The oversized Evan and the undersized Tanya made it to the control center of the sub and tried to stay out of the way. There was nothing to look at but pipes, walls, and mechanical equipment.
Evan frowned. “Are we there yet?”
Juan, Team Two’s Bravo Squad leader, and two men who seemed to know something about subs looked up briefly and then looked away. Juan, who also wore a zip-up flight suit, broke off from the men and came over to Evan and Tanya.
“We are here. Surfacing in about five minutes. You come with me. We will be the first up. The rest of the men will follow, just like we planned.”
Evan nodded and turned to Tanya. “OK, cupcake, you better go hide in your rabbit hole with the snatch team. Just follow one of the loosely unlikely plans that we have devised. It will all work out,” Evan said sarcastically.
Tanya looked pissed, then softened. “You can’t get to me. But cupcake? Really? Not very PC.”
Evan winked at her. “Neither am I.”
She squeezed his hand and patted Juan’s arm. “Good luck. Let’s end this thing!” Tanya turned and disappeared down the narrow passageway.
“She’s so pleasant this morning. She on something?” Juan asked suspiciously.
“Cocaine.”
Juan nodded and smiled.
The sub made an awkward lurch, and Evan heard more noises that made him feel like he was in a teapot about to explode.
“Here we go,” said Juan, who seemed amused that Evan was so uneasy.
Green Team One
Roger and El Coyote, Alpha Squad leader, looked at each other and then out of a tiny porthole from within the ship’s cargo hold. Green Team One was packed in, not unlike fish. Fifteen men with body armor, a mixture of submachine guns, side arms, and various knives and machetes were crammed into this particular section of the ship’s hold. Thirty more men were divided among two other such storerooms in the bottom of the boat. Roger picked up his coffee mug from where it sat next to an AT-4 and a box of hand grenades.
“OK. Show time,” he grumbled.
El Coyote’s radio cracked, and the room grew silent.
All members of the Dark Cloud assault team had radios with ear pieces and tiny microphones. Each squad had it’s own frequency so that only those men could speak. There was also a frequency where just the team leaders could speak as well as one in which the whole assault force could communicate. Every man knew that when the shooting started, pretty much everyone was going to talk at the same time. Radio discipline was paramount.
“We are docking. Be quiet! They are boarding with about ten men, heavily armed.” Someone outside alerted the whole squad.
The radio went silent. Everyone began to sit and get into a position where they could cover the heavy, locked steel door and not make any noise.
“They likely will search for a few. The sub will attract more attention,” Roger grumbled.
“Hope you’re right, amigo,” someone said.
Green Team Two, North Point of the Island
Oscar, Pablo, and Gustavo lay prone, covered with netting and vegetation. They were a good two hundred yards from the edge of the beach house. From their vantage point, they could clearly see the beach house and pool with its nude swimmers and the docks with the Happy Mermaid and other vessels. They had watched in silence, ignoring the sand and flies. The ocean was just twenty-five yards behind them. The rest of their men were strung along the tree line of the beach. There was not enough cover to conceal them for long in the daylight, but hopefully they would not need long. They had been there before sun up, having been deployed from the submarine’s torpedo tubes.
Pablo and Gustavo were Oscar’s two squad leaders. Alpha and Charlie. Each squad had fifteen men and its own crucial mission. Oscar did a radio check with all his men. Everyone answered.
Oscar motioned for his men to fall back. They gently crawled and moved back into the scrubby brush, being careful not to move too quickly.
“OK, let’s get into position,” Oscar whispered. “The submarine is being tied up. The trawler is in place. Your snipers have my clearance once the smoke pops. We have to keep the gun trucks engaged so that Team One can clear the LZ.”
“Right,” Pablo answered. “You guys better get a move on. I scouted last night, and you have a decent amount of cover till you get to the rear of the submarine. They like to fish and drink and smoke over there near that canopy,” Pablo said.
“What about that brick wall?” Gustavo asked quietly.
