by Scott Cook
“So, Gunny,” Garcia said pleasantly as they began to eat. “We’ve been having some trouble with your friend, Jarvis.”
That made Declan perk up and Clay sat back, trying to maintain his composure, “Trouble? You mean more than the other night when you captured us?”
Garcia grinned, “Much more. He’s taken out… eight or nine of my men now? I sent four of them to capture Miles’ ex-wife and he was already there. At last report, he killed two of them and they were chasing him and the woman. I haven’t heard from them since, and that was last night. I have to presume he’s killed them, too.”
Clay had to smile, “He’s not a man to trifle with, Garcia. Scott is loyal and he can also be ruthless when he needs to. He’s quite skilled with weapons and hand to hand combat.”
Garcia laughed, “Let me guess! He’s the best with guns… with knives… with his bare hands!”
The man was quoting Colonel Troutman from First Blood. Clay smiled and would play into it gladly.
“You almost seem afraid of him,” Garcia pointed out.
Clay scoffed, “I’m not the one who needs to be afraid, Manuel. I just happen to know his skill set. He’s received training as a police officer as well as being self-taught in other things. He’s a skilled boxer and a black belt in judo. He’s six-two and two hundred and fifteen or more pounds, all of it strength. And on top of that… I’ve spent ten years training him in Force Recon combat doctrine. I’d be afraid if I were you.”
Rosalita looked on with interest but said nothing. There was a twinkle in her eye, though. Clay wondered if she was a girl who liked powerful men. A woman who liked to be close to power herself.
“And what about you, little man?” Garcia asked. “Are you afraid of the big bad Rambo?”
Declan smiled, “No. He taught me to fish and to sail.”
“Should we prepare for his attack?” Garcia asked Clay. He said it breezily enough but Clay thought he detected a slight undercurrent of worry.
“He’s no fool, Garcia,” Clay stated, “he won’t rush in here with guns blazing against an army. Provided he even knows where to find you.”
Garcia frowned at that, “he may. There is a church not far away where your other friend Palmer sends me money. I send men there to collect it. Some people I know in the village said they saw one of my Jeep’s there before my men arrived. They said that a large American man and a very beautiful Latin woman went into the church.”
Clay shrugged, “So? How does that mean he knows where you are? And even if he does… he’d never attack this base alone. It’d be suicide.”
That seemed to satisfy Garcia, at least temporarily. Clay didn’t actually believe what he’d said, of course. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that Scott was coming. How he’d come and from where and with what help he couldn’t imagine, but he was coming.
Which meant that he and Declan had to be ready. Either to break out or to find a place to lay low in case things got out of hand.
“This man…” Rosalita said. “He sounds… frightening.”
Again there was that gleam in her eye. Clay thought it seemed more like arousal or excitement than fear. Or maybe a mixture of both. Or was it something else entirely?
“Only to his enemies,” Clay replied. “To his friends he’s kind, thoughtful and loyal. He’s funny, smart and doesn’t take himself seriously.”
Garcia grinned, “Sounds a bit like you, Gunny.”
“Taught him everything he knows.” Clay quipped.
The conversation then switched to the rebel army.
“So, it’s been a couple of days,” Garcia commented, pulling a couple more beers and a can of Coke from his fridge and putting them on the table. “What do you think of my operation so far?”
“You’re gonna get wiped out,” Clay stated flatly.
Garcia chuckled at that but it didn’t last long. The expression on Clay’s face was not reassuring.
“But I have you, now, Gunny.”
“Come on, Garcia,” Clay said, “you know this country better than I do. What I do know is that Nicaragua has over fourteen thousand people serving in its army, navy and air force. Even your national police are really a well-armed Gendarmerie.”
“Que?” Rosalita asked.
“A Gendarmerie,” Clay explained. “Something Napoleon perfected. A national police force more closely related to a national guard. The truth is that you’ve got a bunch of farmers with big dreams and no skills here. You’re not ready for a real fight yet.”
Garcia shrugged, “it will take time, that’s true. But now I have you. And I have a backer with money to reinforce me. There are things coming that will level the field.”
“I hope you’re not going to do something foolish,” Clay stated, “like mount a major offensive on a far superior force.”
Garcia scoffed, “Gunny, I’m no fool. This is only the beginning of the revolution! With your help and the proper equipment, I don’t plan to attack the army and government right away. No, mi amigo, no. I will launch a series of small attacks in poorly defended outlying areas. Show the people what is possible and bring more of them on my side. I even hope to persuade some in the military to join us, possibly bringing equipment with them.”
He didn’t quite know why, but Clay’s guts suddenly tightened. He decided to broach the subject directly, “Does that involve those specially marked Jeeps and trucks I saw today?”
Garcia grinned, “Oh, it most certainly does, amigo. And it also involves my new professional Gunnery Sergeant.”
Clay frowned. He didn’t like where this was going, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Those vehicles are marked with the flag of Nicaragua,” Garcia stated proudly. “They, loaded with twenty men, are going to attack the Costa Rican border station on the Pan American Highway. It will be a surprise attack and no less than two vehicles will be left behind, regardless of the outcome.”
