“There,” said Orozco, pointing to a large open meadow just north of the town. It was really the only clear space to land in.
“Sí, Colonel,” said the pilot. He toggled a switch on the radio set into the control panel above him and relayed the information to the other pilots in the flight. All of the big helicopters altered course along with Orozco like giant obedient bumblebees.
Orozco’s helicopter landed first, touching down on the slightly inclined meadow, its tripod gear hitting the dark earth in perfect unison, the huge rotors flattening the tall grass in a perfect circle. The main door opened and the pilot threw the rotors into the off position; it would take some time to unload the men and equipment, and the turbine ate up fuel at a terrible rate.
Behind them the five other helicopters landed in formation, in line with a hundred yards between each machine. When all the rotors had ceased turning, the clamshell rear cargo doors and ramp opened and the men began to file out.
Hidden in the woods two hundred yards to the south, Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro watched as the helicopters landed and then he quietly gave an order into his headset microphone.
“Lasers on.”
Around the large upland meadow, twelve of Turturro’s men, each with an ordinary green-light laser pointer duct-taped to the telescopic sights of his Vietnam-era M40 rifle, switched the little devices on, aiming at the upper turbine chamber above and just aft of the cockpit. None of the twelve men was a sniper-grade marksman, but none of them needed to be; their only task was to keep the small spot of laser light aimed at the helicopters.
Turturro turned to his radio man and told him to switch frequencies. When the man nodded, Turturro spoke into his microphone again. “This is Bravo. Come in, Flight Leader.”
The response was clear and almost instantaneous. “Flight Leader here, Bravo.”
“What’s your distance from X-Ray please?”
“Four kilometers.”
“Approach southwest, course one eighty. Targets are in line and painted. Fire at will, Flight.”
“Roger that, Bravo.”
From four kilometers away the sound of the three Super Tucanos was no more than the faint, indistinct sound of a swarm of hornets, and it was only at the very last second that Orozco’s pilot saw the glittering of sunlight reflecting from the canopies of the distant turboprops, followed almost instantly by blurred belches of smoke and flames from the turboprops’ underwing pods as each of the aircraft launched four Hellfire air-to-ground missiles at the green patch of meadow two and a half miles away.
“Colonel…?” The pilot pointed out the south-side window of the cockpit.
The Hellfire missiles, traveling at roughly two thousand feet per second, reached their targets—the green light reflecting from the laser pointers—in about the time it took for Orozco to turn and follow the directions of the pilot’s finger. All twelve missiles made contact and the six MiL 8 helicopters and the men remaining inside them were incinerated instantly. Eight seconds after the missiles struck, the three Super Tucanos flew in over the meadow at an altitude of a little over two hundred and fifty feet, raking the meadow with their twin .50-caliber machine guns, obliterating the few dozen men already out of the six helicopters and fleeing toward the woods. Wagging their wings, the three Super Tucanos peeled off and climbed out of sight. Six of the elite Avispas Negras unit managed to evade the missiles and the machine-gun fire before they were fired upon at point-blank range by Colonel Frank Turturro’s men. Within less than a minute, two-thirds of the Cuban air force’s helicopter transport capabilities had been destroyed along with a full one-third of the army’s Special Forces, including their commander.
