While the windows of McKnight’s SUV where instantly blown out, his aide’s body absorbed the nails and glass, shielding McKnight enough to save his life, though he was rendered unconscious. One of Carlos’s men made sure he wouldn’t last long though. From the bushes in the small park across the square, he fired a rocket at the damaged vehicle. As bodies were still landing from the first explosion, the rocket whooshed through the air, scoring a direct hit on McKnight’s vehicle. The armor-piercing round sent his truck into the air in a giant fireball, killing everyone inside instantly. A second rocket hit the truck behind him with similar results, a split second before another of Carlos’s men set off the second and largest charge by the front doors. Anyone on the street that was running towards the building for cover was blown off their feet in a cloud of fire and nails.
Almost every vehicle on the street was either completely destroyed, or burning and unable to move. There wasn’t a person left standing anywhere near the building. Carlos’s team in the park dropped the missile launchers and ran to their waiting car. Carlos dropped the detonator into a small trashcan as he walked quickly away from the commotion. Anyone nearby was dead, wounded, or running for their life, and as Carlos’s team disappeared into the chaos, not one person took notice of them. Carlos smiled at the sound of sirens heading towards the chaos. They were out of the city and heading towards the boats before the first ambulance arrived on the scene.
Chapter 11
Aftermath
Director Holstrum’s phone was ringing less than five minutes after McKnight and his entire entourage had been assassinated. News of the event was delayed several minutes because most of the film crews were also killed in the explosion.
Meanwhile, Raman, Hakim, and Ali had been sitting by a television in an Argentinean coffee shop hoping to watch the explosion live. Instead, they had to settle for “breaking news alerts” followed by coverage of the scene after the attack, since none of the cameras that had been filming survived the blasts.
The devastation on the street was obvious. Black smoke still clung over the burning vehicles, which were nothing more than twisted metal. Body parts and charred remains were evident in the media coverage, but hard news about those attacked was sketchy since identifications would take days, weeks, or perhaps could never be accomplished at all. Witnesses were being interviewed by news commentators and local police investigators, but no one had seen much other than the huge explosions. Police were finding nails imbedded in walls all the way across the park, and the number of injured was now well over three hundred. The two closest hospitals were completely overwhelmed and were doing triage outside in the parking lot.
Ali Aziz stroked his long beard and smiled slowly. “It would appear that Señor Vega performed even beyond our hopes. Still no word on the Americans, but I am sure he did not disappoint us.”
Raman sipped his tea and watched the television. The reporter answered Ali’s question as though she had heard him. She was standing with her back to ambulances and rescue personnel on the blackened street.
“The latest word, which is still unconfirmed, is that the entire Mexican, Brazilian, and American delegations were annihilated in this morning’s attack. Investigators are asking witnesses to please come forward with any information that may help them piece together what has happened this morning on this once-quiet street. So far, no one has claimed responsibility, and speculation about the attack has been conflicting and varied…”
The reporter held her earpiece and listened for a second, then began speaking again. “I am told now that it is confirmed—US Ambassador James McKnight and his entire staff were killed, along with Mexican Ambassador Juan Concepcione and his delegation as well. Still no official word on the Brazilian contingent, however, a license plate from their vehicle has been identified…”
Raman put his cup down and looked at Hakim. He slid a disposable cell phone to him across the table. “You have a phone call to make. Read the script exactly as written—it is under thirty seconds. Then destroy the phone, remove the battery, and throw it in the water. We’ll meet back at the hotel and then off to the airport. By this time tomorrow, we will be celebrating with our people in Syria.”
Back in Virginia, the director was standing in front of a bank of televisions with Leah and Darren. Leah was listening to the live reports in Spanish and occasionally translating something of interest to Darren and Wallace, who were watching FOX and CNN simultaneously. Holstrum’s phone ran again. He answered it and then did more listening than speaking. He hung up and sat on his desk with his arms folded.
“That was the Secretary of Defense. The president has called for Plan B.” Director Holstrum looked sad, an adjective that wouldn’t normally fit his persona.
“You okay, boss?” asked Darren.
He shook his head slowly, then took off his glasses and wiped his tired eyes. “I’ve known Jim McKnight for almost ten years. I was at his daughter’s wedding for Christ’s sake.” He stood up and put his glasses back on, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking to the window. Leah and Darren gave him a second to himself.
“Where are your boys, Darren?” he asked.
“Training in Florida, sir. They’re out in the Everglades. It will take a day or two to get them back,” Darren replied.
“Bring ‘em in. The faster the better. Leah, reach out to every contact you have south of the border and start shaking the trees. We have a green light to start tracing this attack, and if I’m right, the trail will lead back Al Qaeda working in the tri-border region. This is now priority one.” Holstrum walked back to his large desk and sat down, looking devastated. “I have to call Jim’s wife.”
Leah and Darren looked at each and then excused themselves to allow the director some privacy.
“Leah, let’s meet in my situation room in an hour. Bring whoever is going to be working with you on this. We need to start working out details ASAP,” said Darren.
“One hour,” she replied, and the two of them took off down the hall in opposite directions.
Chapter 12
The Glades
The members of the team had found the driest place they could to stop for the night. The pulled their rafts ashore and hiked up to a small clearing where they flipped the rafts upside down and placed them on the thick grass. Cascaes inspected the area carefully for alligator nests, mindful not to invite trouble of the reptilian kind. The men pulled out green mosquito nets that were like personal cocoons. They would sleep on top of the upside-down rafts—cramped but dry and off the ground that was crawling with who knows what.
