by Bob Mayer
They moved another two hundred meters inland. Powers, acting as the point man, signaled a halt, and Riley crept forward to the team sergeant. In the glow of arc lights he could see their target. "Shit!" he muttered.
Activity and lots of it. Riley scanned the compound and felt worse the more he saw. At least thirty personnel were up and moving around. They were off-loading weapons from trucks and on-loading cocaine. Riley didn't need to be clairvoyant to realize what this meant.
"Keep an eye on it," he whispered to Powers as he slid back to where the rest of the team waited.
He crawled next to Marzan, who had just set out the SATCOM satellite minidisk antenna. "You set?" he whispered. Marzan nodded. Riley turned down the volume on the radio to minimum and picked up the handset.
"Hammer Base, this is Eyes Three. Over."
The answer was almost instantaneous. "Eyes Three, this is Hammer Base. Over."
At least they were awake up there. "We've got a shitload of activity down here. They're moving weapons in and cocaine out. What's the status of Hammer? Over."
"Hammer is en route. Listen closely. The mission is an abort. I say again, the mission is an abort. Hammer will be on station in forty-five minutes. Use only if needed to cover your exfiltration. Over."
Shit, Riley cursed again. "What happened? Over."
Riley heard Pike's voice come on, replacing Westland's. "Don't worry about that right now, just get the hell out of there. Over."
"Roger." Riley handed the headset back to Marzan. He quickly considered their options. Hell, there were no options. They had to go back the way they came. Riley's thoughts were interrupted by Powers inching back from the tree line.
"We got company coming. About ten sicarios are coming in this direction from the camp and they're loaded for bear. They got patrols heading out in all directions. It's like they were expecting us. I also spotted two Redeye missiles getting off-loaded."
Riley thought rapidly. If they were unloading antiaircraft missiles up there, the sicarios were definitely expecting something. It wouldn't do any good to wait for Hammer's covering fire. Plus they'd probably be found by then. He turned to the team and hissed, "Time to vamoose. Pike just gave me an abort. Let's go!"
Marzan was packing up the primary radio. Riley had the backup SATCOM in his ruck. He pulled out one of the Claymores in there and hung its carrying bag around his neck, as did the other members of the team. Once everyone was ready, Riley started to lead the team back toward the shore. He could hear the sicarios breaking brush behind them.
Riley's mind raced with various thoughts: wondering how the mission could have been compromised; judging the distance to the shore and how long it would take; considering how they would get across the beach; hoping it wasn't guarded.
Despite Riley's night-vision goggles, the dense vegetation cut visibility down to only a few feet. It was probably that, plus his lack of concentration, that allowed Riley to almost walk on top of the Colombian sicarios coming in from the north.
The surprised sicarios' point man called out as he practically collided with Riley. It was hard to say who was the more startled, but Riley's reactions were swifter. He swung up his MP5, firing a silenced burst into the sicario. The man flew back, screaming. Instantly all hell broke loose as tracers split the night.
The man Riley had killed was obviously the point man for a larger party. His partners in crime were now firing blindly into the dark. Riley tore off his goggles, which had blanked out from the light of the muzzle flashes.
"Break left! Break left!" Riley screamed as he blindly gave covering fire. He could hear Powers yelling as the team sergeant led the rest of the men off ninety degrees to the left in an attempt to break contact.
Riley followed in that direction, occasionally firing a quick burst to the rear. He changed magazines as he ran, branches slapping him in the face. He couldn't see well, since his eyes were still adjusting from the goggles to the moonlight. Strings of tracers flying through the trees let him know the sicarios were still following. Riley could hear yelling in Spanish from other sides as more patrols closed in.
Riley sprinted in the direction the team had gone. As he circumvented a dense thicket of thornbushes, a hand reached out and grabbed his upper right arm. Riley swung the muzzle of his weapon in that direction but halted a split second before firing as he heard Powers's voice. "I got a Claymore on a wire in front of you."