Turturro stared at the meadow turned killing field. It was an abattoir of torn flesh and bullet-ridden bodies, their lifeblood draining into the tall grass and the dark earth upon which they lay. The air smelled of hot metal, melting plastic and the rich-sour barbecue char of roasting human beings. The sound was a sighing blast furnace’s breath and the snap, crackle, pop of dying machinery. Black greasy clouds blossomed into the sky. Beside him, Turturro heard his radio operator retching. Turturro, a man who had seen several wars and more than enough death to last a lifetime, simply watched. He began to whisper words he hadn’t spoken since childhood.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
“Son of a bitch!” Holliday yelled, ducking as the returning flight of the three jungle-camouflaged aircraft roared overhead just above treetop level. If it hadn’t been for the thunder of the turbine engines, they could have been something straight out of the Battle of Britain; they looked remarkably like old-fashioned Spitfires or Hurricanes or even the American P51 Mustangs. The only thing missing was the shark’s mouth painted on the noses. Holliday recognized them immediately—they were Brazilian-made Embraer EMB 314 Super Tucanos, nominally used to patrol Brazil’s Amazonian borders but probably the best counterinsurgency fighter-bomber on today’s market. Rebels or pesky natives who won’t relocate where you tell them in your jungles? Call Embraer and they’ll fix you right up. He also knew that Kate Sinclair, mother of the late Senator Sinclair, head of the secret society known as Rex Deus, was owner of Blackhawk Security, one of the largest private military contractors and armies-for-hire in the world, which had recently purchased a number of the Brazilian turboprops. She was also insanely power-hungry and a first-rate bitch into the bargain, as Holliday knew from personal experience. The Furies from Roman mythology could have learned a thing or two from Kate Sinclair.
“It would appear that the unhappy soldier we captured on the path to Aserradero was telling the truth,” said Eddie.
“I wonder if he was telling the truth about the prisoners they’re holding at that old airfield.”
“Domingo was cutting off the second finger of his hand with that old machete of his. He was telling the truth, sin duda alguna, mi amigo—there is no question about it.”
“Then we have to save them,” said Holliday. “It’s the only way.”
“I don’t understand,” said Eddie. “I thought our plan was to get to the coast and take a boat to the Bahamas.”
“Maybe that’s still what we’ll do, but if we arrive at the U.S embassy in Nassau with a couple of CIA agents, they might take us a little more seriously when we tell them about a few leftover missiles from October ’sixty-two, don’t you think? Remember, amigo, you and me and embassies aren’t the best of friends.”
“This is true,” said Eddie. Their last interaction with a U.S. embassy had involved crashing through the front gates of the Moscow embassy in a snowplow and running it up the front steps and through the entrance. Total damage: $3.5 million, eventually paid by the Russian government since it was their dead snowplow operator at the controls, but nevertheless a distinct black mark when it came to embassy relations with Holliday and Eddie.
“Those aircraft were heading northeast,” said Holliday, turning to Domingo. “Any idea where they were going?”
“The only airfield close to here is at an old abandoned finca about five miles from here. It belonged to a wealthy Havana doctor who liked to fly his friends in to hunt jabali.”
“Jabali?”
“Wild boar,” explained Eddie.
“How long to get there?”
“There are no roads,” replied Domingo. “Through the jungle, two, three hours maybe.”
“Then we better get moving,” said Holliday. “I want to see this place before it gets dark.”
In the end it took almost four hours to find their way to the ridge across from the airstrip that had once belonged to Dr. Enrique Gomez Martinez, the high-society Havana abortionist in the time of Fulgencio Batista.
Using Domingo’s powerful Soviet-era binoculars, Holliday scanned the covert military installation a few hundred yards away across the steep, narrow valley tha
t lay between them. On the next of the multiple ridges was the burnt-out ruins of a large hacienda, almost invisible in the jungle undergrowth.
On the occupied ridge, he could make out the camouflaged hardstands for the Tucanos, perhaps twenty well-hidden tents and the old crumbling building almost overgrown with vegetation that had probably been used as some sort of control tower. Between the net-covered enclosures for the aircraft, there was a large fly tent, also covered with camouflage net, that was almost certainly the command post for the installation. At the extreme western end of the narrow plateau was the overgrown wreckage of an old DC-3.
Holiday swept the binoculars along the length of the ridge. From end to end it was about half a mile long. There were two-man pickets posted every two hundred feet along the length of the dirt runway and two guards in front of the control tower front door. Everyone was armed with sidearms and MP5s like the men they had intercepted.
“They’re using the old building to keep the prisoners in,” said Holliday, lowering the binoculars.
“What about that hacienda on the ridge beyond?” Eddie asked.
“Burnt out and abandoned,” said Holliday.
