The two men on the boat with Arteaga were also Cubans, Santos and Jimenez, both certified NAUI divers trained at the Agency school at Key West. Like Eddie, the three had heard the explosions on the shore and had seen the man stumble and fall on the beach. Also like Eddie, they were totally confused. Arteaga spoke sharply into his radio.
"Come in Beach Ops, this is Boat Ops."
Thomas Crowfoot's thin voice came back clearly and calmly. "Go ahead, Boat."
"Our man just went overboard. We're about to go in after him. What the hell is happening on the beach?"
"Continue with your mission, Boat. The beach operation has been temporarily disrupted."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Arteaga said angrily. "Unless you get Borgneff pinned down, we can't move."
"Borgneff is nowhere near the beach. Carry on," said Crowfoot, and signed off. He shook his head sadly, and reviewed the situation on the beach.
The point man, an American from TSD, had been the first to go. He had crouched behind a palm tree and his knee had touched the sand. Beneath that sand lay one of the now dry lumps of potassium chlorate and Vaseline that Vasily had sown at dawn. The homemade plastique charge exploded on contact. The American's left leg went in one direction; the rest of his body, smashed and shredded, flew against the tree. Less than a minute later, one of the Russians stepped on a second charge. He screamed wildly as the explosive tore upward and burst through his groin into his chest.
A third man, another Russian, vaulted up over the matted dunes onto the beach. He wore light summer clothing, and a breeze blew in off the sea. He was struck immediately by one of the razor-sharp strands of fiber-glass. It only touched his ankle above his shoe, but the pain threw him to the ground. He screamed too. He began to crawl back toward the jungle, and the heel of his hand came into contact with a tiny piece of polystyrene foam from the hotel mattress. He screamed again.
On the boat, Romeo spoke rapidly in Spanish to the other two Cubans. Santos tossed out the anchor, and the boat rode over it until it bit. The fishing boat pulled up short. Jimenez cut the engine.
"Now listen to me." Arteaga armed his spear gun and pointed inshore about thirty yards. "Look there. You can see his bubbles. Santos, you circle round from the direction of the beach. Jimenez, you come in from over there." He waved a hand toward the south. "I'll go straight in from here. He can't look in three directions at once. Take any shot you can get. You only have to wing him and he's finished."
The three divers spat into their masks, rubbed them clean, clamped them into place and tumbled over backward into the water. In a few seconds the surface was calm again and they were undulating downward with dolphin kicks. At a signal from Arteaga, they spread out to encircle their prey.
That prey was huddled in a coral tunnel forty feet below the surface of the water, sharing his sanctuary with a translucent jellyfish that waved its tentacles lazily, seemingly unaware of his presence. The tunnel hid him, but he knew that he was not truly concealed; his bubbles gave him away. It was only a matter of time before they came to him, and he could only wait.
He jammed the barbed point of his harpoon into the coral and unsnapped the Nikonos camera. The velocity of the dart that had struck down the sheep and then had given Jose Cuervos two ears and a tail would be sharply reduced by traveling through water, but the lethality would be equal. All he needed was a clear view.
He pressed back against a ledge, gripping with his fins. He was out of sight of the tunnel opening, but when he pressed the button on the camera he could see at right angles through the viewfinder. The view area was narrow, and he moved the camera slightly up, then down, then traversed a short arc. The jellyfish swam into view, blocking the lens. Unthinking, Eddie reached out of his shelter with one hand and tried to poke it with his elbow. Instantly he felt pain, a sharp sting that spread upward toward his shoulder. Had he been able to, he would have cried out, but at that moment he forgot the pain as the jellyfish moved out of view and its place was taken by a slim black shape approaching cautiously. Jimenez came on slowly, spear gun poised, eyes huge behind the mask, bubbles rising through the turquoise water.
The Cuban had spotted the bubbles of the prey, had seen the bright-orange flash of Eddie's BC vest retreat into the tunnel. Now all he saw was the jellyfish floating away and the bulky shape of a Nikonos protruding from the ledge, pointing in the wrong direction. No spear gun was aimed at him. His hand tightened on the trigger of his own gun and he gave a powerful flutter kick with his fins, coasting forward.
