by Scott Cook
Lisa grinned and then leveled a hard stair at Palmer, “I’d behave, if I were you, Miles.”
“Do you appreciate the justice of your situation, Palmer?” I asked. “That you’re being held prisoner against your will in order to be used as leverage for somebody else’s goal?”
Miles only huffed and stared out the viewport. I didn’t think he’d truly understand, but the point needed to be made.
“Second drop site,” Brody announced. “Coming to the surface.”
“I’ll go up on deck,” I told them, “then you hand me up the raft, Four.”
“That means you, Miles,” Lisa said.
“What if I don’t want to?” Palmer asked peevishly. “Why should I help in any way?”
“Because if you don’t hand me up the raft,” I said coldly. “I’ll make you swim to the beach…”
He scoffed, “So?”
“So are you aware that Lake Nicaragua is notorious for bull sharks?” I asked Palmer in a low tone, “and this river connects it to the sea? Bull sharks are one of the few species of shark that can live in fresh water, Miles. They’re very aggressive… and ravenous.”
I was gratified to see a little color drain from Palmer’s face, “Really…?”
I grinned and in an incredible imitation of Quint from Jaws I said: “Bad fish… this shark, swalla ya’ whole! Little shakin’… little tenderizin’… down ya’ go!”
He no longer objected to helping me with the raft.
“Red one, Blue one,” Conklin said quietly in my ear. I was impressed by the sound quality of these earwigs. “Feet dry. Proceeding upland.”
“Blue one, Red one… how’s the terrain?”
“Not bad, a bit wet and steep… but negotiable.”
“Roger that, we’re about to launch. Check back when you find observation position.”
“Acknowledged.”
I went up the hatch and soon another yellow tubular bundle was handed up. Although there was only a little light from the stars and the now waxing moon, I could see enough in the dark without my monocular to know that we were again about fifty yards from the shore and maybe two hundred downstream from the little dock. A good spot. I had to hand it to Brody once again. The man knew his business.
I inflated the raft and got it into the water. Palmer came up next followed by Lisa and then Juan.
“All set?” I asked. “Comm checks.”
“Red two… Red three…” Juan and Lisa said in my ear. Palmer just frowned.
“Into the boat,” I ordered. “Four, back here with me. Two and Three forward.”
I looked down the hatch at Brody’s upturned face, “Thanks, Jack.”
“I’ll be right here,” he said. “What’s our code for the sub?”
I grinned, “Ramius.”
“Then we’ll sit here and listen to your… rock and roll… while we conduct missile drills…He did an impressive Sean Connery from The Hunt for Red October and chuckled. Then in a more serious tone: “Okay, I’ll be on comm in a minute.”
I dogged the hatch as he dogged the inner one and climbed into the raft beside Palmer. I handed him a skull. He glared at me and I pointed to where I wanted to go ashore. He sighed and started paddling laconically.
That was fine, I didn’t need to nor want to rush it and alert anyone who might be watching the water from the dock or the camp above.
“Red one, Ramius… holding station awash,” Brody said in my ear.
“Acknowledged,” I replied quietly.
In spite of Palmer’s arrhythmic paddling, we made it to shore in less than five minutes. There were some tropical scrub plants along it, so I dragged the boat into them and hid it as best I could. It was unfortunate that the damned thing was a bright neon yellow… but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Blue one, red team feet dry,” I reported.
“Roger… we’re on higher ground. Terrain is a mix of forest and tropical. Not too dense but not bad cover. Camp is maybe half a klick. Should be in visual in twenty,” Conklin reported.
“Understood,” I replied. “We’re looking for pathway up as well.”
“Why twenty minutes?” Lisa whispered into my ear through the earwig.
“Red three, Blue one,” Conklin replied. “Moving slowly for stealth. Takes time.”
“Monoculars,” I ordered, activating the one already strapped over my left eye. The BDU cover, or ball cap, I had on helped to support it and keep it snugly in place without being too uncomfortable.