“It’s solid, but the fifty-cal. will shred it,” Pablo replied.
“Mmm,” Oscar said, “Lets be ready for anything.”
Oscar moved back into the shade, slowly like a snake. He was aware of every branch, twig, and rock. He was as methodical about the simple act of moving as a surgeon was about cutting. He spoke as quietly as a breeze. “One of those gun trucks will prevent anyone from exiting the submarine.”
Alpha and Charlie had planted cameras and sensors to protect their own perimeter. There was barely enough vegetation on the rest of the island for cover, so once a force began to move, they had to commit.
Oscar and Alpha Team planned on creeping up the beach and helping secure the sub from the outside so that their people could escape. Bravo Team was on the sub.
Oscar checked his gear and was about to give the signal to move out when something caught his attention. Someone spoke over the squad radio.
“Heads up.”
“I think they are coming right at us,” Pablo whispered.
Oscar lay as close to the ground as he could. A large spider crawled across his legs. He ignored it. Two ATVs with two females and two men rode across the sand and scrubby brush from the edge of the gate that surrounded the pool straight toward Team Two.
“I think they are going fishing,” Oscar said.
“We are in their spot,” Pablo whispered.
Oscar looked back at the pier, where people were beginning to congregate and gawk at the submarine. People were spilling out of the house and coming off the yacht. He guessed that he was looking at close to eighty people, and then something caught his eye. “Crap!” he said.
Pablo, Oscar, and Gustavo froze and watched as four F-150 pickups with .50 calibers drove and parked in intervals around the long dock.
“That’s way more firepower than the brief said!” Pablo said with frustration.
“They must have been in the garage. I had no clue they had four; that means they got six!” Oscar said.
Pablo cursed. He had counted two last night when he went on a patrol of the island.
The ATV with the unsuspecting fishermen was now almost on them. Oscar grabbed his knife and slowly pulled it from his leg sheath. His two men did the same.
“Gustav, call Roger,” Oscar said. “Tell him there are four gun trucks spread out around LZ Mario.”
“Why do they need that much firepower? They expecting a war?” Oscar spoke to his friends.
Oscar watched as the two ATVs stopped near the edge of the scrub, and the four occupants began to giggle and flirt and make their way to the beach. One of the girls seemed to have stepped on something and protested. One of the bare-chested sunbathers, a decently fit man with the body of a swimmer, picked the girl up and carried her. Oscar figured they were all in their early thirties, were married or dating, and were very comfortable with each other. None of them were armed. Well educated, no tattoos, and plenty of money. He was a master at sizing up targets.
“Get close. Zap them, and zip-tie them,” Oscar whispered into his radio.
The four fishermen made it to the soft, white sand in the shade near the lightly breaking surf.
Oscar could sense something was wrong.
One of the women, a tall blonde who was wearing a suit she had probably worn at one time before she had had children, paused. She suddenly pointed in Oscar’s team’s direction.
“This is not good,” he muttered.
CHAPTER 33
Caesar’s Blues
Mario’s Happy Mermaid
“The submarine! It is here!” The teenager jumped up and down gently by the window of Mario’s spacious cabin. The silk curtains were drawn, and they could see out, yet no one could see in. Mario sat up in bed, staring past the naked girl and ignoring her youthful playfulness. He stared out at the island, the dock, and the large, black submarine, which was being guided in and tied to the pier. A makeshift canopy some two-hundred-feet long was slowly being pulled over it, suspended by a steel, cage-like structure.
“Good. Good. After breakfast and after my cousin takes a tour, after he sees the beast, I will go board it. I am depressed, my little chicas. Drink, fun, taste—all means nothing. I have it all, yet—”
A slightly older girl in her twenties climbed into bed and sat Indian-style next to Mario. She placed her hands on his large belly and handed him a glass. “Drink this. It will get you back in the mood. We will send you from here with a smile and ready to take on the world!”
Mario sighed as the young women squeezed his arms and tried to get his attention.