“You’re going to attack the customs station?” Clay asked in confusion. “That’s not a military operation, is it?”
“No, there are many civilians there,” Rosalita said quietly. She said it in a flat tone that indicated neither approval nor disapproval, but Clay thought he caught something.
“It’s guarded by police and some military personnel on both sides,” Garcia stated. “Enough to deal with civilian trouble… but not enough to withstand a full assault. And I’m not attacking them, Gunny… you are.”
“Why?” Clay had to ask.
“You don’t see the reason?” Garcia asked with a half-smile and half sneer on his face.
Clay scowled, “Costa Rica will believe that Nicaragua mounted the attack… it creates a political incident and may get the Nicaraguan military involved and put them on alert…”
“So they’re less prepared for what I do next,” Garcia stated proudly.
Clay had to admit that from a tactical standpoint the idea did have merit, “I’ll help you organize, Garcia… but I won’t be a party to a sneak attack on civilians. Absolutely not.”
Garcia leaned back in his seat and sighed, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Gunny. However, I’m in command here. You’ll do what I ask and go where I command… or…”
He cut his eyes to Declan but said nothing. The threat was clearly implied and Clay’s stomach twisted into a knot. He also felt anger rise red hot inside him. It was only the four of them in the RV now. He could take out Garcia and then he and Declan could make a break for it.
But he knew that wasn’t really an option. There were several guards armed with automatic rifles just outside and Clay and his son wouldn’t get ten yards.
On the other hand, Garcia knew that while he could hold Declan over Clay’s head, he also couldn’t really harm the boy. If he did, if Garcia took away his only source of leverage, then Clay would have no reason not to become a dangerous enemy. It was a situation in which neither man could act against the other without deadly consequences… but since Garcia had the advantage of numbers,
Clay was definitely holding the short end of the stick.
“You attack just after sunset tomorrow,” Garcia said in a no-nonsense tone. “That gives you all day tomorrow to assemble your team and plan. Don’t worry about Dec, here… he’ll be well cared for while you’re gone.”
That threat, too, was plain and it only made Clay angrier. He schooled his face so as not to show any reaction, but inside he seethed.
“If dad does this, can we go home?” Declan asked hopefully.
Rosalita smiled at Declan. She felt bad for the child. He was a sweet boy and she knew that he couldn’t be allowed to leave if his father was to remain loyal.
“It won’t be long until you see your family again,” Garcia lied. “Your poppy knows military history. Knows how things work. Even as far back as the ancients. Ways in which the great Julius Caesar gained support in his Gaelic wars.”
Clay wasn’t a big history buff. Not as much as Scott was, at any rate. Yet he did get the underlying meaning.
It was common during those times for generals to take a series of hostages from conquered people. These hostages would be sent back to a Roman held province or even to Rome itself. There they would live and be treated very well. However, their relatives would understand the underlying threat. The hostages could and would be killed if they didn’t cooperate.
Garcia was saying that was his plan as well. Both to gain support throughout the country as well as the more personal meaning. Clay’s cooperation was purchased by his son’s continued good health.
As they lay in their bunks in their trailer later that night, Clay pondered their situation. It was now imperative that they escape. He couldn’t allow Garcia to hold Declan over him and there was no way that Clay was going to lead an attack against anybody, let alone a border station where civilians worked and where innocent travelers would no doubt get caught in the cross fire.
“What’re we gonna do, dad?” Declan asked from the darkness. As if he’d been reading his father’s thoughts.
Clay sighed, “What we’ve been talking about, pal. We’re gonna get out of here.”
“When?”
Clay heaved a sigh, “You’ve got some stuff ready and so do I. It has to be at dawn. We’ve got to get up before daybreak, grab the ruck I’ve put together from the storage room, grab your food and water and go. I wish we had more time… but…”
Declan was silent for a long moment, “But you don’t want to attack that place.”
Clay sighed, “No way. This isn’t our fight, Dec. We have to get out of here and now.”
“How, though?” Dec asked, “There are lots of them and two of us. Plus they have guns and we don’t.”
Clay chuckled, “You hit the nail on the head, pal… but that’s also our advantage. There’s only two of us. It’s easy to be sneaky.”
“What about the guns?”
Clay grinned over at his son, “There are plenty of guns here, Dec… I’ll just have to borrow one on the way out.”
“Do you really think we can get away before they notice?” Declan asked doubtfully.
“At first. We need to make sure that when we do take off, they won’t notice for a long while. Enough time for us to steal one of those boats or get off into the jungle so that they won’t be able to catch up. We need to stay out of the weather, but I couldn’t find any tents. We can make something from the natural resources around us, though. I’d rather take a boat, frankly.”
“Yeah… but there’s a problem.”
“Oh yeah?” Clay asked, curious and impressed. “What’s that?”
“I was down at those boats,” Declan explained, “helping some of the guys out this morning. We tried to catch a fish but didn’t get any bites. Anyway, there’s hardly any gas in either one.”
“You checked?”
“Yeah… and I asked one of the men, Octavio, if we could take a boat out to go fishing. He said that there was almost no gas. The gas was brought down from the base when the boats went out.”
