by Ted Bell
Stoke had unbuckled his restraining belts and now stood beside Hawke, moving his hands to the wheel as Hawke backed off the throttles momentarily.
“I got the helm, Alex.”
“It’s yours,” Hawke said, only removing his hands when his own hands told him that Stokely had full control of the boat.
“Feels good,” Stoke said, and he meant it. He saw how wide the river looked from here. He accelerated easily back up to one hundred knots. The sense of power was like nothing he’d felt before. Hawke stayed right by his side, his eyes ranging over the three dedicated groups of engine gauges and flat-screen navigation and weather monitors mounted above.
Hawke said, “You’re good to go. Remember, Stoke, your hands are hardwired to your eyes. Look ahead; see where you want to be next. Don’t look where you don’t want to go. It’s called ‘target fixation.’ Your eyes stray to a target you don’t want to hit. Your hands will automatically take you there if you’re not careful.”
“Tunnel vision,” Stoke said.
“Right. As you reach the limits of your ability to think ahead of the boat, your peripheral view narrows, and it’s harder to see the next target. And let Brownlow or me know as soon as you’re ready for a break.”
“Go get some rack, boss,” Stoke said, enjoying himself for the first time in a week.
“Yeah. Wake me in an hour if you don’t see me back up here.”
“Got it.”
“We’re going to find this bastard, you know. And kill him before he kills us. Any of us.”
“I know that.”
“I’ve seen this guy, you know. Had some quality time with him. You’ll recognize Top when you see him, Stoke. Can’t miss him.”
“How’s that?”
“His eyes.”
“What about them?”
“Like two piss-holes in the snow.”
HALF AN HOUR later, Stoke became aware of a small man standing just behind his right shoulder. He was using one of the handholds on the overhead to keep on his feet. There was light chop now, and the beginning of river traffic, and Stoke had wisely slowed the big boat to less than forty knots.
“Mi scusi, Señor Jones,” the man said.
It was Gianni Arcuri, the Italian engineer provided with the boat for the first three months of shakedown. He was a Neapolitan, and had a cherubic face, huge brown eyes and a big black moustache under his generous nose.
“Hey, Gianni, what’s up?”
“I’m so sorry, eh? But I’ve been down in the engine room. I don’t like what I am seeing with Number Three engine. She’s no acting so good.”
“What is it, Gianni?”
“She’s running a little hot. Manifold pressure is dropping a little bit. Nothing too serious, okay, but I’d like to shut her down for a while. We’ll take a look, eh? Find the little problem and fix it before it becomes a big problem later.”
“Should we reduce speed now?”
“Please. Twenty-five, thirty knots maximum. You’ll be carrying the heavy extra load of the down engine so you’ll have to trim, okay? I’ll shut Three down now and fix it as fast as I can.”
“You know we’re in a big hurry tonight, Gianni.”
“Si, si. Everyone knows that, Señor Jones. We do the best we can, eh? Give me twenty minutes, a half hour.”
Stoke used the quiet time afforded by the slow speed to think. He’d studied the maps. He’d heard Brock’s estimates of the enemy strengths and weaknesses. He and Hawke had both gone over Harry’s recon report enough times to memorize the thing. They both knew these would be suicide troops mainly, big time Kool-Aid drinkers, jungle gangbangers ready to die for a one-way ticket to Paradise. And Caparina’s report had talked about robotic tanks and unmanned drones with Hellfire missiles. There’d be mines in the river, too, as they got closer.
On the plus side, they had this damn kickass boat. The secret to successful riverine operations, as he’d learned the hard way in the Delta, was speed. Stiletto was insanely fast. She was heavily armed and armored. She had amazing navigation and missile warning systems. The deeper into Top’s compound they could get Stiletto, the better chance they’d have.
The way Stoke saw this thing going down was pretty straightforward. He, Hawke, and the thirty badasses aboard this boat, would mount a riverine operation against Top’s compound; they would do as much damage as they could with Stiletto’s arsenal before going ashore. To that end, Hawke had ordered a PAM system installed on the stern. These Precision Attack Missiles weighed about 120 pounds each and had a range of 40 kilometers. They came in a container of 15 missiles, each with a 28-pound warhead. Once the container was plugged into the ship’s wireless battlefield internet, they were ready to fire at will.
Brock’s team would be composed of fifty or so Falcon Spec Ops guys, all of whom reported to Saladin. These were some serious anti-terrorist troops, all of them local boys with local knowledge. Saladin was even now briefing his men in the caverns he and Brock had discovered outside the town of Madre de Dios. Brock and Saladin’s team would fly with Mick Hocking. Two flights. They would land at the LZ Brock had found near the compound. While Mick returned for the second batch, the first arrivals would start a rapid deployment east.
When ordered to do so, they would cross the deep ravine that formed the western border of Top’s lair and advance toward the center, as the Stiletto force moved rapidly west, eventually creating a pincer movement.
Stoke and Hawke had debated and finally agreed to this strategy while calculating the forces available to them and studying the maps provided by Brock and Caparina. It was a basic element of military strategy used in nearly every war since people threw rocks. Even Hannibal used it against the Romans at Cannae, 216 B.C. Worked then, works now. The flanks of the opponent are attacked simultaneously in a pinching movement.
