Spy ah-4

by Ted Bell

  75

  THE BLACK RIVER

  B rock was late for his scheduled river rendezvous with Alex Hawke. He’d been making his way through the jungle to the outpost at Tupo when he got into a life or death race with some tanks. He’d accidentally tripped a sensor and a whole squadron of Trolls had been sent out to find him. He seemed to have confused most of the joystick jockeys when he’d crossed a wide ravine, deftly tightrope-walking a fallen tree to the other side. Now he realized another of the little bastards was still on his butt.

  Before he’d found the ravine, this last group almost got him. He’d carved one out of the pack and tried to climb aboard and bull-ride the damn thing like he and Saladin had perfected. The smartass controller had applied full throttle forward to one track, full reverse to the other. The Troll spun like a goddamn top on its axis and flung him off into the bushes.

  High fives in the control room, oh yeah.

  This new guy was seriously spitting lead. The air was full of tracer rounds, too, the shrubbery getting chewed to pieces all around him as the guy tried to find his range. Head down, pumping his knees high, bobbing and weaving, Harry ran for his life. He was seeing sunlight ahead now. The river was close. There was the dock through the trees. He could make out a boat, a crazy looking black boat, had to be a hundred feet long, waiting at the end.

  Had to be Hawke. Nobody else he knew would have a boat like that. He’d almost missed his ride. Fucking Troll remote operators had gotten their shit together, all right. All that practice with Harry and Saladin had made them a lot better at this game. Harry ran for daylight.

  He tripped over a big root, cursed as he went down. Now he was up and running for his life again. The tank was still on his ass, spitting lead at him. He dodged and feinted, using the thick undergrowth as cover. He was almost to the clearing.

  Now he had to sprint across open ground. There was dilapidated shed at the foot of the dock, about a hundred yards away. As he got closer, he saw machine gun turrets on Hawke’s boat. Shoot back, you assholes! Get this tank off my ass! Fifty cals on the bow and stern. Christ, there was even one up on top of the wheelhouse! What the hell was going on? Were they all asleep?

  No, they were just busy.

  Unseen by Harry Brock, armed drones were approaching the black gunship moored at the end of the dock. Hawke was up on top of the wheelhouse with Ecclestone who was manning the .23mm cannon. Both men were keenly focused on enemy craft approaching from every compass point. Hawke had his glasses on the tiny black specks dead ahead, another drone flying low over the water toward his bow. Hawke was straining his eyes, trying to determine if there were missiles on the wingtips or if these were just more recon flights. He’d no intention of wasting another PAM on a mere recon.

  “Radar showing four small drone aircraft approaching out of the west-southwest, sir, altitude two hundred feet, speed fifty-five knots,” he heard Fire Control Officer Lewis say in his headphones. “Range one mile.”

  “Four bogies?” Hawke said.

  “Four, roger. Three bogies are breaking formation. Climbing. Looks like they intend to circle around behind us, sir. The lead one, too, seems to be climbing. Appears to be circling. Looks like a holding pattern.”

  Why send four when one would do? Hawke wondered.

  “Awaiting further orders, I expect. Keep an eye on them, Lewis.” He told the Fire Control Officer.

  Then he heard rapid machine gun fire from the bank and saw Harry Brock emerge from the jungle. He’d been waiting nearly an hour and was about to give orders to shove off. He’d no desire to remain a sitting duck any longer than he had to. But, here Harry came, running flat out toward the clearing. Somebody was shooting at him, but who, or, what?

  A tank. Small, but fast and firing twin machine guns at his friend Harry. One of the two robots that had been shadowing them no doubt.

  “Ecclestone,” Hawke said to the gunner seated inside the heavily armored Plexiglas turret.

  “Sir!”

  “Do you think you can take out that little tank without killing Mr. Brock?”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I think I’ve got a shot.”

  The turret instantly rotated ninety degrees west and the GUN DISH got a lock on the approaching robot Troll. Hawke felt the deck shudder beneath him as Ecclestone squeezed off a burst from the .23mm cannons. The muzzles flashed, spouting flame as they recoiled. Hawke saw the small tank lifted up high in the air by the exploding rounds, disintegrating in a perfectly symmetrical ball of fire and flaming debris.

