Three Minutes

by Anders Roslund

  Eleven left.

  In the rifle’s infrared sight Hoffmann saw five figures in the dining room stand up, grab their weapons, and rush out through a door covered by cloth. And they all fell, one at a time, hit in the back by Five, Six, Seven, and Eight.

  Six remaining.

  He moved a small piece of a tree branch for better visibility. His rifle trained on the commandant’s caleta. And there he was—running out, screaming.

  “We’re under attack! Set off the charges next to the cage!”

  The commandant didn’t get far—fell headlong to the ground as Two shot him in the right thigh and right arm, he was now unable to use his weapon, but he wasn’t supposed to die yet.

  Five and a half left.

  Hoffmann picked up the night-vision telescope again—from now on all activity would be concentrated near Speaker Crouse’s prison. This was where the two guards protecting the north corner ran, toward the cage, toward the tripwire, rigged to trigger a shell that in turn would trigger an antipersonnel mine—a combination of explosives set up to kill both the hostage and his rescuers in case of an attack. It shouldn’t pay to take any of the PRC’s property—the consequences should be death every time. The two camp guards suddenly stopped, raised their automatic rifles, pointing them toward the muddy area in front of the cage. About to shoot straight at the mine and trigger the explosion. But they slumped, lifelessly, before either could fire—Hoffmann’s line of sight had been clear from the tree.

  Three and a half left.

  And it was clear through his night-vision telescope—they were sneaking up in a loosely formed group from the south side of the camp, slowly approaching the prisoner’s cage. A muted bang—Three behind the latrine—and one of them, the taller one in the middle, hit. Two left, who promptly started retreating. Hoffmann could no longer follow them with night vision and readjusted—again—to infrared, first directing his weapon at the commandant’s caleta, which was empty, then toward the simpler sleeping caletas, also empty, and finally the mess hall, slowly sweeping along its walls.

  There they were. That’s where they’d retreated to.

  Green-yellow contours inside the tent fabric. Floating ghosts in deep purple, convinced for the moment they were protected, undetectable.

  Hoffmann breathed in, took aim, fired twice.

  One half left.

  And a new, sweeping motion through the camp’s darkness while he counted up seven colored bodies, lives that exuded warmth, all exactly where they should be. Then the motionless bodies, dead but still exuding heat—eleven. Then, two more. Also yellow-green.

  The commandant and Speaker Crouse.

  No other heat sources. No more floating ghosts. Hoffmann adjusted his microphone, his voice in their earpieces.

  “All eliminated.”

  As long as there were branches, he climbed meter by meter down; when the trunk became smooth, he let go and slid to the ground. A glance toward the cage.

  Two was removing the tripwire, disarming the grenade and mine.

  Four fired a single shot at the simple padlock that held the chain in place around the bamboo bars.

  Not there, not yet. First he had to meet someone else. Someone who was proud of scarring a person for life, who laughed when he took away their dignity. Now he lay in the mud in the middle of the camp, bleeding and crawling.

  Hoffmann grabbed his arm, the right one, the damaged one, and pulled him up from the ground to a kneeling position.

  The commandant screamed in pain. Until Hoffmann’s palm hit his cheek.

  “No screaming. No one can hear you, because you don’t exist. Okay?”

  No answer. Just an intense, quiet whimpering as he dragged him through the camp in the direction of Crouse’s cage. Hoffmann stopped regularly, kicked the commandant in the chest if his wailing got any louder.

  “What did I say? No screaming.”

  Arrived at the cage. And it was open. The prisoner was on his way out, supported by Four and Five.

  “You’re safe now, Señor Crouse.”

  English, with a distinct Spanish accent. Crouse should see and hear a member of the Crouse Force. Questions risked turning into suspicion, and the group Hoffmann led, and was dependent on, had to continue to believe in the black mask hiding his face, not the death sentence, not the outlaw informant.

  “We’ll take you out of here, Señor Crouse. Home to your countrymen.”