Powers guided Riley over the trip wire he had just strung out across the path. The wire ran to a Claymore mine the team sergeant had quickly attached with a few wraps of electrical tape to a small tree at chest height. Riley followed his team sergeant.
Riley knew that the other four team members were not too far ahead. The SOP was for the team to go 300 meters in the break direction, then turn back on the original azimuth they had been on prior to contact. Riley estimated they had already gone 250 meters, although he sure as hell hadn't been keeping a pace count.
The crash of the rigged Claymore behind them was followed by screams from those not killed outright. As it exploded, the mine sprayed the jungle with thousands of tiny ball bearings.
Riley stepped out behind Powers into a sparsely treed area. Twenty meters ahead, the rest of the team was just about to go into the far wood line.
Riley dove for cover as the roar of automatic weapons seared the night. He heard Marzan cry out, screaming for Partusi, the medic. Riley poked his head up. The four other members of the team had gone to ground just short of the wood line. They were taking fire from their right front. Riley could see muzzle flashes in the far trees. He fired off a sustained burst in that direction, giving the men some covering fire. Powers, lying next to him, also emptied a magazine.
Riley glanced over at his four teammates as he changed magazines. Partusi was the only one moving, still trying to drag Marzan back toward the tree line that Powers and Riley had just exited. Lane and Holder were giving them covering fire. Even as he watched, Riley saw Partusi punched down with the impact of rounds. The medic didn't move again. An explosion seared the night in the vicinity of Lane and Holder. When Riley's eyes cleared, he could barely make out those men's crumpled forms.
A group of sicarios burst from the wood line, firing wildly. Riley and Powers raked the group in concert, mowing them down. Riley attempted to move forward to check out his men but was grabbed by Powers and slammed into the ground. A line of tracers reached out at an angle from the far tree line and probed the ground, running over the prone bodies of Riley's men.
"They're all dead!" Powers yelled at him over the sound of the firing. "We got to get out of here."
Riley was torn. He didn't want to leave his men, even if they were dead. He fired another burst toward the source of the tracers. He was rewarded by the deadly stream of bullets turning his way, joined by several others.
Powers grabbed him by the arm and started pulling him away. "Let's go! You can't do anything for them."
Riley allowed himself to be led away. Initially the crackle of rounds in the air around them diminished, but Riley knew it wouldn't be long before the chase would be on again. He calculated rapidly as Powers led him on a northwest course, directly toward the ocean. They were probably only three hundred meters from the water. If they could get there and get in the water without being seen, they could make it. He felt the sweat pouring down his body underneath the rubber of his wet suit. Not far now.
Riley could hear the sound of pursuit pick up behind them. All he could hope was that they didn't run into anyone on their way to the beach. As if in answer to that thought, Riley heard voices off to their left front. The Colombians were yelling to each other, trying to coordinate their search.
Riley contented himself with following Powers, as the veteran wove his way toward the coast, using the noise the patrols were making to avoid them. Faintly, and then growing stronger, the pounding of the surf could be heard. Powers came to a halt at the edge of the tree line and peered out.
"Fuck," Powers muttered. A group of five sicari
os stood on the beach looking toward the tree line, weapons at the ready. Powers turned to Riley. "Here's what we do—and I don't want any bullshit arguments from you. I'm going to head south, away from the city. Give me two minutes to move and then I'm going to blow a grenade and pop some tracers across the beach. That ought to draw these guys down my way. You hit the water and head for the boat.
"I'll keep running to the south and stay about four hundred meters from the shore. You get to the boat, bring it up, and then come up on the spare SATCOM. Get Hammer to circle. I'll tie an infrared chem light to my hood and they can track me with that, and the bad guys using thermals. With Hammer giving me covering fire I can make it to the beach, and Hammer can guide you in to pick me up."
Riley's brain spun as he listened to this desperate plan. The situation called for extreme measures, but he'd be damned if he was going to leave his team sergeant holding the bag. "Sounds good, but I'll run the diversion and you swim out."
