“Yes,” Rich said.
“What a world we live in. How are you going to get me out of the country? The foreign minister is behind all of this. He is a powerful man.”
“We thought he might be involved.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Rich nodded. “I know.”
He maneuvered the car away from the streets of the industrial area and toward the ocean. Several large structures lined the coast, and small private piers stretched like fingers into the black ocean. Each pier glowed under dim mercury-vapor lights, giving the impression they had driven into a ghost world.
Several trucks plied the coastal road. Rich did his best to avoid them, but he couldn’t remain out of sight forever. He looked at his watch. “I hope we’re not late. It’s so unfashionable to be tardy.”
“Just imagine the damage to your social status,” Pete said.
Rich noticed Pete’s fingers drumming the stock of his M4. Rich couldn’t blame him. His heart was drumming the inside of his rib cage.
“That’s it.” Pete pointed to a small pier a dozen yards beyond the road.
Rich steered off the coastal road and proceeded down a thin strip of rutted and warped asphalt, the kind of damage caused by eighteen wheelers. The sedan, already battered and shot up, bounded down the uneven surface. He began to feel hopeful.
They parked near the shore end of the pier and exited the car, eyes searching every shadow. They saw nothing.
Waiting was the hardest work of all.
The three men stood by the car, gazing back at the street.
The soft sound of water lapping the pier’s pillars and caressing the stone breakwater hung in the air. Any other time Rich would have found it soothing. At the moment he found it annoying, and it seemed to increase in intensity.
“You guys looking for a ride?” The voice came from behind him.
Rich and Pete spun, bringing up their weapons. They found themselves face to face with a giant bug.
* * *
“LOST THEM? WHERE?” SANTI held the cell phone so tight his fingers ached. “Hold on.” He spoke to the pilot. The craft banked and headed for the commercial district southeast of Caracas. “We will be over the area in a few minutes. Keep searching.”
* * *
J.J. AND JOSE LOADED Caraway in the back of the pickup. Moyer directed Julia Cenobio and her children into the front seat. The boy sat in the middle, the young girl on her mother’s lap.
“How is he, Doc?” Moyer asked as he rounded the back of the truck.
“Not good, Boss. Shock and blood loss. I wish I could give you better news.”
“Keep him alive. This is going to be a rough ride back here. There’s nothing I can do about it. Stay low. Keep your weapons at the ready. Clear?”
“Oorah,” they said in unison.
Moyer slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going?” Julia asked.
“Hopefully to meet your husband.” He dropped the old truck into gear and pulled onto the street.
* * *
THE BUG WAS HOLDING an automatic weapon in Rich’s face. Two other bugs did the same with Pete and Cenobio. It took a long second for Rich to realize the bug was a man wearing a diving mask. “I take it you’re our way out of here.”
“Name?” the bug demanded. “And it had better be right.”
“Master Sergeant Rich Harbison.”
The man looked at Pete.
“Staff Sergeant Pete Rasor.”
“Lieutenant Coffer.” The men lowered their weapons. “Nice car.” Rich glanced at what had once been a fine-looking vehicle.
“I’m just borrowing it.” “Remind me never to loan you anything. Can you swim?” “Um, yeah, why?” The man turned to Pete. “What about you?”
“Love swimming.”
“And you?” He nodded to Cenobio who shook his head. “Not at all?”
“I hate the water.”
“That’s too bad. Follow me.” He turned and headed to the stone breakwater next to the small pier. Rich took Cenobio by the arm and followed the man.
“What’s going on?” Cenobio asked. “Who are they?”
“Navy SEALs,” Rich said.
“You know,” Pete said, “if word gets out that SEALs saved our bacon, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
“They’re not saving our bacon, Junior. We’re allowing them the privilege of participating in our mission. They need the experience.”
“Works for me.”
“Watch your step,” Coffer said. “Some of the stones are loose.”
Moving as fast as footing would allow, Rich, Pete, and Cenobio followed Coffer under the pier. The two other SEALs crouched on rocks just below the brim of the breakwater, watching the streets. Rich noticed several dark packages just above the waterline. Coffer grabbed one and held it up. For the first time, Shaq noticed the man wore a similar device.
“This is a closed-circuit rebreather. Several hours of training are necessary to use one properly.”
“Just give us the basics, Lieutenant. People are looking for us.” A two-lens dive mask had been attached to the breathing unit, the same kind of mask that gave the SEALs the human-bug look.
“So I hear. A rebreather will let you breathe underwater without scuba tanks. In a nutshell, it turns your exhalation into breathable air.”
“Under … underwater?” Cenobio said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I told you I can’t swim.”
“No problem, sir. All you need to do is breathe and go limp. My men will take care of everything else.”
“I don’t know if I can—”
“You can,” Shaq said. “Continue, Lieutenant.”
Coffer slipped one of the bag-like devices over Pete’s head. “It slips on like this. Straps go around the side. Make it snug but not so tight it restricts your movements.” He held up a hose and mouthpiece. “This goes in your mouth. You hold it in place by biting on these rubber protrusions. Breathe normally.”