  Dead people scattered about. Strangers with loaded weapons. However, Crouse didn’t seem frightened. Confused, tired, dejected. But not afraid. A man who in a short time had been damaged so deeply and badly that he’d given up, accepted it.

  Hoffmann loosened the leather holster that hung from his shoulder and across his chest, took out his gun, handed it to Crouse.

  “Loaded, safety’s off. And there, Señor Crouse, is the commandant.”

  Crouse looked at him, without making the slightest attempt to receive the gun. “I don’t understand.”

  “We saved him. For you.”

  Timothy D. Crouse glanced at the man who’d been placed at his feet, who’d pretended to execute him, tortured him, reduced his life to nothing. “Why?”

  “I know what he’s done to you.”

  Crouse studied the commandant more thoroughly, listened to his moaning, lingered at the blood glued to fabric on his thigh, then at the wound on his upper arm, that blood seemed to have stayed inside his uniform, flowing down along his body. And shook his head slightly. “Thank you. But I’ll pass.”

  Hoffmann put his gun back in its holster, snapped it, and bent down to the commandant. Toward two black pointy boots. Put his hands around the clanging, polished spurs shaped like stars with red and sparkling stones on either side. And gave a powerful jerk, the commandant screamed in pain, or maybe humiliation, and Hoffmann put the two spurs in Speaker Crouse’s pocket.

  “So later you know when in doubt—you were the one who won.” He then untied the scarf from around the commandant’s neck, tied it again around his open mouth and neck, then dragged him to the cage, threw him in, forced his hands and feet together with sharp ties. And shut the door, locked it with more cable ties. He’d be there for a while.

  Three, Five, Seven, and Eight arrived from behind the latrine with a single, newly built, bamboo stretcher between them. Six gave Crouse a morphine injection in the buttocks through his thin pants, and they lifted him up.

  They started walking back in the same direction they’d come, took turns carrying Crouse. At the clearing, they stopped short and Hoffmann assured them everything had gone exactly as planned. As they approached the base camp, they heard voices and the obligatory television suspended from a tree, a crackling sound. They slowly circled by on the newly cleared path, down in the depression to isolate any sounds until they got to the other side and continued down to the river. To the rubber boat, which they untied from gnarled roots before loading Crouse and themselves. Twenty minutes in thirty knots, against the current. And they had no choice, they had to start here, immediately. Engine noise would alert the base camp. But with the distance to the river, their lead, the boat’s capacity—any pursuers would have a difficult time catching up.

  20:31 (Arrival helicopter.)

  He’d calculated a total sixty-six minutes for the attack, movement on foot, movement by boat. They’d carried out the plan in sixty-one. Five minutes gained, six minutes behind.

  Hoffmann ran toward the helicopter and the pilot, while the seven soldiers sought out shelter in a grove of palms, behind trunks covered with sharp thorns—this was where they would wait until the helicopter returned to transport them back to the regiment, while Hoffmann made the rest of the journey alone.

  First, he verified that he’d gotten everything on the list he’d sent to the new Crouse Force commander. Ticked off underwater sled and underwater scooter, continued on to the contents of one of the burlap sacks—lifted out and examined the underwater breathing mask, diving mask, the two air cylinders, can of grease, blood pres
sure cuff, the cone made of copper with a diameter of exactly four centimeters, and the plastic tube that was fifteen centimeters long. Then in the other burlap sack—a pack of C-4 plastic explosives, dry sack, the two powerful magnets, a fully automatic, sawed-off shotgun, tandem harness, a three-millimeter-thick neoprene suit, a diving computer the size of a wristwatch, and, finally, at the bottom of the sack, a buoyancy compensator.

  Everything in place, except Crouse. Hoffmann held him tightly as they climbed on board, supported his body, which almost fell repeatedly, got him in place, and wrapped him, still conscious but drowsy from the morphine, in blankets between the two burlap sacks.

  Then they lifted off and the pilot adjusted the helicopter’s position in relation to the wind, steering toward the coordinates Hoffmann had keyed in. The pilot turned around to his temporary boss.

