River of Ruin m-5

by Jack Du Brul

  The big Bentley was just a few inches narrower than the alley left between ranks of Mercedeses and he misjudged the gap, clipping the front of one SUV only to careen into the rear of another opposite it. Both side mirrors were sheared off by the brutal hits. Four more times he pinballed back and forth before centering the Continental. Idly, he estimated each hit would cost about ten grand to repair. The soldiers coming down the ramp saw him approach, held their fire until they were ensured hits, then opened up. The body of the Bentley absorbed the light rounds like armor and Mercer barreled at them without check. Only when they saw that fracturing the windshield and blowing out the four headlamps weren’t going to slow the relentless charge did they think about their own safety.

  Like hunters facing a rampaging elephant, the two Chinese turned and started back up the ramp. Mercer was thirty feet behind and closing fast. One soldier managed to leap out of the way at the last second; the other was clipped in his hip and hit an unforgiving steel bulkhead fully eight feet above the deck. He was alive but his pelvis was shattered.

  Mercer spun in a tight one-eighty and drove down the ramp again, racing across the deck for the loading door. He misjudged his skid and the car’s fender crumpled against a buttress. The contact hadn’t done any more than ruin more of the Bentley’s coachwork but a series of airbags exploded around him. Although the bags deflated almost immediately, the damage was done.

  He cursed his stupidity.

  The only thing making his plan to jump the car from the hold into the canal even remotely possible was the protection afforded by the multiple airbags. Without them the impact would be like hitting a concrete wall at forty miles per hour. He wouldn’t trust his life on the Bentley’s seat belt alone. The deploying of the bags meant he was stuck on the ship.

  With an angry jerk he jammed the transmission into reverse and backed toward the stern ramp. Even as his own predicament became critical, he still had to think about the others. If he didn’t keep the Chinese occupied, they’d never get clear. He powered up the ramp, leaning on the horn to draw the attention of any of the roving soldiers.

  Once he thought he saw one of the Chinese troops, but it turned out to be a member of the ship’s crew. He tried to shout to him to find cover but the Japanese crewman didn’t look like he understood. Mercer flashed his FAMAS and the man scampered away like a startled deer.

  He was on level five when he came across a group of Chinese near the amidships ramps. There were four of them, perhaps all that remained on board, clustered around a Mercedes SUV like the one that had broken the fall of their dead comrade. Seeing one of them open the driver’s door, Mercer recalled this deck had been empty when they’d passed through a few minutes earlier.

  The other soldiers scrambled into the SUV and suddenly the truck was in motion. The ML-320 accelerated with the suppleness that Mercedes is famous for and halved the distance before Mercer could react. He punched the gas and shot up another of the stern ramps, feeling the Bentley come airborne at the crest before smashing down on its suspension. In the rearview mirror he saw the SUV giving chase and he smiled grimly. He was getting what he wanted. The others would get away. But at what price?

  Hitting forty miles an hour again, he raced for the midship ramp. He ignored the distraction of the pursuing Mercedes and motored up one more deck before turning back to the stern, launching the luxury car across the hold like a javelin. This time he didn’t care that his approach to the downward ramp was off and the car slid into a bulkhead, crumpling more metal.

  For five minutes he taunted the Chinese as they raced through the ship, keeping them close enough to maintain the chase but staying far enough ahead that they couldn’t get an accurate shot. He knew that he’d never get enough of an advantage to reach the top deck. Not that the open deck would afford him any help. Because of the ship’s towering height, a leap over the side would be fatal. The most he could hope for was to buy Lauren time. He figured it would take her and the others ten minutes to launch the lifeboat and get clear of the auto carrier-maybe fifteen in total to reach Gamboa.

  Mercer could have kept this up long enough except Sergeant Huai, driving the Mercedes, had other plans. When they sped down to the deck where the other SUVs were parked, he ordered two of his men to take vehicles and try to corner the Bentley by blocking off both sets of ramps several levels up. He lost only a few seconds in his pursuit and quickly reacquired the luxury sedan without its driver becoming aware that the noose was tightening.