Once again, we didn’t equip Palmer. He was entirely dependent on us to guide and protect him. I hoped that would keep him from doing something stupid.
The world in my left eye altered dramatically. It jumped into bright greenish-gray life, turning a dark and unknown landscape into something with which I could deal. The night vision revealed a tropical forest jungle mixture that was less dense than a true rainforest. There were palmettos and a variety of ferns and other tropical plants along with pine trees, cedars, eucalyptus, gumbo-limbo and even a few huge Guanacaste’s.
It was only then that the powerful scents of the tropical environment struck me. The earthy scent of loam and decaying plants underlined the richness of growing things and wet chlorophyll. Night blooming Jasmin seemed to weave its tang through the foliage like a blanket of sweet fog. Other tropical flowers and scents wafted to me as well. There were hints of honey suckle and even frangipani. Somehow this tapestry of pleasing odors made what I was seeing and what I was doing seem all the more surreal by contrast.
The terrain rose rather quickly from the flat area near the riverbank and a quick examination revealed a more or less open pathway that we could climb up to the ridge that over looked the river and the small declivity that Garcia’s base occupied.
“Red one, Red three… two and a half years ago… did you ever in a million years think something like this was coming?”
I had to stifle a laugh, “Negative, Red three. Who could’ve possibly seen this coming? Now zip that cute little lip. No unnecessary conversation. We’re like on a GD rescue op, for all love. Tryin’ to be all stealthy n’junk.”
That got snickers even from blue team. I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that we were all doomed.
The climb up the hillside, although not arduous, wasn’t exactly easy, either. The ground was already dewy and the constant floor of tropical plant decay underfoot made the going slippery at times. It took us most of the twenty minutes Conklin had estimated just to reach more or less level ground a hundred or so feet above the level of the San Juan. The forest began to assert itself over the jungle, and picking our way northwest toward the camp was easier.
“Red one, Blue one… in position.”
“Blue one, Red one… we’re nearly there also,” I replied to Conklin. “Gonna spread out and scope the sitch.”
“Roger, same here.”
We were on a low rise overlooking the base. The fifteen feet or so of elevation gave me a pretty good vantage point. I lay prone on the ground next to the trunk of a gnarled old gumbo-limbo tree and unslung my rifle.
“Red two, proceed fifty yards to my right,” I told Juan. “Red three and four, fifty to my left. Take up covering positions and report.”
Juan moved quickly off through the foliage, moving with remarkable agility and silence. He was like a cat stalking his prey and I no longer heard his footfalls even when he was only ten yards away.
Lisa moved slower but equally quiet. I could see her guiding a reluctant Palmer. I could once again only hope that he wouldn’t intentionally or even accidentally do something stupid like giving her position away to the enemy.
Not for the first time I debated the wisdom of bringing him along. But what else could I do? I sure didn’t need him alone on the mini with Brody. While I had no doubt Jack could handle Miles physically, he’d be distracted with monitoring our communications as well as the sub. Palmer would have plenty of chances to do mischief.
On the other hand, leaving him on
the Robert Ballard wasn’t much better. There would only be McClay, Al-Rajid and Santino’s three men to watch over both Palmer and Andrea. Better odds, but still plenty of opportunity for mischief.
What would Andrea do? What was she doing now?
I was uneasy about her. I couldn’t pin her down one way or another. She was simply a mysterious loose end and that bothered me.
So I’d brought Miles with us. Either to keep an eye on him or if necessary, I’d use him as leverage against Garcia. Maybe he’d trade Palmer for Clay and Declan. Maybe Garcia would listen to Palmer if Palmer suggested they give up the hostages and try things another way.
“Red one, Blue one,” Conklin broke into my thoughts. “We’re in final observe positions. One hundred yards total spread. Camp appears quiet. Two guards at what looks like the motor pool.”
“Blue two,” Santino reported, “parade ground empty. No guard down by the water.”