  “Did I understand right—we’re on our way to a small island, just off Colombia’s northwestern coast?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case—flight time is two hours and forty-five minutes.”

  “That’s what I expected.”

  23:16 (Arrival Isla Tierra Bomba.)

  The view from the helicopter’s window was beautiful—a gentle bay on the northwest side next to a white beach with plenty of distance to the buildings on the island’s northern tip. They sank slowly toward the jetty, which stuck out a bit into the water forming a harbor for three small fishing boats. The pilot landed skillfully on a small, open patch of grass. The helicopter could take him no further. He’d have to deliver Crouse on his own and do so without being detected—deliberately revealing himself would be tantamount to asking for execution. The pilot and Hoffmann unloaded the equipment and carried it to a simple boat that looked like all the others, just as prearranged with Masterson via Grens. Under the tarp lay the rest of what he’d requested—the four shotgun cartridges loaded with carbon fibers, the waterproof MP3 player with prerecorded sounds of Russian submarines, a container of Cesium-137—which had been impossible to obtain through the Crouse Force’s local channels.

  Two hours and forty-one minutes. They’d gained four minutes—two minutes behind. While the helicopter took off, Hoffmann gathered Crouse, helped him climb into the boat. He seemed less affected as the morphine wore off, seemed to be gathering his thoughts again, not slurring quite as much as he spoke.

  “Who . . . are you working for?”

  “Soon, Señor Crouse. When you’re safe. Then you’ll get the answers to your questions.”

  “One more time. Who or what are you working for?”

  This was good. Hoffmann smiled under his black mask. The speaker’s injuries had compromised him physically, but not his sharpness, his intellect. That voice hadn’t been crushed, it belonged to a revered politician, who was used to being listened to.

  “The group of soldiers who liberated you, Mr. Speaker, is the group that bears your name. The Crouse Force.”

  The American tried to sit on the rail, but couldn’t, so instead he leaned against it, his eyes turned toward Hoffmann, steady, demanding.

  “The Crouse Force. Uh-huh. I don’t know, but . . . have we met?”

  “You’ve met every member of the Crouse Force.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. You seem . . . familiar. Not your voice, I don’t know if I’ve heard it before, but the way you move. I feel like I’ve made your acquaintance at more than a superficial inspection.”

  Hoffmann had no time to chat. But he had to. Crouse couldn’t doubt him, had to be convinced that only members of the Crouse Force had freed him, in order to keep things flexible, no arguments or protests—only later would Crouse realize that the extra member who led the entire operation was one of the thirteen people his colleagues had labeled as their main enemy.

  “You will understand, Señor Crouse. When it’s time. All you need to know right now is that I’m on your side. I freed you to save your life. Your life is just as important to me as my own. My own depends on it.”

  Crouse held out a dirty, torn shirtsleeve, grabbing at Hoffmann’s black mask. “And this?”

  Hoffmann pulled his hand away, gently but firmly. “All according to the Crouse Force regulations. That you yourself helped to write.”

  “But if I would ask you to take it off?”

  “When my mission ends.”

  The canteen hung off Hoffmann’s hip, a few ounces of water left. He pulled off his leather glove, his left hand was missing two fingers, could see Crouse looking at it. Two capsules of Nembutal lay in his vest pocket, and he dropped them into the canteen and waited for them to dissolve.

  “I want you to drink this, Mr. Speaker.”

  Crouse shook his head, his matted, wet hair pasted to his forehead and temples. “No.”

  “It will make you sleep. And that’s important for the last phase of this rescue mission to work.” Hoffmann held out the metal bottle. “You have to trust me now, Mr. Speaker. Both our lives depend on it.”

  Crouse drank after a moment. But reluctantly. Soon he was asleep, and when Hoffmann was absolutely sure of it, he pulled out a one-hour dose of Propofol and injected it into Crouse’s arm. A very potent and dangerous anesthetic, so the dosage was weaker than would normally be recommended, but Crouse wouldn’t be under the constant supervision of a professional, so better to minimize the risks. That was also why Hoffmann had shortened this part of the operation from two hours to one—difficult to implement in the time allocated, but necessary in order to give Crouse the greatest prospect for survival.