  Several more Japanese crewmen and a few officers in white uniforms had appeared in the holds, unsure about what they were seeing but feeling some compulsion to keep witness to the wanton destruction of so much of their cargo. When they reached Tokyo, they would have to explain to a great many people why dozens of cars had been totaled. Even they had a hard time believing a car chase had erupted within the confines of their ship between terrorists who’d arrived on helicopters. One officer even videotaped the battered Bentley being pursued by the ML-320 with hopes of assuaging irate car owners. And perhaps selling the tape to a television show.

  Tempted to throw a jaunty wave to the cameraman, Mercer instead showed his weapon in hopes the crewmen would take cover. Yet they remained rooted like slack-jawed statues. He checked his watch, noted it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning. He also saw he’d given Lauren her fifteen minutes. If he hoped to survive the chase, it was time to end it now and surrender, hoping that the Chinese would rather interrogate a live prisoner than dump overboard the body of a dead one.

  He was amazed, after what he’d been through since last night, that he had lasted as long as he had. Driving an unfamiliar car through the steel confines of a cargo ship required a level of concentration that he was rapidly losing. Now that he was ready to give up, it seemed his body had anticipated it and was beginning to shut down. His eyes burned from fumes and exhaustion, and he felt as deflated as the airbags draped across his lap.

  He planned to park the shot-up Bentley in the middle of one of the open levels and wait next to it with his hands raised. Just in case the Chinese weren’t accepting captives, he wanted to get clear of the Japanese sailors and steered toward the midship ramp. He was doing twenty miles per hour when he reached the gently sloping ramp, and for a split second his concentration wavered, focusing again on the sailors as they watched him drive away.

  Refocusing on the ramp, he saw the black snout of a second Mercedes SUV barreling toward him. Mercer didn’t have time to even take his foot off the gas. Panicked, he cranked the steering wheel without looking where he was headed. The Bentley’s left wheels dropped off the ramp with a crash as the other two maintained traction for a second longer and the heavy car began to roll onto its side. There was enough speed for the car to drag across the deck in a painful rending of metal before it flipped onto its roof and halfway to its wheels again. It settled back onto its roof and lay with its wheels turning desultorily in the air.

  The seat belt did its job keeping Mercer secure, so all he suffered was a moment of disorientation and a crack on the head from the door pillar. Gravity pulled him out of the seat and he crawled from the overturned vehicle. Before the two SUVs braked in front of him, he had his fingers laced on his head.

  Three soldiers jumped from the trucks, two with assault rifles, the other covering him with an automatic pistol. Mercer saw he was older than the others and guessed he was in charge. Taking heart that they hadn’t already shot him, and not knowing what was coming next, he gave the man a tired smile. “Tell your sales manager that this car just wasn’t up to my standards. Maybe I’ll take the Rolls-Royce instead.”

  The soldier’s glacial expression didn’t change as he motioned Mercer to his feet. Mercer stood, a little shakily, and waited. The Chinese leader was shorter than him, but with a heavier build. He looked nearly fifty, but that in no way detracted from his physical presence. Mercer could tell he was a professional, a veteran in his country’s service, and about the toughest looking son of a bitch he’d
ever seen.

  The vet moved past Mercer and peered into the overturned car. His expression was grim when he looked back at his captive. The two men sized each other up for what felt like a long time.

  “Sorry, pal,” Mercer said. “One of us is as good as you’re going to get.”

  “Where?” Sergeant Huai barked. He didn’t understand Mercer’s exact words but got the meaning-gone.

  Mercer never saw the blow coming. Sweeping a leg between Mercer’s, the old soldier pounded the heel of his hand into his sternum and dropped him to the deck. By the time Mercer realized what had happened, Huai was kneeling by his side with his pistol jammed against his throat hard enough to make Mercer gag.

  “Where?” Huai asked. He showed no trace of exertion.