Clay sighed, “Figures. Garcia keeps things on a tight leash around here. Makes sense. So if we do steal a boat, we need some gas and oil.”
“Do you think Uncle Scott is really coming?” Declan asked after a long silence.
Clay sighed, “I do, Dec. I just don’t know when, and we can’t wait any more… Let’s get some shut eye. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day.”
It was maybe an hour before dawn that Clay awoke. He’d always been a pretty early riser, yet since he’d been appointed the Gunnery Sergeant of this makeshift operation, old habits had begun to resurface. Up before dawn, a little PT and hitting the shower before daylight.
But that wasn’t why he was awake now. The little battery powered clock indicated that it was a little after 0530. About time for him to get up, but no alarm had gone off… at least not an artificial alarm.
Something was in the air, though. He couldn’t have even described it if he wanted to. Perhaps it was simply a Marine’s instinct. A sixth sense that combat veterans developed. His ancient lizard brain had somehow detected something and was warning him.
Was it danger? Tension? Clay didn’t know, but it was something…
He lay on his bed quietly for what seemed like forever. The climate was relatively comfortable and the windows were open. There were the usual sounds of the night outside. Insects, night birds, the chattering of monkeys and the occasional distant call of a jungle cat… or was there?
He suddenly realized that it wasn’t what he’d heard that had warned him… it was what he hadn’t heard. Even in his sleep, his instincts had detected a subtle change in the vocalization of the jungle and forests around him. A sudden dip in volume and intensity. As if… as if something had alerted the fauna and they’d quieted in response to their own warning instincts.
Someone, or more likely several someones, were out there.
It didn’t matter, though. It was time for him and Declan to make their attempt. This quiet hour before sunrise was the most vulnerable for any army. Most people were still asleep and the guards would be near the end of their watch. They would be tired and sluggish and more likely to miss something.
It was now or never. Clay sat up and gently shook Declan awake and whispered: “Come on, pal… time to go for a hike.”
Suddenly, the tranquility of the night was shattered. Someone was shouting and at the same time, somebody was trying to pry open the door to the trailer.
In an instant, the world went from an expectant silence to an eruption of chaos. And in that instant, Clay knew without a shadow of a doubt that Scott Jarvis had arrived.
Chapter 33
The line between me and Clay’s trailer, whichever one it was, was probably the shortest. Although I’d have to circle around the side of the tents to get there. I didn’t think that would be too much of a problem.
Although it was not long from dawn, this camp didn’t seem to get up too early. There was really no need, I supposed. I had a hunch that Clay would already be awake or would be soon.
My only real obstacle was the guard walking from the river toward me and another who was paired up with a third doing a ring around the rosy thing in officer’s country. Probably one walking clockwise and one walking counter so they’d meet twice in a single circuit.
“All, Red one,” I said softly. “It’s time to shit or get off the pot. I’m going in to try and locate objectives. Red two and three, keep me posted on our side. Blue two and three, same to you. I’m gonna have to take out two or three tangos more likely than not. Things might get interesting shortly.”
That was putting it lightly. If I had to shoot several of them, it wouldn’t be my shots that set off the shit show. The Sig Sauer I was carrying was silenced. What would do the damage was if and when those guards had to report in to somebody. There would be a few minutes of grace, but once that passed, a general alarm would be raised and the camp would quickly fill with soldiers.
I estimated I might have five or six minutes before all hell broke lo
ose. If luck was with me, I could locate Clay and Dec and hustle them out of camp before the world went to hell in a hand cart.
The last thing I really wanted was to have to fight our way out. It would be tough to get down to the river under fire. In those circumstances, the hills directly to the west of camp would be the best place to retreat to. Higher ground would compensate some for our lack of numbers.
That would only last so long, though. We were few and had a limited supply of ammunition. Garcia’s army was twenty or thirty times as large as my fire team and probably had a far larger cache of supplies to draw upon. A retreat into the hills would be nothing more than a headlong flight into the unknown. Not a comforting prospect at all.
The river was our salvation, no matter how I spun it.
I slung my M4, pulled out the Sig and racked the slide. I also pulled my KA-bar from its sheath on my thigh and held that at the ready in my left hand.
More killing. The kind of killing I hated most of all… sneaking up on your enemy and putting a bullet into him unaware… or slitting his throat in the darkness. There was something distasteful, even dishonorable about it.
That wasn’t true, of course. In spite of the fact that maybe this Garcia character had the right idea of things, it wasn’t my fight and it wasn’t my problem. And in spite of his humane treatment of Missy, the girls and Declan, he had allowed or at the best, turned a blind eye to his men raping Jen Jeffries. Which meant that it had probably happened before and would again.
And how many others? How many kilos of cocaine had been run through or around Costa Rica by Garcia in order to fund his private little war? How much of that stream of narcotics had ended up in the hands of underage junkies?
No, he wasn’t a good guy. He was a rebel at best and a self-serving warlord at worst. With all that justification, though, I still felt strongly discomfited at the killing I’d already had to do and the killing I’d soon have to do again. It was one thing to face an opponent in open combat. It was another to take him unaware without even giving him a chance to defend himself.