Draw the enemy in toward your base as you fake a retreat at the center, then, once they bite, move your outer flanks forward to encircle them. Then, everybody goes on offense. Trick was to get your flanks to fold at the exact same time so you don’t give the bad guys even a single opportunity to retreat.
Hawke said he had one reservation about this strategy. He thought an enemy realizing it was completely surrounded would fight more fiercely than one still believing it had an escape route. Stoke agreed.
“Right, boss. Let’s give ’em an escape route. Straight down to the river where we’ll park Stiletto.”
67
LA SELVA NEGRA
G ood evening, Congreve,” Papa Top said, entering the room where the Englishman was held captive. The big man was wearing his Voodoo regalia. An ill-fitting tailcoat, black striped pants, and his black bowler swinging from one hand. There were two stocky chaps in green fatigues on either side of the door. They stood stiffly, like mannequins. The room was round and sparsely furnished. There were arched windows, shuttered.
Congreve raised his head. The man they called Doctor was still there, off to one side, putting a hypodermic into a red leather case. The doctor had asked him a lot of questions. But, hadn’t hurt him, oddly enough. He supposed that was coming now.
He’d been out, but now he returned to consciousness as easily and fully as if he’d been having a refreshing catnap. He tried to imagine what kind of amphetamine cocktail produced such startling clarity of thought? He was restrained to a kind of chaise-longue, made of bamboo but covered in some soft leather upholstery.
Top bent over him, looking into his eyes with a kindly solicitude that was mildly disconcerting.
“I’ve been reading your copy of the Code,” Top said, pulling up a chair from somewhere. “Fascinating.”
“Isn’t it,” Ambrose said, reclining his head and studying a piece of Brazilian folk art hanging on the wall. A face, with wildly distorted eyes. It was the only piece of art in the room.
“Dr. Khan says you’re not being very cooperative.”
“Where am I?”
“A reasonable question. You’re in the Black Jungle.”
“Those two by the door. Robots?”
“You’ve been reading too much science fiction, Inspector. Tell me. Where is Hawke now?”
“No idea.”
“You know what this is?”
“Voodoo doll.”
“Yes. But the needles don’t go in the doll.”
“Get that away from me.”
“This will hurt.”
“Good God.”
A searing pain starting at his foot rose the length of his leg and causing his major muscles to spasm.
“Next question. We’ll take it slowly, no more pinpricks or superficial burns. When you stole the book from the hospital, were you able to finish it? I promised your predecessor in this room, the late Madame Zimmermann, I’d ask.”
“No.”
“Safe answer. How far did you get in the book?”
“Far enough, you bloody maniac.”
“Now, now. That’s going to cost you. The doctor and I were happy to see you arrive. This way, we’ll know who to expect and when. And, if we need to make any last minute adjustments to our…plans. You see? Where is Hawke now? Where did he go after Key West?”
“Sod off.”
“There’s a special nerve here, just below the septum of the nose. Feel that?”
“Definitely.”
“Hawke’s vessel was picked up by our aerial drones patrolling off the north coast of Cuba. He outran two of our high-speed patrol boats. He was last seen headed south, southwest. I repeat the question, where is Hawke now?”
“Bugger yourself, Muhammad. That’s your style, is it not?”
“Doctor? Sorry, would you bring your bag over here? Thank you. Doctor Khan is an engineer but he also dabbles in human anatomy. He is here to ensure that you undergo the worst possible pain, consistent with your remaining alive until your public execution at sundown tomorrow. It will be an interesting challenge to his skills…and your fortitude.”
“There’s really nothing else I can say.”
“He’s a brave one, isn’t he Doctor? A sip of whisky, Inspector? Here, hold your head up. That’s it.”
“Good stuff. Macallan, with a bit of an aftertaste. What’d you put in it?”
“I ask the questions. I’m sure you’re accustomed to outwitting your opponents. That will not be the case tonight. I will ignore your promises as well as your pleas, so don’t waste your breath or my time. Now. Once you acquired this book from the Germans, you acquired certain knowledge. How much of this did you impart to your friend Hawke before we had you arrested?”
“Ah. I told him enough.”
“Doctor?”
“Oh, lord. Oh, god.”
“Tell me. Now!”
“He’s passed out,” Khan said, “let me revive him.”
“Welcome back,” Top said, “Let us continue. How much does Hawke know? Tell me now.”
“We’re losing him again. Hold this under his nose.”
“There are twelve major bones in your body, Congreve. It will be a delicate task to break each one in ascending order of importance, starting with this one. Ready? You may begin, Doctor.”
There was a loud crack and Congreve heaved upward, tearing at his restraints.
“Please, God…”
“Will you talk now?”
“Some kind of—some kind of attack on Washington…”
“Does Hawke know?”
“No.”
“DOES HAWKE KNOW?”
“Y-yes. I mean, no. He doesn’t. I—please God.”
“One more, if you please, Doctor? After the bones are broken, the doctor will inject you with a solution that cause you to go into convulsions. It will be…difficult for you.”