  It didn’t matter anymore. Lauren had to have realized Mercer wasn’t coming and by now she was safely at Gamboa. Bruneseau would be securing ground transportation even if they waited around to see if somehow he did escape. His reason for resisting was gone, but he hoped there’d be more to come.

  Angering his captors any further would gain him nothing and would likely make any follow-up interrogation that much worse. Not that he believed there was such a thing as mild torture. Mercer studied the dark eyes boring into his. The soldier seemed to be searching for a reason to pull the trigger. Mercer wouldn’t give him the excuse.

  “Lifeboat,” he croaked. “They took the lifeboat as soon as we landed. I stayed behind to distract you.”

  The soldiers engaged in a quick conversation in Chinese, refining the translation of the answer. Huai turned back to Mercer without easing the pressure on his pistol. “Where they go?”

  “Cruise ship,” Mercer replied without hesitation, feigning total defeat. “Unless you’re willing to slaughter three thousand people, they’re gone.”

  Huai didn’t need to hear the rest of the explanation. He heard the words cruise ship and understood the others were beyond his reach. Equal measures of anger and fear coursed through his body. Liu Yousheng was going to kill him. There was no alternative, and for a moment the old sergeant considered not going back. But thirty years in the military had all but erased thoughts of personal safety. He’d taken an oath those many years ago and his decades of service had strengthened it, built it up, made it into an armor that excluded all other considerations. He had to go back and face his superior. That was what he’d been trained to do. He could only trust that learning what his prisoner knew would be enough to save him from Liu’s wrath.

  That took care of his fear. His anger he took out on the man lying beneath him. Without warning, Huai threw a punch to the point of Mercer’s chin that contained only half his strength yet was more than enough to knock him unconscious.

  Without handcuffs, it was easier to guard a comatose prisoner than a motive one.

  “Throw him in the back of the truck,” he ordered his men. “Just in case, we’ll check the lifeboat station then get to the chopper.” He plucked a walkie-talkie from his belt and called to the other driver he’d sent out to corral the Bentley, ordering him to police the ship for the body of their one comrade and the other who’d been critically injured. He then called the pilot waiting in the Gazelle to get ready to clear out.

  Ten minutes later they took off. The Gazelle flew west, where Liu had another secret project under way, thirty minutes behind the gunship he’d ordered away from the canal when he’d landed. In his wake he left a JetRanger helicopter crashed onto the car carrier’s roof, about two hundred spent shell casings, and a million dollars’ worth of luxury automobiles that looked like they’d all lost a demolition derby. Huai had confidence that when the vessel’s master reported the incident to the authorities, Liu’s government contacts would deflect any investigation toward drug smugglers or modern-day pirates.

  That would explain away what had happened here, but what about what had occurred at the lake? Three other people had seen the excavation. They probably knew what it meant and would report it straightaway. It was a costly failure, to be sure, but again Liu might be able to save the operation. He had so many on his payroll that the nature of the excavation could be disguised. In order to do that, Liu would need to know exactly who the American trussed up in the hold worked for.

  As a professional soldier, Huai knew the importance of interrogation even if he found the methods barbaric. He had no problem engaging an enemy in a fight and using any means necessary to accomplish his goal. It was a soldier’s calling. But torturing a captive to extract information was the work of another breed of men altogether-men without any sense of honor or the sacrifice of combat. They were like vultures who descended on battlefields to pick apart the bits of useful offal. They would crow over a piece of information, carry it back to their shadowy masters still covered with the blood of their victims as if it were a badge of courage.

  A political officer had been sent with Huai’s detachment to Panama. It would be his job to handle the questioning sessions. Sun was his name, and no one was willing to spend enough time in his presence to learn his first name or his proper rank or title. He was simply called Mr. Sun, an irony not lost on the few soldiers who knew the English word. Sun was the darkest man any had ever met.

