried.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “Maybe you are one? Maybe I should just kill you and move on?”
“No, no! I tell you truthfully! People come in on boats, we take them to docks upstream—back and forth, back and forth. I pilot! That’s all I do!”
The boat, which had been traveling east, made a graceful turn to the south. The air no longer smelled rank and the boat picked up a little speed thanks to the currents.
“Grace, I’ve heard scared gang members interrogated on the docks,” Rivette said. “I believe him. Look—he’s wettin’ himself.”
The lieutenant looked. Rivette was right. With a huff of disgust, she sheathed her weapon, stood, and walked to the bow. She drew deeply of the cleaner air, felt the sunlight enrich her.
If I had not followed my instincts, we would be trudging through a swamp, she thought. Now, her instincts were apparently no longer reliable.
Her training taught her to be like air or water, constantly moving. One of her sifus, Master Pai, had once told her, “Nature doesn’t struggle. If you are struggling, something has already gone wrong.” Something was definitely wrong here; this was not what she had signed on for. The two older men were effectively running the mission. She had made her call during the drop, had aggressively interrogated the one crewmember. Then, as soon as Williams and Breen arrived, her views were marginalized.