When he was in the viewfinder, less than ten feet away, Eddie pushed the button. The flechette shot from the side of the camera. It took Jimenez in the shoulder, the little firecracker charge inside the dart exploding as it hit bone. The water turned from blue to red, blood flowing in thick, ropy threads in all directions. Jimenez flopped over, and the spear gun tumbled away toward the ocean floor.
Eddie's head emerged slowly from the tunnel, and he watched the Cuban float away on the current, the blood streaming behind him. He would have stayed that way, transfixed by the sight, but the jellyfish was back again, wobbling toward him through the water. With the pain in his arm as a reminder, he jerked back his head, ducking quickly toward shelter.
Something bright and sharp flashed by, inches away, then vanished, arcing down. A slender steel shaft. He whipped around in the water and saw Santos.
The other Cuban had entered from the other end of the tunnel and had come up from behind. He had fired from five meters, and would have hit had it not been for the jellyfish. He vas already loading a second shaft. Eddie snatched at his own g'in, freeing the barb from the coral. It was all reflex now; he had one chance, no more. As he brought the pneumatic gun up, it felt as if it weighed fifty pounds. Santos clicked the second shaft home. With his gun hip high, Eddie squeezed the heavy trigger. The powerful harpoon zoomed silently through the water, sliced across Santos' arm, and plunged into his chest. As he died, the Cuban pulled his own trigger and his second shaft slammed through the tunnel, through the baggy pink shape of the jellyfish, and then off into nothingness. Wide-eyed, Eddie watched as Santos drifted downward, regulator dangling to one side, blood streaming from his mouth like curdled red milk. He yanked hard, and the harpoon disengaged, sliding back to him on its nylon line.
He checked his air: half a tank left. The blood and adrenaline pumped through him in surges, elating him. Two down, only Arteaga to go.
He came out of the tunnel smoothly, moving fast and breathing easily, a small white shark. The water cleared from the murky blue of the tunnel to a dazzling, sun-suffused green. He turned in a tight circle, searching in all lateral directions, then up and down. He saw Arteaga far above him and out of range. The Cuban was flutter-kicking toward the dark shape of his boat. Eddie moved slowly upward, spear gun ready, prepared to take him when he dived.
But Arteaga didn't dive. He turned once, and Eddie, thirty feet below and behind, looked directly into his eyes. Behind the mask, Arteaga seemed to be smiling, and with one hand he waved, almost a salute. A moment later he was gone, stroking powerfully toward the boat. Eddie saw his feet grip the rope ladder that hung from the side; then the legs surged up and Arteaga vanished.
Within a moment Eddie heard the bark of the inboard engine as first it sputtered, then caught, and far above him he saw the silver flashing of the single screw. The sound of the motor was no more than a dull, distant hum that was lost as it penetrated the fathoms of green water; even the fish were undisturbed. Then he saw the anchor chain tighten as the dark shadow of the boat moved forward several feet, then stopped. The screw continued to whirl, the engine idling in neutral.
Eddie watched the long line of his bubbles ascending. They no longer bleeped and blooped merrily, but went up in a sad procession. The elation he had felt after the first two kills was gone, replaced by a numbing depression. Then he had been ready to take on Arteaga mano a mano, but now he knew he would never have the chance. He checked his air again: si
x hundred pounds of pressure left. That, plus the second tank resting on the brain coral, gave him no more than an hour of dive time. Bright, clever Romeo Arteaga, always four moves ahead in chess, was one move ahead once again. If Eddie swam, Romeo would follow the bubbles. If Eddie stayed still, Romeo would patiently wait. No mano a mano for Arteaga, not after losing two good men. He was simply going to sit up on top and wait until the prey ran out of air and had to surface. And there was nothing that the prey could do about it.
During the Vietnam War, the United States Army had sown untold numbers of antipersonnel devices known as Gravel Mines throughout the jungle areas of Southeast Asia. The tea bags that Vasily had distributed around the coconut palm were modifications of this device, manufactured by him in San Miguel from thermite, black-iron oxide, and granulated aluminum. The first Russian motorcyclist who stepped on a tea bag, less than fifty feet from where Vasily crouched behind the tree, had his right leg blown to jelly from the foot to the knee. That man was Major Marchenko.
