by Jack Du Brul
“Good. Thanks. I’d like to see him too.”
Lauren hung up the phone and gave the others a brief outline of her conversation. “I’m going to use the phone in the bedroom to call my father,” she announced. “I’ve already tracked down weapons if he can get us Special Forces. It’s up to you boys to have a plan ready for when they arrive.”
Foch had a map of the Canal Zone ready. “We’re on it.”
She was still talking with the Pentagon when Mercer ordered up room service, and barely acknowledged when he left a steak dinner on the bed where she’d surrounded herself with pages and pages of notes. He could see some were drawings of the diving chamber and submersible she’d seen at the Pedro Miguel Lock. Others detailed Liu Yousheng’s compound outside the city and still others were revisions of weapons and equipment lists she’d secured from some of her local contacts.
Mercer considered himself lucky just for the brief smile she threw him and the dazzle in her eyes.
Back in the sitting room, the men tore into their meals. Lights were on, and out the window the skyline of Panama City resembled a constellation of fallen stars. Harry had given his watch to Mercer after the tenth question about time, so Mercer knew that twelve hours remained before the Mario diCastorelli entered the canal. About four hours after that it would reach the cut. If they didn’t get an answer from General Vanik soon, they would be on their own.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, mostly from Harry, who was on his fifth Jack Daniel’s and ginger ale. Foch and Rene also added to the fog that made Mercer’s food taste like the bottom of an ashtray. He barely noticed.
They’d discussed countless operational ideas for taking out the Mario diCastorelli in the canal in the event they couldn’t disable her before she entered the waterway. Everything from a fast-rope rappel off the Bridge of the Americas when the ship passed underneath, to a helicopter assault, to blowing it apart with the VGAS cannon on the guided missile destroyer hopefully steaming into the Bay of Panama. All of these were ultimately rejected in favor of launching an attack from a small boat in Miraflores Lake.
Everyone agreed that assaulting the bomb ship before she reached the lake was too dangerous because of the possibility of an early detonation. A blast anywhere before she passed through the first set of locks would certainly level Balboa and likely cause damage as far away as Panama City. Hitting the ship in the isolated lake would drastically reduce collateral damage if the SF soldiers failed and the sailors on the vessel blew the explosives. And by risking a raid, they prevented the certainty of a colossal explosion caused by precision munitions from the USS McCampbell’s VGAS autocannon. It was a calculated gamble they would have taken even if they were assaulting the freighter themselves.
All eyes turned to the bedroom door when Lauren emerged. The bruise on the right side of her face had settled to a uniform plum color that matched a dark shadow under her other eye. The past week was taking a physical toll on her-on all of them.
“Well?”
Her somber mien suddenly vanished as she smiled. “We got ’em. General Horner, head of the Special Operations Command, is sending them down on a commercial flight so as not to tip anybody off.”
“How many?” Bruneseau asked.
“Six. Half a normal team. Horner is afraid a full dozen would alert the Panamanians.”
“That will be enough,” Foch surmised. “Modern freighters don’t carry a large crew. Also I would think Liu would reduce that number further since he only has a small submersible to take them off after the ship is blocking the Gaillard Cut.”
“When do they arrive?”
Lauren bit her lip. “That’s where it gets a little sticky. Their plane touches down at Tocumen Airport at eight forty-five.”
Harry was at the mini-bar again. “Where does that put the Mario diCastorelli?”
“She’d have just entered Miraflores Lake when they land.”
“How long does a ship like the diCastorelli need to cross the lake?” Mercer asked.
“About an hour and a half.”
“Jesus, that’s tight. Any delays at customs and we’re screwed.”
Lauren nodded. “That’s why I said it was sticky. It’s imperative that transportation at the airport is lined up and that a boat is waiting on the lake for them to use in the assault. There’s a small marina called the Balboa Yacht Club on Miraflores Lake near the Pedro Miguel Lock. That’s where we’ll stage.”
“Know anyone with a boat there?” Mercer asked.