Powers grabbed Riley by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Listen, asshole, we ain't got no time to argue. It will take me twice as long as you to swim out to the boat. Also, I'm a hell of a lot better at surviving in the woods than you are. GO!" With that, Powers turned and disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MONDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER
BARRANQUILL A
6:14 A.M.
Riley forced himself to remain calm. He stopped finning and looked over his shoulder back toward shore. From the curve of the beach, he knew he was very close to the buoy marking the Zodiac's watery grave. He needed to relax and search the area slowly. It wouldn't do him any good to splash around and miss the buoy by ten meters. Every so often, as he topped a swell, he would turn over onto his stomach and scan the area, trying to spot the low-lying marker.
A sense of urgency tightened its icy grip around his heart. It had already been over twenty minutes since he had heard Powers's diversion. He'd made the dash across the beach as soon as the sicarios had taken off toward the sound of the firing. Shortly after he started swimming, he'd heard another burst of fire and some explosions that sounded like grenades. He was afraid that Powers had made contact again. Since then Riley hadn't heard anything. He prayed his team sergeant was still alive.
FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA
6:18 A.M.
"This is Hammer. I say again, I have negative radio contact with Eyes Three element. Over."
Westland stared at the radio, her brow furrowed in thought as Pike talked into the mike.
"Can you make contact with the Garcia! Over."
"Wait one."
Pike took a deep breath as he sat back in the chair and endured the pause. He'd much rather be out there in the action than sitting here on his ass talking on a radio.
"Roger. We have contact with the Garcia. Over."
"Order its captain to move in closer, to within forty-five kilometers. Over."
"Roger, will relay your order. Over."
Pike waited a minute and then keyed the mike again. "What about IR chem lights or strobes on the shore? Do you have anything on your screens? Over."
"Negative on that. Through the thermals we can see a lot of people running around near the target, but no indication of friendlies. Over."
Westland suddenly leaned forward. "Ask Hammer to use its thermals over the water, between the boats and shore. Maybe they're in the water, trying to swim out."
Pike nodded. "I didn't think of that." He keyed the mike. "Hammer, this is Hammer Base. Scan the water near the shore for any swimmers. Our people may be trying to swim out to the boat. Over."
The disembodied voice from the Spectre gunship rogered the message and Westland sat back in her chair as she waited for the result.
She rubbed her eyes wearily. What a screw-up. Still no word on Stevens. No word from the team. This had the potential for disaster written all over it. Always before when she'd heard about something like this it had seemed kind of distant. Like watching a TV show or reading a spy novel. But now that the men in danger were flesh and blood people she was working with, it all seemed so different. Not glamorous or thrilling, the way it sounded when field agents recounted stories of their missions.
The worst part for Westland was the realization that Dave Riley had predicted this very occurrence. She hadn't been convinced there was a leak. Now she was. The story of Stevens cavorting with a local woman had surfaced as Jameson tried tracking down the missing DEA agent. Westland was upset with Jameson for not having reported it earlier. It was a little late now to do us much good, she thought bitterly. Riley had pointed to Stevens as a weak link from the start. Unfortunately, he'd been proven correct.
She started as she heard the gunship come back on the air. "Hammer Base, I've got a heat source in the water approximately four hundred meters from shore. Over."
BARRANQUILLA
6:30 A.M.
Riley rode the swell and finned hard, rising up out of the water to his midchest. He scanned the immediate area. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a black dot—the buoy. He swam over to it and grabbed the line. He released his ruck from its buddy line and attached the snap link to the buoy line. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself down on the line to the boat. The line was tied directly into a large carbon dioxide-charged bottle strapped to the boat's floorboards. Riley fumbled along the bottle until he felt the valve. He pulled the release, let go of the boat, and swam to the surface.