  Harry kept running down the long dock.

  “Come along, Harry,” Hawke shouted through cupped hands from the roof, “We’re about to shove off without you!”

  “You can’t leave me! I’m your ticket to Paradise, Hawke,” Harry said, pounding down the rotting boards of the sharply canted structure.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Hawke shouted, his focus back on the rapidly approaching drone. “Cast off all lines!”

  The crew hastily cast off the bow, stern, and spring lines made fast to the dock pilings. Harry Brock, seeing the water opening up between himself and Hawke’s boat, had to leap for it. He made it, arms pinwheeling, and a waiting crewman wrestled him safely aboard.

  “Hello, Hawkeye,” he smiled up at Alex who was standing on the cabin top looking down at him. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  “Hello, Harry. Permission granted.”

  A nearby explosion rocked the boat on its beam and a geyser of water shot fifty feet in the air. The dock where Harry had been standing seconds ago, was no more. Harry and the crew stowing lines on the starboard side were knocked to their knees and had to scramble to stay aboard.

  “I should have mentioned we’re under attack. You might want to get inside where it’s nice and safe, Harry.”

  “Is there no peace?” Brock muttered, getting to his feet.

  “We’ve got four confirmed armed drones, Skipper,” Lewis said in the phones. “Fore and aft, and two more on our stern quarters, sir. Closing at eighty knots. Armed with Hellfire-type missiles. Request permission for immediate launch PAM weapons system, sir.”

  “Denied. These things are slow moving. Ecclestone and the fore and aft turrets should be sufficient. Save PAM for when we really need it. Fire when ready. I’m going to the bridge.”

  Hawke stepped on to the top rung, lightly gripped the stainless ladder rails, and slid down onto the bridge deck. Brownlow was at the wheel, Harry and Stokely were embracing just aft of him, pounding each other on the shoulders.

  “Break it up,” Hawke said, clapping Harry on the back. Despite his misgivings about the American, he was very glad to see him. Brock stuck out his hand and Hawke shook it. “Been a while, Harry. Good to see you.”

  “Likewise. I didn’t think—”

  Harry’s sentence was interrupted by the muffled but still loud chatter of both fore and aft twin fifty calibers opening up at the same time, a metallic cacophony enhanced by the heavy thudding of the cannon directly overhead.

  “Incoming!” Brownlow shouted. “Hit the—”

  Hawke saw the missile streaking directly for the wheelhouse. A second later an explosion directly overhead rocked the boat, sending all three men inside the wheelhouse to the deck. Hawke scrambled over to the ladder and climbed topside. The cannon turret had taken a nearly direct hit and Ecclestone was slumped forward over his weapon, blood pouring from a deep gash in his forehead. Hawke pulled the man from his station and saw that he was wounded in several places but still very much alive.

  “Get below,” he said to the dazed man, helping him to the ladder. Off to his left he saw one drone explode, brought down by fire from the stern gunner, whose turret was now rotating clockwise to take out the drone on their aft starboard quarter.

  “Can’t walk too well, sir,” Ecclestone said. Then Stokely emerged at the top of the ladder, lending a hand.

  “I’ll take him below, boss,” he said, and Hawke steered the wounded man to his waiting arms. He heard a nearb
y explosion as another drone was blown out of the sky by the Stiletto stern gunners. The boat was moving rapidly through the water now, thirty knots perhaps, making her harder to hit. The one remaining drone, the one that had fired the initial missile, had circled back again and was now on another approach coming directly at them low out of the sun.

  “Let’s see if this damn thing still works,” Hawke said, slipping into the seat inside the damaged turret of the 23mm anti-aircraft gun. The weapon was equipped with its own GUN DISH radar, capable of acquiring, tracking, and engaging low-flying aircraft, like the drone now attacking Stiletto. It fired full auto, but Hawke had ordered the gun set at bursts of two to three rounds to conserve precious ammunition. No time to change that now.