Mario just stared at the sub. “My tequila?”
“Yes,” the teenager said, “and you can’t have your clothes till you—”
“Chica, I am not interested. Get me my pants. I cannot stop thinking about my son and my misery.”
The teenager walked over from the window and placed her hands on her narrow hips. She had a sassy, annoyed smirk as she swung from side to side. “It is no use. He is down in the dumps!”
Mario slowly got out of bed and let the girls dress him. The tequila tasted a little strange, metallic. “Even my tequila has no taste. Sex has no pleasure. And the submarine already bores me!”
The two girls looked at each other and shrugged.
Mario stood in front of the window and watched his entourage of armed killers mixed with the Scorpions walk toward the sub. He noticed the four gun trucks and shrugged. “Why must I always be surrounded by such paranoid men who think I need so many guns? Are we at war?”
He saw Jorge Valdez out in front, like a commander, extending his hand to a large man who Mario presumed was Ivan. Mario shifted from foot to foot. His body felt warm. He watched his cousin perform just as he would: shake hands, nod slowly, and walk with grace, poise, and the swagger of a king.
“I am up here like an impotent little king. I need my spirit back! This cousin of mine, he will steal my glory. He looks happy!”
Mario turned to the girls, who had gotten their clothes back on.
“Boss, you no look good.”
Mario stared at the two girls. They sounded far away. Suddenly, Mario realized something was wrong. The room seemed to tilt, he felt his heart pounding in his ears, and his limbs began to feel useless and numb. He tried to talk, but his tongue felt like a sausage. Mario stared past the two concerned girls.
“Mario, you are scaring me!”
“Is this one of your tricks?”
The younger girl began to cry and rushed forward to help the stumbling Mario.
He suddenly saw six men appear like vapor behind the girls, yet even though he knew they could not be there, they were.
“You see that?” he mumbled and staggered.
“What?”
Mario looked at his hands. They were numb; he was having trouble getting words out and breathing was becoming difficult. “Am…am I…I having a…a heart attack?” Mario looked at his glass and then at the girls. “Wh-wh…who?”
The older girl rushed to Mario and helped him sit. Panic was in her voice. “Your son, he gave me the drink, moments ago in the hall.”
“My son is dead.”
“No. little Mario Your other son!”
Mario stared at the ghosts of men he had killed decades ago. They seemed to be growing and multiplying. His legs began to burn, and he tried to curse, yet nothing would come from his lips. He recalled a narcocorrido about an assassin dying and meeting his victims in hell.
“G-g…go…d-d…doctor!”
Jorge Valdez, Gerard, and Jorge’s two other henchman, Julio and Samuel, stepped back as Mario listened intently to Ivan. Jorge was bored but tried to show interest. He hated the idea of going into that deathtrap. He counted Mario’s bodyguards and cursed. He was outgunned by them. Where had the gun trucks come from? He saw young men, whom he did not recognize, manning the machine guns in the beds of the truck.
What is he up to? Jorge wondered why Mario had chosen to sleep in, not show, and let this cousin see the prize. “Is he on to me?” Jorge asked himself quietly.
Jorge turned to look at the beach house, which was a good hundred yards away. Scores of armed men, some looking like teenagers, leaned against the thick, white cinder-block wall that surrounded the house. The misfits were smoking and eyeballing the female guests with an open crudeness that caused Jorge to burn with anger.
“Why are these unprofessional idiots here?” he spoke to himself. “I am the security. Who authorized this?”
The sun was slowly climbing, and a gentle breeze was shifting. It was about seven in the morning, and the guests were coming to the windows and walking in clumps to see Mario’s new toy.
“People everywhere,” he mused to himself. “I need to end this—find Pena and Mario and end this!”
“Jorge!”
Jorge looked up. Mario the cousin was waving to him.
“Let us go inside and see this thing in action, eh?”
Jorge smiled. “No, no, sir, you go ahead.”