“How far do we have to swim?” Rich asked.
“Not far, Master Sergeant, about three miles.”
“Three miles? You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir.”
“Cenobio can’t swim. How do you expect him to last three yards, let alone three miles?”
“No worries. You’re in the hands of the United States Navy.”
Rich looked at Pete. “Suddenly I’m terrified.”
“Keep your weapons as long as you like, but once we’re underway, I suggest ditching them. That or sling them over your shoulder. You’ll need both hands free.
Five minutes later Rich stepped into the inky black of the ocean. Next to him the other two SEALs led the terrified physicist into the water.
CHAPTER 54
J.J. LAY IN THE truck bed to the right of Caraway. Doc lay on the other side. They tried to give the injured man as much room as possible while keeping themselves from view of anyone driving by. Dawn was still a couple of hours off and the streets in this district remained empty except for the occasional delivery truck.
The night’s events had taken their toll on J.J.’s mind and body. Weary and aching, he wondered if the impact from the butt of the AK-47 had split his skull. Jose wanted time to examine him, and J.J. couldn’t blame him. He knew he looked a mess: bloody and swollen face, split lip, and broken nose. Still, he felt thankful to be alive for however much longer that would last.
Overhead stars gleamed and flickered, distorted by the thick marine air. They seemed so close, almost touchable. Since elementary school when he first began to hear and take seriously the things taught in church, he had imagined that God lived somewhere behind the stars, as if the night sky were a dark blanket just waiting for someone to pull it aside to reveal the glory of heaven. J.J. longed to reach up to the stars with his hand, to seize that blanket of nighttime sky, to see for just a moment the glories of God’s neighborhood, but he kept his arm down, his fingers on
the 9mm pistol Moyer had given him.
Next to him Caraway groaned, stirred, then fell comatose again. J.J. took this as a reminder. As requested, he began to pray for Caraway’s soul.
* * *
THE PICKUP HAD THE suspension of a rusted truck, and it transmitted every bump, every pothole to its passengers. Moyer felt guilty about every bounce. The ride had to be hurting the men in back, especially Caraway.
“Thank you for coming for us,” Julia said.
“I was in the neighborhood.” Moyer studied each intersection. Somewhere out there was a battered van filled with armed and extremely angry men. The last thing he wanted to do was cross their path. Not with a woman, two children, and an injured man dying in the back.
“How is my husband?”
“Last I saw him, he was well. It looked like someone may have popped him in the mouth, but beyond that he was okay. I’m sure he’ll be a little bruised from the accident.”
“Accident?”
“The van the abductors used to transport him met with a little trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Moyer kept his eyes moving from side to side looking for anything that might prove a danger. “Someone ran them off the road. The van turned over.”
“Someone?”
“I’m sure the guy meant well.”
A loud knocking broke into the conversation. J.J. rapped the back window again. Moyer looked in the rearview mirror. J.J. pointed at his ear then at the sky.
Moyer began to swear under his breath.
* * *
“WE HAVE ANOTHER TEAM,” Rich said.
“I know,” Coffer said.
“At least one is wounded.”
“I know.”
Coffer stepped deeper in the water. Rich laid a big hand on his shoulder. “A wounded man can’t swim three miles.”
“I know that as well, Master Sergeant. My orders are to get you and the men with you safely away from the coast without getting killed. That’s what I’m doing.”
Rich turned the man around. “Look, I want to know there will be someone here waiting for them.”
“There will be, and with all due respect, Master Sergeant, I have no intention of chatting with you until you’re satisfied. You have your orders, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And who gave them to you?”
“My team leader.”
Coffer nodded. “Then I suggest you follow your orders so I can follow mine. Now are you going to let go of me, or do I have to break that arm?”
Rich considered telling him to give it a try but gave in to the logic and his training. He removed his hand. Coffer turned and took two more steps and slipped into the water, turning on his back like an otter. Clearly the man was comfortable in the ocean. He pulled his mask over his face and slipped beneath the surface.
Pulling his mask over his face, Rich slipped into the ocean. He could see Coffer a few feet below the surface pointing an underwater light at him. Rich moved toward the light. Coffer grabbed his arm and pulled him close then redirected the light to a thin, white nylon line. He pushed Rich’s hand to the line and motioned with the light for Rich to follow it, and so he did.
The bottom dropped off slowly but was steep enough that Rich was soon fifteen feet below the surface. The blackness of the predawn hours was nothing compared to the ink now surrounding him. His heart rate ratcheted up and beat like the piston of an Indy car. He reached forward and felt something hard, metallic, and cold. Rich could go no further.
He could see nothing in front of him or to his right or left. He turned and was surprised to see Coffer’s light so close. Coffer swam to his side and pointed the light up the line. Further up, descending in the gloom, swam the other two SEALs, with Cenobio between them shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
Coffer pointed his light downward and Rich saw what he had touched moments before: a torpedo-shaped machine. It took a moment for Rich to realize they were underwater scooters—devices that could pull a man through the water. No wonder the SEALs weren’t concerned about a three-mile swim.