“There was a road from the hacienda to the airstrip,” said Domingo. “It is most probably cubierta por la selva, covered by the jungle, but it will still be there. It will lead us up to the camp, I am sure.”
“You seem to know a lot about this Dr. Martinez,” said Holliday.
Domingo shrugged. “We were the lucha contra bandidos; it was our job. Martinez was high on our list.” The white-haired man paused, eyes staring at something a thousand miles away and decades in the past.
Holliday thought for a moment, then gave the camp another scan with the binoculars. The jungle between the two ridges was deep in shadow now and the sun was a fireball in the west.
“All my life I am working for the Revolution,” said Domingo, shaking his head. “And now I go to rescue Americano CIA agents. This I would never have dreamed. Increíble!”
Holliday stared across at the darkening ridge. “We wait until dark and then we go.”
PART FOUR
PUNTA CERO
24
William Copeland Black sat at the table in the crumbling building beside the dirt airfield and tried to think his way out of their present problem. Laframboise, the pilot, and Arango, their supposed guide, were both on the floor, snoring away. Carrie Pilkington was staring up at the ceiling. Finally she looked down, staring at Black.
“Some analyst I am,” she said angrily. “I couldn’t analyze my way out of a wet paper bag.”
“Analyzing information isn’t the same thing as figuring out how to escape from a windowless jail in the middle of the jungle surrounded by armed men,” said Black. “The era of Richard Hannay and James Bond is over.”
“Richard who?” Carrie said.
“The first fictional heroic spy of the twentieth century,” said Laframboise, coming out of his doze. “He was the star of several books by John Buchan. The most famous was The Thirty-Nine Steps. Alfred Hitchcock made it into a movie in the nineteen thirties. Buchan was also known as Lord Tweedsmuir, the governor general of Canada.”
“Good Lord,” said Black.
“I had the best paper route in Ottawa,” said Laframboise, sitting up and yawning. “Governor generals to the British high commissioners with half a dozen embassies, the prime minister’s residence and City Hall, all on the same street. Learned a lot of history that way.” He shook his head, smiling as he remembered. “At Christmas the prime minister and the French ambassador used to compete to give me the biggest tip. I made out like a bandit.”
“Cute story,” said Carrie. “Irrelevant but cute.”
“Divide and conquer?” Will Black said.
“Something like that,” said Laframboise.
“I don’t get it,” said Carrie.
“Five or six hours ago we heard a lot of activity—orders being bawled out, soldiers moving around,” said Laframboise. “Then an hour ago three of those fighters out there took off and half an hour later they were back. Somebody’s making a fuss out there and I don’t think anybody’s thinking about us.”
“They have not thought of us since we landed here like flies in a spiderweb,” snorted Arango. “They knew they were going to kill us from the start, or at least el Italiano did.”
“Then why aren’t we dead?” Carrie asked bluntly.
“Poker,” said Lafamboise. “That Turturro guy’s an old soldier. We’re bargaining chips in case it all goes wrong.”
“Mr. Laframboise is probably right.” Black nodded. “Turturro’s a firm proponent of what my late father referred to as the ‘snafu’ principle.”
“Qué?” Arango said.
“Situation Normal, All Fucked Up,” explained Black. “These people aren’t playing at being rebels in the mountains trying to stir up the locals; this is an attack force. Something big is in the works, and if there’s a snafu, Turturro wants something to trade on.”
“Us,” said Carrie.
“Us.” Black nodded.
“So what do we do about it?”
“One way or another, all of us are going to be an embarrassment, whether it’s Turturro’s people or the agency,” said Black. “We’re going to get swept under the rug, so to speak. I say we get out and we get out now. Turturro’s probably off with those soldiers we heard gearing up this afternoon. It’s getting dark. They should be bringing us something to eat pretty soon. It might be our only chance.”
“What chance?” Carrie asked. “We’re going to stab them with plastic forks? These guys have got guns!”
“There is a loose floorboard in the toilet,” said Arango. “Pull it up. There might be nails in it. Rusty ones. A weapon of sorts.”