He pulled his men close and whispered, with a smile on his face, “Frenchman, take Julio and Samuel with you. Go find out who authorized all these punks pulling security. Someone is stepping on my toes. Quietly get the men together and see what they are up to. When did they get here? How?”
Jorge watched his henchmen move off and then spoke loud enough for the fake Mario to hear him. “I am not feeling so good. Going to go sit and read for a bit.”
“Ahhh, too much to drink last night?” The fake Mario shielded his eyes from the sun. The temperature was a mild eighty with a slight breeze. Mario seemed unconcerned, aloof. His bodyguards looked bored. They paid no attention.
Jorge smiled and looked at Mario’s men. Why are they showing such a presence? They are vulgar, not soldiers, Jorge thought.
He was annoyed and a little bit suspicious. Mario had sometimes challenged him like this, questioning why he needed an elite guard, but this was over the top. He scanned the area and estimated nearly one hundred or more men, not his own.
Jorge smiled and nodded to Ivan and Tommy, who looked concerned.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Jorge turned and left.
Andre Pena finished his walk on the beach. Now he sat at the far southern end of the small island. He had a decent amount of elevation, perhaps twenty feet, on his sand dunes. The beaches were much better on this section of the island. The north was too rocky with too many bugs and thorny bushes.
Early this morning he thought he had heard small boats nearby, circling the island. Andre sipped his coffee and looked at the beach house. The island had served as some sort of ancient trading post or perhaps military outpost in the colonial days of the Spanish. There were still remnants of old, crumbling walls as high as seven feet and worn-down battlements that at one time had protected something from the elements. The original beach house had been built in the 1940s and was added on to in the 1970s. Andre admired architecture and in a way regretted whenever something beautiful or with history had to be demolished. He had attended architecture school in the United States and worked for about a decade at his trade before he had fallen into demolition and then become what other people would define as a terrorist. Truth was, he had been trained by the CIA to help fight communist rebels.
Someone could hide pretty well on this island, he mused.
Lights were on and most of the guests were out, like tiny ants, swarming around the black submarine. The profile of the Happy Mermaid stood proudly above them all, making the other yachts look like toys.
“I could blow it all up now!” he said to the waves. He looked at the detonator in his hands.
The explosives were set as shape charges near the foundation and as incendiary in the attic. The explosion would at first rock the foundation and outer walls of the house. Anyone near a window would be shredded to bits. The weakening of the structure and holes where windows had been would allow a nice vacuum of oxygen when the fire started. The roof charges would detonate next, lighting the house up in a fiery furnace and bringing the whole thing down. Andre had always liked using charges from above. They were very effective when SWAT teams tried to land and assault from the roof.
“When you got something that works, you stick with it,” he said to the sand and waves.
Andre settled down on his little hill and relaxed. He could see the plane and other boats at a dock to his right, a good half a mile down the beach. He strained to see if he could see the pretty girl who was fishing. The sun was too bright and he couldn’t see anything.
Carla sat on the edge of the dock watching fish swim beneath the crystal-clear water. She wondered what they thought about, if anything at all. The large wing of the Albatross flying boat shielded her from the sun, and she began to feel sleepy.
“Hey, do you have any sodas?”
She put down her fishing pole and turned around to glance at the tiny brick guard shack where her friend had been sitting. She pouted and sighed. A five-foot cinder-block wall went from the block-shaped structure down to the water’s edge, where it stopped by a rusty fence.
She looked around. There was a lonely wooden deck that zigzagged across the open sand back toward the house. Soon it would be too hot to walk on. The house was a good quarter mile away.
“Can you hear me?”
Carla felt her legs get numb. She had been dangling her bare feet off the dock and had been relaxing without a care in the world. She frowned at her black-and-red painted toenails. “You need a touch-up.”
The wood seemed painful to the backs of her knees so she stood up and stamped her feet.
“You asleep?” she called out to the guard who had been assigned to watch this stretch of beach. He was a recent runaway from El Salvador, an artist with a shady past.
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 31