“Blue three… officer’s quarters look quiet. Uno… no dos… guards patrolling it,” Umberto said quietly. “May be additional guard near motor pool.”
“Red two… guard patrolling near path down to the river,” Juan stated. “Another headed toward Red one, tambien.”
“Red three,” Lisa chimed in. “Tent city quiet. One stationary guard on west side. Metal building has guard near front door, I think. Can’t see what’s between it and the tents and motor pool.”
Conklin said his view covered that and saw no additional guards from what he’d reported.
“Looks like best way in is between tents and campers,” I suggested. “Concur all?”
Everyone chimed in that they agreed. I had a plan, or the start of one. Now it was only left to put it into play.
“Red three, Red one… alternate with me,” I ordered. “Red two, close in with Red three also.”
“On my way,” Lisa said.
“Si,” Was all Juan said.
I waited until she and Palmer appeared from the underbrush and trees. I got up and they took my place, sitting rather than lying on the ground.
“How’s he behaving?” I whispered to her.
“Okay so far,” Lisa said with a grin. “I told him if he were a good boy, we’d get him a Happy Meal later.”
Palmer chuffed in a way that led me to suspect that he was not as amused as either Lisa or I.
I chuckled, “Good. By the way… you look awfully cute in those BDU’s.”
Lisa grinned at me, “You two, handsome.”
“What, I’m chopped liver, Red one?” Santino quipped over the obviously very sensitive audio gear.
“You know you’re always cute, Blue two,” I said as I began picking my way west. “Now shut the Christ up…”
“Ay dios mio…” I heard Umberto mutter with a chuckle.
“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred thousand times…” I grumped under my breath, “Everybody’s a wise ass…”
“Blue three, how do you say smarty pants in Spanish?” Conklin asked quietly.
Umberto laughed, “Pantelones intellgentes.”
“We’re doomed…” I whispered. “Completely and totally fudged…”
Chapter 32
Interlude: Clay
It was the oddest collection of misfits that Clay had ever seen gathered together for the purpose of soldiering. A rag tag bunch of farmers, day laborers and a handful of men who’d actually served in the Nicaraguan, Mexican or Panamanian army.
Garcia was right, there were also about fifteen percent women among the hundred and fifty foot soldiers. Some were burly masculine types and some were slim young women with wide eyes who looked eager but probably had no real conception of what they were doing.
That went for the men, too. Many of them wanted the freedom Garcia talked about, yet they’d never raised a weapon in anger. They had no idea of what a real pitched battle could be like.
He’d also learned quite a bit about Nicaraguan politics over the last few days. Although the country professed to be a democratic government, the Sandinistas, who’d been in charge for quite a long time, were once again in power. Their president, Daniel Ortega and his wife were looked upon more as dictators than elected officials, and the people were tired of feeling like they had no say in their own affairs.
This seemed to Clay to be the same old story. A story that had been told and retold in Spanish America for five hundred years. It was difficult enough to mount a revolution at any time. In the modern world where military weaponry was so far advanced over what civilians could acquire, it was nearly impossible. Only through sheer numbers could any revolt hope to succeed.
In the British colonies of nearly two hundred and fifty years before, there was little difference between what the professional British Army used to fight and what the average colonial farmer could get their hands on. With the exception of field artillery, the rag tag Americans had a good chance because they used the same weaponry. In addition, they used new tactics such as ambushing rather than the traditional rank and file approach.
However, in the twenty-first century, things were quite different. Clay understood how Garcia needed a sponsor like Miles Palmer to help fund him. He needed the money to acquire the kind of weaponry needed to fight a professional army. Yet with all of his soldiers, equipment and vehicles, he wasn’t even close.
Garcia could outfit a foot soldier well enough. He had rifles and ammunition in plenty for an infantry charge. However, he lacked explosives except for some grenades. No artillery, no long-range missiles, no tanks and most notably, no air support. If he went up against the Nicaraguan Army, even if it wasn’t very large, he’d be at an extreme tactical disadvantage. A numerical deficiency of almost a hundred to one.