Vasily broke from cover as soon as he heard the muffled swat of the explosion, followed by the scream of agony. He ran low, keeping to the mine-free aisle he had left open, suitcase in one hand, hair dryer in the other. It took him more than a minute to battle through the underbrush to the wounded man, who lay where he had fallen, moaning pitifully, bleeding to death. His weapon, a Makarov pistol, had been flung aside. Marchenko's eyes rolled in shock, then fastened on Vasily.
"Borgneff," he gasped. The Russian words broke painfully from his twisted lips: "Finish it. Kill me now."
Vasily stared down, swallowing hard. There had been a time when he had known the man well.
"Comrade, please." Marchenko was begging. "For the love of God, do it."
For the love of God? Vasily came close to smiling, as he thought: In the face of death, we are all of us virgins. This man would have killed me, and not for the love of God.
"Nyet, nyet," Vasily said softly. "M spishitye. U vas mnoga vryemini. Don't rush. You have plenty of time. Be patient, it won't take long to die."
He kicked aside the Makarov pistol and stepped into the fringe of the jungle, into the deep shadows. He clenched his teeth as Marchenko began to scream incoherently. Moments later he heard the quiet crackling of brush, leaves being swept aside, damp branches bending and tearing but not breaking. Then there was a hush, the deep uncanny hush of the jungle. Then movement again, a cautious tread. Twenty feet away, Vasily guessed. I need him closer. But if he sees me first and he's carrying a machine pistol, I'm a dead man. He forced himself to wait, until finally he saw a darker hulk than the shadows, something black in the bottle-green foliage. And then a second silhouette, struck by an errant ray of sunlight. There were two of them.
Close enough, and he raised the hair dryer waist high. He squeezed the trigger. A jet of red-orange flame spurted out, roaring, crackling, filling the jungle with terrifying light and sound, engulfing the black human shapes in its path. Again the screams came, again in Russian, but when he released the trigger and the flame swept back to leave only shadows, there was silence from the two charred bodies huddled under palm fronds.
Vasily picked up the pistol and turned back to where Marchenko lay. The blue eyes still stared up at him, but they were the eyes of a dead man. Vasily murmured, "I would have done it for you, comrade. But you were in a hurry, I understand."
Ten minutes later he had reached the main road, approaching it cautiously. The last of the Russians waited there, bent on one knee next to his motorcycle, a Kalashnikov AKM under his arm. Very quietly, Vasily fitted a box of the rimfire cartridges into the breech of the Dragunov. Gently, he slid the barrel between two banana leaves and notched the sights on the center of the motor- cylist's chest.
He sighed. After all he had done, it seemed such a prosaic way to kill.
He sighed again, but this time held his breath for a second, then squeezed the trigger. As if he had been snatched by a violent wind, the motorcyclist flew back five yards across the road and landed on the dirt shoulder, chest smashed, arms outflung, and unmoving.
Vasily rushed for the Safari, its front fender crumpled against the trunk of a dead tree. The engine caught on the first turn of the key. He bumped up out of the ditch onto the road, hesitated a moment, then shifted into second gear and turned in the direction of the Palancar Reef.
Thirty feet below the surface, on the bed of brain coral, Eddie's hands shook as he changed air tanks. He had not thought this possible underwater, but they shook with good reason. Caught by a mild wave surge, the second tank slipped away, bumping along the slope and down toward the blue-green depths. His eyes bulged out in panic. He had already taken the necessary deep breath, spat out his regulator, and detached it from the first, nearly empty cylinder. The only air he owned was in his lungs. He grabbed for the second tank, and his foot hit the camera, sending it floating off the ledge and down into the canyon. It was then that his hands shook. By the time he caught up with the tank and clamped his regulator to it, his legs had been badly scraped on the coral. He blew out the regulator and sucked deeply, taking in salt water that seared his lungs, and then at last the sweet fresh supply of air.
When his hands had stopped shaking, he figured his time again. No more than an hour. Above him, the propeller of Arteaga's boat turned lazily as the Cuban waited.