  He lifted up one of the burlap sacks, took out the breathing mask along with the rebreather, threaded them over the sleeping Crouse’s head, and hung them on his chest. And turned on the oxygen. The Rebreather 12 was the most advanced one he’d worked with, it allowed for deeper dives and longer endurance than its predecessors.

  The transparent underwater sled reminded him of a glass coffin, and he carefully lubricated its rubber strips with the grease until the hatch sealed perfectly. Crouse hadn’t been particularly large to begin with, and his time in the cage had taken off a few more kilos, so it was much easier than Hoffmann had imagined to carry him to the sled and lay him inside it.

  With Crouse asleep inside the tow sled, Hoffmann had a few minutes to build the prism bomb. The sleeping pills and anesthetic had been stored in one of the breast pockets of his combat vest. In the other he had the detonator next to the small cone of copper he’d been searching for so long—until he happened across it in an antiques shop in Cartago that specialized in art and small sculptures. There it stood, on a cluttered shelf behind the counter, waiting for him, and it was just the right size. He molded a fairly thick, even layer of C-4 plastic explosive on the outside and pushed the fifteen-centimeter-long plastic tube around it—about three centimeters to cover the cone itself, and the remaining twelve being the distance needed to focus the blast before it reached its intended target—the optimal distance for the maximum explosive effect. Finally, he pushed the container of Cesium-137, into the copper cone, stuck it with a fingernail of sealant just below the tip of the cone, and stuffed it into the waterproof dry sack—together with the sawed-off, automatic shotgun, the custom-designed cartridges loaded with carbon fibers, and the two magnets.

  Crouse was ready. The prism bomb was ready. Then his own equipment.

  He undressed and covered his naked skin with a new, synthetic three-millimeter-thick neoprene suit. Considerably thinner than the diving suits he normally used, but this mission called for maximum mobility. And besides, for a person who’d trained in the cold waters of northern Europe, the Caribbean was warm enough no matter the season. Buoyancy compensator and the other rebreather over his own head, the straps around his waist and legs, and he felt supple despite the oxygen tube and lime container that cleansed the carbon dioxide, a prerequisite for being able to breathe in the gas mixture over and over again. Hung the dry sack over his right shoulder and put the diving computer on his wrist like a watch with a too-large display, which
contained a clock, a compass, a GPS, a depth gauge, and an automatic dive logbook that warned you when it was time to go up.

  The target was about ten meters below the surface. But the journey there was concentrated at two, maybe three, meters deep. The underwater scooter would therefore be able to pull both him and the sled with Crouse inside. A small round vessel with handles on each side and circular cover with fan blades. With enough batteries to run for two hours and a speed of about six knots, he would reach his target after a forty-five-minute journey.

  A final check on the sedated American—his breathing was calm and regular. A blood pressure cuff around his arm to keep track of his vitals, he was sound asleep as the sled’s transparent lid was closed.

  And now. The moment Hoffmann needed to give to himself, no matter how urgent the time was. Sit completely still. As he did after climbing up on the railing. His ritual each time he’d been caught in circumstances like these.

  Breathe in through your nose, exhale through your mouth. Visualize the mission. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

  23:43 (Underwater.)

  The target coordinates were already programmed into the computer. When he started it an arrow appeared on the display, pointing in the direction he should steer. He spat in his mask, rubbed the saliva on the glass, and placed it in front of his face. Oxygen on. The nozzle of the rebreather in place.

  23:44. One minute behind, he had to make it up.

  A firm grip on the underwater scooter as he leaned back, a soft splash as the body and the vehicle and the sled with Crouse inside fell into the water. He sank from the surface to a depth of two and a half meters, where he leveled out and started the underwater scooter at a constant cruising speed. And it worked just as he’d hoped, traveling in virtual silence—so quiet that he could hear the aircraft carrier and its convoy, the sound transmitted underwater from eight kilometers away.