“NO! Please…”
“Does Alex Hawke know the primary target?”
“The…president.”
“Who else?”
“Government.”
“And when will this attack occur?”
“I don’t know.”
“I said when.”
“The…pro—the procession to the Capitol.”
“What about Bedouin?”
“Unmanned submarine. Inside the Tidal Basin.”
“Weapon?”
“Small nuclear device. 150 kiloton.”
Papa Top looked at Khan and nodded. The doctor lifted Congreve’s right hand and bent the fingers backward at an acute angle.
“How much of this does Hawke know?”
“All of it. None of it. Choose.”
“I repeat. How…much of this…does Hawke know? Hmm? How much?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Very good, Inspector. I think that will be all for tonight, unless the doctor has any further questions? No? Good. We’ll see you in the morning? Don’t try to sleep by the way. It will be useless given what’s in your veins.”
“Wait!”
“There’s more?”
“There’s a woman. In England. I want to say good-bye. Please. Pen and paper. While I can still write…”
Top stared down at him for a few seconds, then looked at Doctor Khan before answering him.
“The doctor says ‘no.’ He doesn’t believe you’re telling the truth about Hawke. I will ask once more. Did you communicate with your friend Alex Hawke after you’d decoded the letter in its entirety?”
“No. Give me the bloody paper.”
“I believe him,” Top said to one of the guards, heading for the door. “For now. Give him what he wants. We begin again in the morning.”
68
LEE’S FERRY, VIRGINIA
I t was snowing, bad, just like Homer had said on the phone, coming down so hard Franklin could barely make out the shoulders of the road he was driving on. You could only see intermittently, through the fan-shaped area of glass left by the wiper. Every time it squeegeed a fresh coat of damp white stuff off the windshield, he leaned forward to see where he was. Wet snow mixed with sleet, heavy, about a foot of it already baked to a firm white cake on the hood of his car.
He was hardly doing twenty now, just blowing a thin layer of frosting off the cake. Up ahead he saw flashing yellow lights in the whirling snow, moving slow along the shoulder. The big plows were out, but clearly Route 1 South was not a priority. Not with a major corridor like I-95 just a mile away to the west. Even with the conditions, he was glad Homer had told him to take the old road south. Less traffic to deal with, and nobody was going anywhere fast to begin with.
He leaned forward over the wheel and squinted, trying to peer through the swirling stuff. This stretch of road he was on would be pretty near impassable to anybody not driving a big SUV. Or, a rented Jeep Cherokee 4X4, the last car left at the Hertz counter at Reagan Airport. “It’s red, is that all right?” the Hertz girl had asked him. He told her red was his favorite color.
A few miles back he’d seen the sugar-coated green signs for General Washington’s home at Mt. Vernon, and then the town of Woodbridge, so he figured to be getting close. Route 1 was the old eastern seaboard road to the Capitol and time had passed it by. There were still places called the Three Oaks Motor Hotel, little log cabins built in the trees around a semi-circular drive. There was maybe an hour of sun left in the sky. Then it would be dark and much harder to find Morning Glory Farm.
He hoped Homer was in his vehicle with the heat on. Temperature had been dropping since he’d landed. He reached over and turned the heater fan to high, wished he had his leather gloves. Glad he’d worn his duster.
Okay, there it is, he said to himself, seeing a frosted sign for River Road in the yellow cones of his headlights. He took a left. Another sign said, Lee’s Ferry, 1 mile. Good, we’re in business. He slowed way down now, to a crawl. Big old trees, huge dark trunks, bare branches heavily laden with snow. And through them, the river. The farm should be coming up on his left pretty soon.
To his left, he saw, there was what had to be a split-rail fence under a mound of fresh snow and then a white wooden sign coming up that said Morning Glory Farm.
The drive came up fast and he braked too hard. The rear end fishtailed, caught up with the front end and then he was spinning, headed straight for the ditch. He eased his foot off the brake and slid around to a stop, the headlight beams aimed at a weird angle. Well. Bad start. He put the thing in low and gunned it. Tried reverse. The wheels just spun like he was on oily glass.
He cursed under his breath, shut the engine off, swung out of the car, and started climbing the hill on foot. Cowboy boots made the walking trickier than it had to be. No fresh tracks in the drive, but it was snowing so hard a car could have driven up this road twenty minutes ago and you wouldn’t know it.
There was a long sloping white meadow to his left as he climbed. Up on the summit, a pretty two-story white farmhouse with dark shutters on all the windows. Nice views of the woods and town to the west and down to the river to the east. It would be pretty dark in the house now, sun was almost down behind him, but there were no lights in any of the windows. No movement around the house, no smoke coming from the two tall brick chimneys at either end of the roof peak.
There was a heavily wooded area to his right.
He figured Homer’s vehicle to be parked deep in those woods, just over the ridge. Some kind of river access road maybe. A public boat launch? He angled off the drive into the woods as he got close to the top, moving slowly through the trees now, expecting to come upon Homer or his car at any moment. The footing here was more difficult, big drifts piled up beneath the trees, and by the time he’d reached the top of the hill he was breathing pretty hard.