  He squinted his eyes, trying to use the conventional optical sight, aided by the GUN DISH. The sun was fierce and blinding, but he thought he had the little bugger. A sharp beeping tone agreed. He had target acquistion. He had the bastard in his sights now, centering it in the red crosshairs, seeing the one missile remaining on the port wing, knowing it would be fired at any second…and squeezing both triggers simultaneously, he blew the drone out of the sky.

  HALF AN HOUR later, Hawke, Stokely, the Frogman, and Brock were huddled in the boat’s tiny war room, deep into refining their plans with the aid of Brock’s much-needed information. It had already been decided that, instead going in with two squads, Stoke and Froggy would mount a combined operation.

  Best of all, Brock had even created a rough but reasonable facsimile of the compound itself, rendered in black pencil on the back of a map of the Amazon Basin’s Mata Grosso region. Because of the canopy, Mick Hocking had been unable to get any aerial recon photos. Now, at least, the team could visualize the objective.

  “A large force here to the north?” Hawke asked, studying the crude map.

  “Saladin has his scouts tracking the main body of Top’s troops. He has begun moving them out.”

  “I’D SAY THE TROOPS remaining inside the compound number about a hundred right now,” Brock said. “The hard core Imperial Guards, let’s call them. The vast majority of troops have moved north and west, using these jerry-built highways you helped build in the jungle. I saw three armored divisions pull out late last night.”

  “Headed where?”

  “Central America is all I know. All the way to Mexico, maybe, join up with forces in the mountains up there. The idea is, once they take the Great Satan out, that’s the signal. Then the troops fan out into the countryside, get the populations to rise up, and they all march together on the cities. Knock them down one by one. Take the capitals.”

  “They all want to be the next Bolívar,” Hawke said, rubbing his chin.

  “These guys want it all. And they think now’s the time to go for it. Who’s going to stop them?”

  “You got inside,” Hawke said, smiling. “Good work, Harry.”

  “I’ve still got someone inside. A woman named Caparina. She could probably take Top down all by herself.”

  Hawke looked at Brock’s baggy pajamalike fatigues. “Disguised like that?”

  “Exactly. Except she’s wearing a fatigue hat pulled down over her ears. And these green camo pajamas like all of Top’s grunts in there. She’d be hard to spot. We all look equally bad.”

  “You don’t know where they’re keeping Ambrose Congreve, do you, Harry?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Christ, Harry, what’s this woman doing in there?”

  Harry spun the hand-rendered chart of the compound around on the table so that it was facing him. He knew this was Hawke’s primary objective now. “Hold your horses. Let me look at this thing a second.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “All right. Based on Caparina’s last radio transmission, I’d say there is a good chance they might stow any hostages right here.”

  His finger was pointing to a cluster of tree houses at the edge of the compound, hard by the main bridge.

  “Why there?”

  “Caparina managed to get herself assigned to some scutwork on the bridge. Raking debris from all this rain. She said she heard a lot of very unpleasant noises coming from the three houses by the river.”

  “When was this?”

  “1100 hours. She’s got a radio stashed somewhere.”

  “Ambrose was still alive at 1100 hours,” Hawke said, looking at Stokely and then his watch.

  “We’ll get him out,” Stoke said to Alex, “Don’t worry.”

  “Tell me about this structure here,” Hawke said, pointing to another location a few hundred yards from the river.

  “Communications and Control. Call it the ‘Tomb’. About twenty feet underground. Steel blast doors, reinforced concrete walls six feet thick. It’s a bitch, all right.”

  “Any tomb will do,” Hawke said, “Where is Saladin now?”

  “Moving his squad through the jungle toward this location here. Airstrip I found two miles from the west perimeter. He’ll wait there for our signal before moving into the compound to rendezvous.”

  “Rendezvous point?”

  “Right here. I told Saladin we’d hook up half mile above the bridge connecting the two sectors.”

  “No river mines there?”

  “None. The mines are all here.”

  “Where we’re headed now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Christ.”

  Froggy said, “Now that we have an idée where Congreve might be, his rescue is perhaps not impossible.”