“I’ll talk to Roddy,” she answered quickly. “From there, the commandos will be able to motor out to where the Canal Authority keeps a pair of spare lock gates anchored in the middle of the lake. They were put there when the waterway was built as one more redundancy to keep Lake Gatun from draining. Using the gates might give the soldiers a greater element of surprise.”
Mercer chuckled. “Exact same plan we came up with.”
“My father and I talked about it, General Horner agreed. This is the only way.”
“What about the destroyer?”
“The USS McCampbell will enter the Bay of Panama at about the same time the Special Forces land in-country.”
“So if we need serious fire support we’ll have it,” Mercer thought aloud.
“Can’t imagine we’ll need cannons and Tomahawks, but yeah, we’ve got them.”
“What about choppers?”
“She carries two SH-60 Seahawks. They’re antiship platforms. The crew’s stripping equipment out of one to use as a troop transport if we need it.”
Mercer’s grave expression showed how much he knew they were dancing on a razor’s edge. Lauren’s father had come through with commandos, an obstacle that Mercer had doubts could be surmounted, but it seemed that didn’t bring them closer to success. Again, so much could go wrong. Something as stupid as gridlock coming from the airport could derail everything. And that would leave Mercer, Lauren, and six Frenchmen, one of whom, Bruneseau, wasn’t a soldier, to assault the Mario diCastorelli and its unknown number of sailors and guards.
Looking around the room, he saw that everyone felt his level of commitment to carry out the attack if the Green Berets didn’t arrive in time. Remarkably, he noticed that Harry’s most recent drink was ginger ale with only a splash of whiskey for color. Even the old man seemed resigned to do his part if needed, not that Mercer had any idea what his part could be. Harry saw Mercer studying him and saluted with his tumbler.
No matter what they faced, there was no better team to back him up.
They called Roddy up to the suite to bounce their plan off him, using his knowledge of the country and the canal to refine it further. Thankfully, he had a friend who kept a speed-boat at the Balboa Yacht Club. “What can I say?” he said when telling them their good fortune. “I know a lot of people with boats. I’ve got one myself here in the city marina. A twenty-six-foot Sea-Ray. When this is over we can all go out together.”
“Oh, damn!” Lauren suddenly exclaimed. Everyone looked at her. “The weapons. I need ten grand to pay for them.”
“Ten grand?” Foch cocked an eyebrow.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Sacre bleu.”
“Anyone have that kind of money?” she asked.
Harry chuckled. “I’ve got it.”
“You?” four voices said in unison. Mercer just covered his eyes, knowing where Harry had the money.
“I opened a fifteen-thousand-dollar line of credit in the casino at the Caesar Park Hotel. I couldn’t have gone through that much.” He didn’t add that he’d opened the credit line with Mercer’s Platinum Card. “I can close it out and take it straight to the cashier. Easy as withdrawing money from a bank.”
“Any idea of the interest rate on that credit line?” Mercer asked with trepidation.
“Stop bitching,” Harry said mildly. “You’ve got the money. Besides, you can keep the guns when we’re done. They’d make great souvenirs for the boys at Tiny’s.”
&
nbsp; Mercer conjured a mental image of the guys at his neighborhood tavern with automatic weapons. An M-16 was almost as tall as Tiny, and in Mike O’Reilly’s beefy hand it would look like a toy. He shuddered. “I’ll consider it a business expense and write them off on my taxes next year, thank you very much.”
“Your call,” Harry breezed.
Mercer looked to Lauren. “How are you getting the weapons?”
“My contacts will bring them by-” she checked her watch “-in an hour.”
“Then I’d better get rolling.” Harry got to his feet and grabbed his cane.
“Don’t think for a second I’m letting you go by yourself.” Mercer moved to head off his friend, who was already halfway to the door. He turned to the others. “We’ll be back as quick as possible.”
“You’re paying for the cab,” Harry was heard telling his friend as the door closed.