Fantasies crowded his head, complex plans for fouling the boat's propeller and making a run for shore, but he knew they were only dreams. The propeller was only four feet from the surface, and although a bullet would not be lethal at that depth, a spear gun would. He was still the prey, and nothing more. Wherever he moved, if he tried to circle the boat and clamber aboard, it would be simple for Arteaga to follow his movements and spot him as he broke the surface. He gripped his spear gun with one hand, and with the other eased the diving knife in its sheath. He was armed, but he had no one to fight with.
Arteaga checked his watch as he sat in the cockpit of the boat. Fifty minutes had passed, and he figured Eddie for ten minutes' more worth of air, at most. His eyes followed the bubbles that broke on the surface. They usually broke in the same place, although sometimes they moved off a few feet. He smiled coldly, and flipped off the safety catch of the Colt Commando. As soon as Eddie Mancuso was six inches from the surface, he was ready to rip his head off. The trail of bubbles began to move forward swiftly.
He's going to come at me from the bow, Arteaga decided. He'll try to hide under the boat, then surface fast. He switched on his radio.
"Boat Ops here. He's coming out. I've got him."
Crowfoot said calmly, "Be careful."
"It's like a shooting gallery. I'll leave the radio on. You can listen."
Almost immediately Crowfoot heard the faint and muted sound of an explosion come clearly through the radio. Another quickly followed.
"Beach Ops calling. Do you have him?"
He waited patiently, but there was no answer. Then there was a series of evenly spaced dry snaps: more firing. He was still patient, waiting for Arteaga to confirm the kill.
On the boat, the Cuban bent in the shelter of the coach roof on the starboard bow. The first shot from the jungle had missed his head by inches and torn away the handrail. If he hadn't been moving quickly toward the bow, he would have been dead. The second shot slammed through the coach roof, tearing out a chunk of wood the size of a fist.
"Chinga el diablo!" he muttered. He was pinned down, couldn't move. The pupils of his eyes dilated. Under him, the boat shuddered, and he heard the steady crack of the rifle. The boat shuddered again. That's a high-powered rifle, he realized. What the hell is the son of a bitch using in it?
The miniature, metal-cased cherry bombs loaded into the Dra- gunov thumped solidly into the hull at the waterline, splintering wood, exploding on contact, sieving the hull. Vasily fired with a leisurely regularity, but he could not see Eddie, and time was important. He slipped a fresh box into the magazine, sighting carefully through the telescopic sight until the
cross hairs lined up on the stern. A hit on the gas tank would end it swiftly. He squeezed the trigger.
Arteaga felt the boat spin at least a foot as the impact of the cherry bomb sheered it around. On the third shot, the gas tank exploded, the stern of the boat disintegrating, smoke and flames licking up over the deck. The sea flowed through into the cockpit, fighting the fire, but the stern was settling, sinking, the boat already listing to port where the first charges had torn holes in the hull. Arteaga slipped into his tank harness and fins, clamped the mask down over his face, dropped the Colt, and snatched his spear gun. He launched himself out over the side.
He had never known the shock of water to be so painful. He couldn't understand it. The water seemed to tear at his vitals, ripping up into his body as though it were bladed. His sight cleared for an instant as soon as he was below the surface: everything was magnified through the glass of his mask, a green-and- red panorama. The green was water; the red was blood. His own blood. In front of him, staring through his own mask, was Eddie Mancuso. His hand was outstretched, as if in welcome. At the end of the hand was the haft of a dive knife, and the knife was buried six inches deep into Arteaga's abdomen.
The regulator slipped from his mouth. Water flooded his lungs. The knife slid out smoothly, the world turned dark, and Romeo Arteaga drifted away.
Eddie broke the surface, jammed the snorkel between his teeth, and began to breaststroke toward the Santa Ysabel.
Vasily waded out through the surf. He handed Eddie the suitcase, then the rifle, and then hauled himself over the gunwale and onto the deck.
"Get us out of here quickly," he said. "You know, you could have come in closer to the beach. I'm soaked."
Eddie spun the wheel, still in his glistening wet suit. He laughed. "So what? So am I. And I'm also alive."
Vasily came up to the cockpit. He looked down at Isidoro, snoring happily. Then he looked over the side as they passed the spot where the other boat had settled to the bottom.
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 21