He had barely taken his second breath of air when the Zodiac popped up almost underneath him. The carbon dioxide was still inflating the boat as Riley clambered over the side. He pulled in his ruck. When the gas stopped hissing, he closed the inlet valve and the compartmental valves. Then he tore through the waterproof bags in his pack and pulled out the SATCOM radio.
He didn't bother with a bounce-back test, just keyed the mike and spoke. "Hammer, this is Nail Three Five. Do you have an IR chem light on shore, moving south along the coast, about four hundred meters in? Over."
"Nail Three Five, this is Hammer. That's a negative. We've scanned the whole area for ten klicks each direction over the past ten minutes and have found nothing. Hammer Base is patched into this net and wants to talk to you. Over."
Riley slumped down in the boat. He was too late. Powers was either dead or captured; otherwise his IR light would still be on. Riley slammed his fist into the side of the boat. His team wiped out. He'd known from the beginning that the whole mission was flaky.
"Nail Three Five, this is Hammer Base. Over."
He stared at the radio. Westland's voice drifted away over the waves. Riley shook his head. He needed a few minutes to sort things out. He ignored the radio.
He considered heading in toward shore, but he knew that would be futile, since he had no way to contact Powers. His team sergeant would be doing something to gain the attention of the gunship, even if his IR chem light wasn't working. The lack of any signal was a very bad sign.
Riley wondered what brilliant cover story was going to be concocted to explain the deaths. He was sure the CIA or DEA had one ready, which led him to the thought of what the Colombians were going to do with the bodies. Another Desert One scenario with American bodies being displayed to make a political point? And how was the American government going to explain away the bodies in the hands of the Colombian drug cartel? Probably claim there was an aircraft crash during training.
Riley drew a deep breath. It didn't matter to him what the government did. His men were dead. He had other more important questions swirling through his mind. Was Powers really dead or had he been wounded and captured? Who and where was the leak? What was going to happen to the task force now?
Riley knew that the CIA—hell, even the Department of Defense— considered him and his men expendable, just dumb GIs who didn't need to know the whys and the wherefores but just what to do. Well, Riley had a somewhat higher opinion of himself.
He picked up the mike.
FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA
6:30 A.M
Westland stared at the radio in exasperation. Why wasn't Riley answering? She'd recognized his voice even as he gave his call sign. His asking about the IR light meant he had probably left someone alive back on the beach. Maybe the whole team was hiding somewhere and Riley had swum out to bring in the boat.
She jumped as the radio came alive.
"Hammer Base, this is Nail Three Five. Over."
She grabbed the mike before Pike could get to it. "Give us a situation report. Over."
"Four dead. One missing. They were waiting for us. Over."
Oh, God! Westland closed her eyes. Pike took the mike from her limp hand.
"What's the status of the one missing and how do you know the other four are dead? Over."
"I saw the four bodies. I left Eyes Three Six on the shore. He provided a diversion for me so I could swim out. He was supposed to break an IR chem and move south along the coast. Hammer hasn't picked up his light, so he's either dead or captured. Over."
Pike nodded and took a deep breath. He did some quick tactical calculations and made the hard but correct decision. "All right. Bring it on home. There's nothing more you can do. I'm having your pickup ship come in to you. Head on the old azimuth and you should run into the Garcia. Moonbeam will direct you if you need it. I'll have Hammer hang around to see if it picks up anything. Over."
"Roger. Break. Hammer, be advised that the bad guys have Redeyes, at least two that we saw. Over."
"This is Hammer. Roger. Thanks for the info. We're too high for them anyway. Out."
Riley reached back and primed the engine. The waterproofing of the engine was perhaps the most amazing feature of the submersible Zodiac. The engine cranked on his second pull. He turned the nose of the boat away from shore and, with a last lingering look over his shoulder, headed out to sea.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
7:30 A.M.
Hanks looked up from the paperwork scattered across his desk as Strom walked in. His senior aide looked much the worse for wear after having gotten the alert call from Westland in the middle of the night. Hanks gestured toward the coffeepot. "Grab a mug."