They returned fifty minutes later to find three extremely nervous Panamanians huddled in the suite eyeing Foch, Bruneseau and two armed Legionnaires. None of them was over thirty and all had the lean look of desperation. On the sofas lay three large bags opened to reveal a trove of weapons, mostly surplus American arms left over from the Contra War. Lauren maintained a running monologue in Spanish as she inspected each weapon, checking actions, the tightness of magazines, the overall condition. Foch and his two soldiers gave the bricks of ammunition a similar professional examination.
“Damn,” Harry remarked. “This must be what Sly Stallone’s dressing room looked like when he made Rambo.”
“Rambo! Rambo!” the gun dealers parroted when they heard the name.
“Lauren, what are we paying for these?” Mercer asked, keeping the bag full of cash close to his body.
“The pistols are two hundred, M-16s are a thousand. Ammo and combat harness are negotiable.”
Harry had already blown three thousand dollars at the casino so there was twelve thousand in the bag, more than enough to outfit the Special Forces in addition to him and Lauren. Foch had arms left to provide for his men. Mercer asked if he needed ammunition.
“We could use some 5.56mm rounds for our FAMAS assault rifles,” Foch answered. “We’re okay with 9mm for our H amp;Ks.”
Lauren purchased eight pistols and rifles, and spent the remaining money on ammo and combat vests. The Panamanians seemed pleased with the transaction and joked with her as they packed up the weapons they didn’t sell.
Mercer moved to her side so he wouldn’t be overheard and asked, “How do you know they won’t go straight to the police when they leave?”
Lauren laughed and translated the comment to the arms dealers. They laughed even harder. One of them reached into his wallet and showed off his ID. He was a cop. They all were.
“Call this cross-agency cooperation,” Lauren explained.
“I promised Freddie here the arrest of anyone involved in the plot once we’ve stopped the Mario diCastorelli. In fact, he’s going to take Maria Barber off our hands tonight.”
“But he’s still charging for the guns?” Harry quipped.
“Beesness es beesness,” the Panamanian cop said in a thick accent. He turned to Lauren. “Vaya con Dios, gringa.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning when the dust settles,” she told him in Spanish, and they shook hands. One of Foch’s men left with the officers to hand over Maria.
“Now we have soldiers, weapons, a boat, and one of the vans we’ve been renting.” Bruneseau accepted a cigarette from Harry.
“And a target,” Lauren added. “So far, so good.”
“Then why do I feel like we’ve missed something?” Exhaustion had turned Mercer’s voice gravelly. Part of him wanted a drink to relax and another part craved caffeine to keep him going. He settled on bottled water.
“We’ve been over it a dozen times.” Lauren sat on the couch next to him and casually took a sip from his bottle. It was such a familiar gesture that Mercer had to fight not to smile. Her leg was tight up against his and it would be so easy and right to put his arm over her shoulder. She seemed to be swaying into him as if inviting the touch.
“I can’t think of anything we’ve forgotten.” Roddy looked like he was sinking into one of the overstuffed chairs opposite them.
“That’s what bothers me.” Mercer rubbed his eyes and noted the time. Midnight. “We should all get some sleep. Meet here again at six? Will that give us enough time to get in position?”
Everyone nodded. Roddy and the Frenchmen made their way out of the suite while Lauren claimed woman’s prerogative and scooted into the bathroom first. Harry had just come from there so he bade Mercer a good night with a dismissive wave and closed the door to his bedroom.
Mercer remained on the couch, trying to pull together his fragmented thoughts. He gave up quickly, and sat there with his eyes closed.
“You awake?” Lauren whispered a short time later. She was so close he could smell toothpaste on her breath.
Mercer levered open an eye. She was bent over him, dressed in a T-shirt that just reached the top of her thighs. Her unrestrained breasts were at the level of his head and he had to drag his gaze upward. Her dark hair was brushed back from her face and her skin looked luminous from being washed. “If you heard me snoring,” he said, “then I was asleep. If not, I was silently cursing Harry for taking the second bed again.”
“Poor baby,” she cooed. “If it weren’t for tomorrow I’d invite you into mine.”