“I saw a kid in high school throw a cafeteria table at a teacher once. Caught him by surprise.” Laframboise shrugged. “Might work.”
“I’m stuck back at plastic forks,” said Carrie.
“We use the chairs,” said Black. “Carrie and I stand on opposite sides of the door, each with a chair folded up. Arango has the piece of floorboard and both he and Laframboise heave the table at the first guys through the door. If we’re lucky we’ll catch them off guard and manage to disarm at least one of them.”
“And if we don’t?” Carrie said.
“Then we probably die,” said Laframboise.
It was seven sixteen in the evening and the last of the sun was disappearing over the western sea as Sandpiper arrived at the Marina Hemingway. Father Ronan Patrick Sheehan hit the air horn, requesting entrance through the breakwater passage. Receiving approval, Sheehan piloted the Hatteras Express to the harbormaster’s office at the main jetty, where he was boarded by a customs officer and a harbor official.
He offered Des Smith’s papers for inspection, had them stamped and was then given a berth after paying an appropriate “document fee.” At the berth across from some sort of low-rise hotel complex, another set of officials boarded the boat, gave it a cursory inspection and were also handed what they called an “inspection fee.” The whole process took an hour.
Throughout the various official inspections, Sheehan had worn a plastic surgical boot on his right foot and ankle and had limped around using a very solid-looking knobkerrie walking stick. When asked, he told the officials he’d sprained his ankle doing a favor for a friend. Nobody questioned his story and they didn’t examine either the boot or the walking stick.
By the time Sheehan was alone again, it was fully dark. He had a quick, cold dinner of a tinned corned beef sandwich and a bottle of Kalik beer from the galley fridge, then lay down in the comfortable berth in the owner’s stateroom and was asleep almost instantly.
The door to the old hut at the airfield was kicked in with the wet sound of splintering, rotten wood, and as the first man came through the opening Montalvo Hernandez Arango swung the eighteen-inch-long floorboard with a pair of three-inch nails at the end like a major league hitter belting a hom
e run out of the park with a Louisville Slugger.
“Mueren, pedazo de mierda!” Arango screeched.
“Santa puta Madre de Cristo!” Domingo Cabrera raised his machete defensively with Arango’s medieval bat less than an inch from his skull. At the same time Pete Laframboise heaved the table toward the doorway, dipped his shoulder like a hockey player making a body check and heaved himself forward. As Holliday and Eddie stepped into the hut, both Carrie Pilkington and Will Black swung their folded chairs.
The table and Pete Laframboise hit Holliday square-on and Eddie was struck high and low by the chairs. Everyone went down in a heap except for Arango and Domingo, who just stared at each other, dumbfounded.
Pete Laframboise found himself staring into the angry face of a mud-spattered, scar-faced, one-eyed man with an MP5 machine gun pointing at him. Eddie staggered to his feet and Carrie Pilkington stared. “Oh my God!”
“Who the hell are you?” Laframboise asked, sprawled in the broken remains of the card table he’d driven into Holliday.
“I’m the goddamn U.S. cavalry,” answered Holliday. “Now get up.”
“You’re Colonel John Holliday,” said Carrie Pilkington. “And this is your friend Eddie Cabrera. I recognize you from the photographs in your file.”
“We’ve got two dead guards outside and about five minutes before the shit hits the fan,” said Holliday. “So if you’re all finished with the Marx Brothers routine, can we all get the hell out of here?”
25
Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro returned from his mission to Aserradero still shaken by the slaughter he had seen in that mountain meadow. He was no stranger to death in war, but his conflicts had come in places where men died in ones and twos, not by the hundreds. The fight at the police post a few days before had been one thing, but he knew the wholesale slaughter he’d seen today would give him nightmares worse than he had ever known. A warrior was a man who fought other men and where the better warrior vanquished the lesser; it wasn’t a farmer slaughtering sheep. Blackhawk was paying him a fortune to lead this unit, but no amount of cash was going to help him carry this stone that now rested so heavily in his heart.
Valley of the Templars Page 19