The scooters—Rich knew the Navy had to have some special name for the things, but he wasn’t in a position to ask—hovered a few feet above the ocean floor. Coffer raised one of devices and lifted a nylon strap with a loop in the end. He motioned for Rich to put his hand in the loop. He did. One of the other SEALs did the same with the second scooter, while the third helped Cenobio with his strap.
Rich took several deep breaths. The air tasted metallic. A moment later Coffer pushed away from the bottom, fingered a control, and the scooter began to move. A high-energy light mounted to the scooter cut through the murky water, illuminating bits of plant material and sparkling silicate. Rich let himself go limp, and with his free hand took hold of Coffer’s ankle. There was nothing more he could do.
The ocean bottom dropped away, and Rich let Coffer drag him into blackness.
* * *
THE EBONY WATERS RUSHED along Hector’s body, chilling him. His body already shook from shock and fear. Over the last few days he had been abducted, shown photos of his family in peril, backhanded, shot at, abducted again by men apparently sent to rescue him, and now towed beneath the surface of the ocean. He doubted anything else could surprise him.
A passage from the psalms came to mind: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” Hector had never doubted the Bible, but he found himself hoping those words were especially true. In the darkness, submerged in the depths, Hector began to pray again, his lips dancing on the rubber mouthpiece.
He estimated they were less than twenty feet below the surface. He didn’t know much about diving, but he did know the deeper they went the more dangerous the environment. He also knew some of the physics of water. For example, that water conducts sound very well. That fact made him wonder about the deep pounding sounds he was hearing.
* * *
SANTI GAZED OUT HIS window as the pilot of the MI-17 continued to increase his spiral search pattern. Santi had directed him to the spot where the firefight had ended the lives of several of his men. Costa’s body, as well as those in the escort car, still lay in the street. He did, however, see one difference. The vehicle that had rammed the escort car was missing.
His jaw tightened as he thought. He had to get into the mind of the abductors. Where would they go? Certainly not the airport. They must know that security would be on alert. If they stayed in the city, they would need a place to hide. Every hotel in the city now had the pictures from the hospital security camera and would be watching for those men.
Several good roads led away from the city. They could be fleeing, intent on making it across the border, but they wouldn’t get far. He had alerted local police and border guards. The car, with its smashed front end, would be easy to spot. No, they’d have to ditch the vehicle and take another. Of course …
Santi let his thoughts trail off then spoke to the pilot.
“Head toward the water.”
* * *
MOYER ROLLED DOWN HIS window to hear the heavy chopper better. He kept the pickup well within the speed limit, hoping to appear like an unconcerned driver on the way home from a late-night job. Of course, that would end the moment the chopper flew overhead. Three men lying in the bed of the truck, two with weapons, would be a giveaway. He wished they had been able to cover them with a tarp.
The sound of the motor was beefier than that of the helicopters they encountered earlier. Someone had called out the big guns, and that wasn’t good. After a moment he decided he was hearing something like an MI-17 Russian-made chopper. He couldn’t be sure, but the powerful rotor pulse indicated a large five-blade craft, and Moyer knew that Venezuela had twenty of the beasts. Whatever it was, it probably carried a heavy machine gun and maybe rockets.
“Mrs. Cenobio, I need to ask a favor.”
She snapped her head
around to face him. He had tried to sound confident. Apparently she heard more than he intended.
“What?”
“I want the children to get on the floorboards and stay there. I know there’s not much room, but it needs to be done.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Please, Mrs. Cenobio.”
“Mamá, is something wrong?” the little girl asked.
“Children, you’re going to ride down here now.” She pointed to the space at her feet.
“There’s not enough room,” the boy said.
“I’ll make room.”
She guided the girl to the floor and raised her legs to the seat so the boy could squeeze beside his sister. As they passed beneath a streetlight, Moyer saw tears on her face but she said nothing. She was, he decided, a very brave woman.
At last, through the windshield, Moyer saw a dark object in the sky. The profile matched his guess that the helicopter was an MI-17. He took no pride in that. The only sensation he felt was raging concern. Their M4s would be no match for whatever the Venezuelan military had put onboard the flying gun station.
Then he realized the chopper was moving away from them and toward the shoreline—the last place Moyer wanted to see it go.
CHAPTER 55
MOYER STOPPED THE TRUCK beneath the canopy of a closed gas station. A large, lit sign out front listed the price of fuel. Moyer did a quick conversion. Less than eighty cents a gallon. Had his life and those in the truck not been in imminent danger, he would have found it worth commenting on.
“We can’t win a firefight with .50-caliber machine gun,” Jose said. “And if he cuts loose with a rocket launcher, we’ll be barbecue.”
“What we need is a shoulder-fired Stinger missile,” J.J. said. “I don’t suppose you have one in your pocket, Boss?”
“Fresh out.” Moyer looked at Caraway. “How’s he doing, Doc?”
Jose shook his head. “Not good, Boss. He needs serious help. He’s barely hanging on now.”
“How long can he last?”
“I don’t know. He’s tough, but he’s lost a lot of blood. To be honest, Boss, I’m a little surprised he’s still with us.”
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