Mercer managed to keep up the flirting despite his racing heart. “If it weren’t for tomorrow you’d still be disappointed. I’m whipped.”
She smiled. “In that case, why don’t you come with me. I’m warning you that if you snore, I’ll make you sleep with Harry.”
“I’d do the same to you, but the old bird isn’t as much of a gentleman as I am.”
Her eyes danced. “I think I could trust either of you for one night.”
“What happens if I get a chance for another?”
Lauren took his hand. “You won’t be able to trust me.”
Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama
Captain Wong Hui watched critically as deckhands secured heavy manila ropes to his ship. The other end of the lines were wound around diesel-powered capstans at the far end of the dry dock. Powerful lamps attached to the enormous shedlike building spread a glare of white light across his ship and the black waters that lapped against the newly built structure. The massive doors were open and in moments the four-hundred-foot refrigerator ship Korvald would be drawn into the enclosed dock and her long trip from Shanghai would be finished.
He muttered a few terse words to the helmsman as he felt his ship move against the sluggish tidal surge. Athwartship thrusters adjusted her heading, lining her up perfectly with the narrow, concrete-lined berth. His walkie-talkie crackled and an operator at the far side of the building indicated he was ready to engage the winches.
Wong knew that his ship had been chosen by COSTIND, China’s military-industrial combine, because she carried a sophisticated cooling system that usually kept her cargoes of meat frozen, but also because her superstructure was low enough to fit into the dry-dock chamber. Still he kept a wary eye on the roof of the building as the capstans slowly drew the ship past the doors and into the dry dock. From where he stood, forty feet off the water, the span of the ceiling trusses were another fifty feet above him.
Even with fifteen feet of clearance on each side of the Korvald, Wong paced from wing bridge to wing bridge watching to see that his vessel stayed in the exact center of the dry dock. He looked aft in time to see her fantail clear the steel doors and the heavy gates begin to close. She was in. The winches hauled the reefer ship another one hundred feet to the front of the building until her graceful bows loomed over the quay and a pair of forward ropes dropped almost vertically to mushroomlike bollards.
The veteran seaman gave no outward sign that reaching Panama had reduced the tension that had robbed him of sleep since leaving China. He remained
erect and aloof, fitting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it from a match. Just because he’d delivered his cargo didn’t mean the danger was past, thanks to the coded orders he’d received en route from General Yu. It would be at least another day before the large overhead crane, normally used to pull heavy machinery from disabled ships, would haul away the Korvald ’s load of eight DF-31 medium-range missiles.
The solid rocket boosters were fifty feet long and weighed nearly nine tons without their nuclear payload. The Korvald had undergone modifications to her hatches while in Shanghai so the missiles could be removed safely. He recalled that when the train carrying the rockets had arrived in Shanghai from the Wuzhai Missile and Space Center near Beijing, it had taken six hours for the workers to settle the boosters into the special cradles deep in the hold. Without the distraction of so many hawkish politburo members watching the work, he was sure the men here could cut that time in half. Once the canal was disabled, he wanted his ship out of Panamanian waters as soon as possible.
Had General Yu not ordered he wait, he would have liked to see the rockets unloaded tonight, but that was not to be.
Wong pitched the stub of his cigarette into the oily waters separating the Korvald from the dock and watched as Liu Yousheng strode down the length of the pier to where the ship’s gangway had been lowered. With him were two armed soldiers and an ancient figure who moved with bird-like steps that covered the ground deceptively fast. Wong supposed he owed Liu the deference of meeting the executive when he came aboard, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he sent his first officer to the deck to escort Liu and his party to the captain’s day cabin directly behind the bridge.
A steward brought in tea just as Liu Yousheng reached the cabin. He nearly toppled the young servant as he pushed past. The two guards stayed outside the spartan room while the elderly man in the dark suit stood mutely at Liu’s side. Wong struggled to hide his distaste at the man’s pallid appearance.
“Wong?” Liu made no move to formally greet the captain or introduce his guest.