Then there were his soldiers… They weren’t ready. Not by a long shot. It would take months of training, and Clay wasn’t planning on sticking around for months.
Aside from his organization of the army itself, Clay had instituted a physical fitness regime. Most of these people weren’t in great shape. They were well fed, that was something, but their level of endurance was abominable.
In addition to this, over half of them had never even fired any kind of weapon in their lives. He’d tasked a few of the men who’d served and been trained as squad leaders. Their job was to teach the newbs how to care for as well as fire their weapons with at least a reasonable hope of hitting something that wasn’t less than fifty feet away.
One advantage Clay had was his son. Declan was the only kid in the camp and because of that, he was something of a novelty or even a favorite. The women loved him, of course, and many of the men did too. He reminded them of sons they’d lost or left behind.
As a result, Dec was able to go anywhere. He helped out with the cooking duties, gathering firewood, ran errands and even helped in the armory. Even Garcia seemed to have a soft spot for the boy. Declan had already begun to act as a messenger for the General, carrying notes to and fro and making regular reports on the progress of any number of projects.
To his father, Declan had become an invaluable source of intelligence as well. Dec was very observant, and Clay was happily surprised on more than one occasion at the level of detail the boy could produce. He even seemed to have a natural talent for noticing the seemingly insignificant things that were in fact crucially important.
By now, thanks to the kid, Clay knew a good deal about the habits and personal lives of the people around him. He knew who was involved with whom, who was lazy and who was diligent and who seemed truly dedicated and who was just there for free room and board.
Between the two of them, Clay and Declan had developed a very good picture of the camp’s routine in the two days they’d been there. Clay was already planning their escape. Formulating a plan to both slip out of camp as well as do so with enough supplies to get across the border into Costa Rica and make their way back to San Luis.
It was risky, of course. Although Garcia had an affection for Declan and held Clay in obvious respect, Clay had no illusions abo
ut what would happen should he or Declan try to escape. They’d be shot running or if captured…
It had to be done just so. Already, between the two of them, Clay and Declan had managed to stockpile several days’ worth of supplies which they’d hidden beneath one of the travel trailers in officer’s country. Not their own of course, that would just be asking for trouble.
Declan had managed to put together over two pounds of dried meat, eight bottles of water, a nearly full cigarette lighter lifted from one of the soldiers after a clandestine bender… Dec had found the man in one of his trips down to the riverbank and snatched the lighter before anyone noticed.
Clay had already identified where the supplies were kept and had prepared a ruck sack with hammocks, bed rolls and a few other tools. There were no tents in the camp, but he figured they could get by fine sleeping in trees until they came across civilization.
And there was something else, too.
Clay had seen something that disturbed him without knowing exactly why. Garcia’s motor pool was fairly extensive. Aside from the old Deuce and a Half, he had no less than a dozen Jeeps, as many pickup trucks and two olive drab school buses for transporting troops.
What disturbed Clay was that set aside from the rest of the group were six jeeps and two pickups. All the vehicles were the standard olive drab, yet unlike the others, they had markings on them. Upon closer inspection, Clay saw that the markings were a national ensign. Three horizontal stripes, the top and bottom were azure and the middle white. In the middle of the white stripe was what looked like a coat of arms.
He found that odd, because Garcia normally didn’t display any kind of permanent markings on his vehicles. The People’s Army did had a flag, but it was either attached to part of the vehicle or not displayed at all.
It was over a supper of fried plantains, beans and rice and grilled wild boar that Garcia started to reveal what was really going on. He even surprised Clay with news about Scott.
Clay, Declan, Garcia and Rosalita were sitting around the dining booth in Garcia’s class-A RV. It had become obvious from early on that the young and pretty Rosalita was Garcia’s consort. She seemed pleasant enough and didn’t resent the fact that this man who was nearly twice her age had taken her as his woman. Probably whether she liked it or not.