  With a cadaverous skull sucked in at the cheeks and temples, he appeared to have no flesh at all. His skin was so dry that flecks often fell away when he moved, like a lizard caught halfway through a molt. Whatever his skin affliction, it also affected his hair, so his scalp was covered by a patchwork of graying follicles he combed over to hide the bald spots. His head was too large for his slender body, as if a burden to his thin neck. Huai guessed that Sun was in his sixties but the man’s odd appearance could hide an age swing of ten years either way.

  In an unguarded moment on the flight from China, Captain Chen had confided in Huai that Sun had headed the Chinese program to interrogate American pilots shot down during the Vietnam War. Because of advances in technology and tactics, the prisoners China had kept following the Korean War had long since outlived their usefulness. The last of them had been put to death in 1959. Needing a new source of intelligence concerning Western military doctrine, the PLA saw an opportunity in the jungle conflict and paid the North Vietnamese with arms and training for hundreds of pilots. The first, an A-6 Intruder pilot, had arrived at a facility in central China in 1966 and lasted until 1971. During the course of the program, Chen had heard that Sun had overseen the torture of more than two hundred men, and had only lost funding when the last of the aviators died in 1983. Since then he’d been “working” with dissidents and most recently with suspected leaders of the outlawed Falun Gong spiritual movement.

  Wiping his face and head, Huai glanced at his prisoner. The man had regained consciousness and gazed idly out the window. He almost looked like he was enjoying the flight. The American saw that he was being observed and gave Huai a little smile, then winked.

  And the man wasn’t faking it, Huai thought. He must know what was coming, and yet didn’t seem concerned. By allowing himself to be captured, the American had to realize that he’d be interrogated, tortured, and yet had chosen it over simply letting Huai’s men gun him down. The captive seemed content with his choice. If not anticipating, at least accepting of the inevitable outcome.

  Sheer bravado or real courage?

  Huai shuddered, knowing how Mr. Sun would find that answer on his quest for the truth.

  The Canal Zone, Panama

  An hour had passed since Mercer had driven away aboard the auto carrier. In that hour they had dropped down the near-vertical rails that launched the freighter’s podlike lifeboat and waited for ten tense minutes for one of the ship’s loading ramps to open. It was Bruneseau who motored them toward the repair docks at Gamboa, satisfied that he had given Mercer enough time and that the geologist was not coming. The Gamboa harbor was where the canal operators kept some of their tugboats, as well as the 350-ton crane barge Titan. Away from where workers repaired large buoys that bobbed along a seawall, the French spy had
hot-wired an employee’s battered Chevy while Foch and Lauren helped the injured pilot. Bruneseau took the wheel for the drive to the Legion safe house in Panama City.

  It was just moments into that ride, as they crossed the trestle bridge they had almost hit with their helicopter, that they saw the auto carrier again as it continued toward the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the ship’s towering deck they spied the Chinese Gazelle lift away toward the west, all of them certain that Mercer was on board, but only Lauren Vanik feeling that he was somehow still alive.

  Panama’s military had just begun their response to the distress calls from the ship and a handful of army vehicles passed them on the road, headed toward the lock where the ship would likely be detained for an investigation. They were in the outskirts of the city when they spotted the first military chopper headed for the canal-far too late to go after the Gazelle.

  Now they were safely at the house. Carlson was being looked after by a medic who had the skills to remove the bullet fragment lodged in his thigh. The corpsman singled out Lauren for stemming the pilot’s blood loss with a tourniquet while still maintaining a trickle of circulation in the lower limb. She had spent the time riding to Panama City ministering to the man. In her rage against the French, her aid to the pilot had nothing to do with compassion. She simply needed something to keep her from being overwhelmed by grief and anger.

  Two of the off-duty Legionnaires went out to dump the stolen car downtown while the rest huddled over Carlson in a back bedroom, leaving Lauren alone. Restless, she stripped off her fatigue blouse and stood over the kitchen sink splashing palmfuls of water over her face. The cool water soaked the neck of her T-shirt and beaded like diamond chips in her long lashes. She could feel hot tears mingled with the water, greasepaint and sweat.