  For the first time since Ambrose had been kidnapped, Hawke felt a surge of hope.

  It had started to rain. Hard. A heavy drumming on the cabin top over his head. Maybe it was a good sign.

  God knew he could use one.

  76

  WASHINGTON, DC

  T he phone rang. Dixon reached over and grabbed it before it could ring again, looking at his glow-in-the-dark watch as he did it. Almost eleven. He’d been sleeping for an hour. Couldn’t even stay awake long enough to tell Daisy about meeting the president of the United States; even if he only stuck his head into a meeting to say hello. He’d told her about Homer. That was about all he could manage. Out the window, he could see the vapor lights of the hotel parking lot. It had stopped snowing.

  “Hello?”

  “Sheriff Dixon?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Sheriff, this is Secret Service Special Agent Rocky Hernandez, assigned to the president’s detail. I was with the team that greeted you and Secretary de los Reyes at the White House earlier this evening?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember you. One of the K-9 fellows.”

  “Right. Sorry to disturb you, but my boss just asked me to call. He said to tell you there’s just been an explosion in Rock Creek Park.”

  “I thought I heard something. About a fifteen minutes ago? Woke me up. I thought it was normal.”

  “No, sir. Not normal. It was a huge explosion. People are very jumpy around here tonight because of the Inauguration tomorrow. Threat level high, internet chatter over at NSA is going through the roof. Police are headed to the scene. I was off duty and headed home to Maryland when I got the call from the White House.”

  “How can I help you, Agent Hernandez?”

  “Call me Rocky. I’m turned around on the Beltway and headed back to the White House. Your hotel is on my way. Agent-in-Charge was wondering if I could come by and pick you up? There was apparently a big semi truck involved in the explosion and he thought maybe you and I could swing through the Park over there and—”

  “How long?”

  “Two minutes.”

  “I’ll be out front.”

  The Secret Service agent’s car pulled up in front of the Doubletree lobby and Dixon climbed inside. It was a Jeep Cherokee with a wire cage in the rear and a dog back there.

  “I appreciate this, Sheriff,” Hernandez said, pulling out of the lot.

  “No problem at all. What kind of explosion was it?”

  “That’s what we want
to find out. Looks like a tractor-trailer rig and a DC squad car were involved. A collision, is what they’re thinking so far.”

  “Pretty big collision to make a bang like that.”

  “That’s what we think, too.”

  “That your dog back there? Or, an official one?”

  “That’s Dutch. Mandatory retirement after eleven years service. He’s got one year to go.”

  “Dutch, huh? Good name.”

  “Named after my first boss, President Reagan.”

  “Dutch still goes to work?”

  “All the K-9 dogs get to go home every night with their handlers. Part of my family, Sheriff.”

  “What is he? Looks a lot like a German Shepherd.”

  “He’s a Belgian Malinois. That’s all we use now. Trained to detect drugs, explosives, firearms.”

  “Explosives, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.”

  “Great minds think alike,” Dixon said, and, looking out the window at Washington in the snow, he added, “And so do ours.”

  There had to be twenty squad cars and emergency vehicles already at the scene. Tape was up, surrounding a big black hole in the ground. The surrounding snow-covered trees were lit up with flashing blue and red lights. Dixon noticed two vehicles marked BOMB DISPOSAL parked near the blackened center of the explosion. On the far side, a large FBI crime scene van was a hive of activity.

  He and Hernandez climbed out of the car and fetched Dutch out of the back. Once he was on his lead, they went up to an officer standing inside the tape and showed their shields.

  “White House dog?” the D.C. uniform asked Hernandez, rubbing Dutch’s coat.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Glad to have him at the scene. You gentlemen let me know if you need anything.”

  “Two vehicles involved, officer?” Dixon asked the uniform before he could turn to go.

  “Correct. We’ve got tracks of only two vehicles leading to the scene. Most likely a DC Metro cruiser and an eighteen-wheeler. Not much left of either one as you can see. I suppose the gas tanks on both vehicles blew when they collided.”