They built two small fires using sterno packs to help light the damp wood and then ate their MREs. Lance Woods drew first watch, which would last until two A.M., then Moose would take over until four, and finally Hodges until daybreak. The men finished eating and went over the day’s adventures, then started looking at their computer equipment and satellite images to try and find themselves on the river. The technology was amazing, and after a few minutes of tinkering, they could actually see the lights of their fires on the screen. They were being seen from a satellite thousands of miles away, and yet could focus down through the swamps to see their small campfires.
“Yo, man,” said Ernie P. with a smile. “Why don’t you change those coordinates to Daytona, man. See if you can get some pussy on that thing! There’s gotta’ be some chick laying outside naked someplace!”
“No, man,” said Raul Santos, “If you’re gonna change coordinates, take a look at some place where the sun is still up! Grab a picture of the beach in Hawaii, man!”
Everyone chuckled. Mackey, being the old man of the group, felt compelled to keep his group serious. “You are supposed to be training in the jungle, not whacking off looking at chicks a thousand miles away. Now leave your peckers alone and get some sleep.”
The joking continued for another hour, and then one by one the men began zipping u
p inside their nets and sacking out on the rafts. By midnight, everyone was asleep except for Lance, who was on watch. Mackey woke up after catching an hour and a half of sleep. He hated sleeping in the jungle—something left over from his Vietnam memories, and got up. He unzipped the top part of his net and let his head stick out, and walked over the fire where Lance was sitting drinking coffee.
Lance whispered, “What’s up, boss? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I’ll take your watch. Go get some sleep.”
“You sure? I have until two…”
Mackey smacked his arm and told him to go ahead and sleep. Lance was out cold in five minutes, a talent that most of these guys possessed from years of never knowing when you would be able to sleep. Mackey sat quietly and made some coffee, stirring the fire with a long stick. He eventually began to hear Earl Jones sniffling and mumbling to himself. When he looked over to the raft, Jones got up and walked to one of the other small fires. Mackey followed him over and squatted down next to him. Jones had tears running down his face.
“What’s up, Jonesy?” asked Mackey.
“Nuthin’, coach, I’m fine.”
“Bullshit, man. You still having nightmares?”
Jonesy looked at him with an expression of surprise. “Santos dime me out?”
“Look man, don’t get on Santos. It was his responsibility to tell me if there was a problem somewhere—just like it would yours if the situation was reversed. You get distracted with shit in the field and people get killed, Earl.” Mackey was talking slightly above a whisper.
“I’m fine, coach. Just some nightmares is all,” said Jones quietly. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Tell me about them,” said Mackey.
Jones just looked at him for a second. He was afraid to open his mouth lest he start crying uncontrollably again.
“Not much to tell,” he said quietly. “I just see those kids, man. Two little fucking kids I killed.”
Mackey scowled. I know how you feel inside, Jonesy. But you gotta’ let it go, man…”
“I’ve been trying, man!” he said. “I try and block it out, but those kids just keep popping back into my head. It’s every fucking night, man. I can’t sleep…”
“Look, Earl—I’m going to tell you something that very few people on this planet know, but maybe it will help. Just shut up and listen for a second.” Mackey looked back at the rafts to make sure everyone was still sleeping.
“When I was in Vietnam, I did mostly flying. Reconnaissance stuff. I’d fly around and spot enemy locations, take pictures, and fly home. Not sure how many people my snapshots killed, but I bet it was plenty. Anyway, towards the end of my tour, my plane got shot to shit and I had to make an emergency landing. My co-pilot had been killed, and I force landed near a small village about five klicks from our base. Luckily for me, it was starting to get dark, and as soon as I hit the ground I grabbed Steve’s dog tags, said goodbye and apologized for leaving his ass out in the fucking jungle. I ran as fast as I could through the jungle towards home.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I came across a hut. I saw a guy in black pajamas outside of it with his back to me and I was sure he was VC. I was scared shitless, man. I was nineteen and used to being above the jungle, not in it. So I snuck up behind this guy, and not wanting to risk any noise, I put my hand over his mouth and slit his throat with my Ka-Bar knife, then stabbed him another hundred times out of total fear. When I flipped him over, he wasn’t a VC soldier, he was a little kid—maybe thirteen years old. Ya’ see, the dinks were small people…in the dark, I couldn’t have known. Anyway, that kid’s eyes were wide open. So was his mouth. And he was just staring at me, like he was asking me why I killed him.”
“Shit,” said Earl quietly.
“Yeah. Shit. I started running again. Running and crying for hours. It’s a wonder I didn’t step on a mine or trigger a booby trap or attract a whole fucking company of gooks. But somehow, for some stupid reason, I made it back to our base. And then that kid started visiting me every night just like your two friends.”
Earl just sat staring at him, glossy eyed. “How long did it last?”
“Only about twenty years,” said Mackey, watching Earl’s face fall. “But it doesn’t have to be that way for you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, twenty years after I came home, I was still seeing that kid every night. I eventually did what I should have done twenty years earlier and went to a shrink about my ‘post traumatic stress disorder,’ as she called it.”
Earl just sat listening, hopeful that something Mackey would say could save his soul.
Mackey cleared his throat. “Anyway, I told her the whole story—not just the Reader’s Digest version you just got. Then she asked me the damndest thing.”
“What was that?” asked Earl.
“She asked me if I ever apologized to him.” He let that hang in the air for a while. “See, I knew I didn’t mean to kill him, it was an accident. But I felt that guilt for twenty years and it almost wasted me, man. So anyway, a few nights later, the kid was back in my nightmare—except this time, I apologized.”
Earl could feel tears running down his face again and didn’t bother wiping them. “So what happened?” he managed to choke out.
“I apologized and the kid understood. And after that, he never came back. I was a free man. Anyway—you might try it. When those kids come back to visit you—you talk to them. Tell ‘em it was an accident. Apologize to them; make friends with them—something. You gotta’ find some peace with it, Earl, and let it go. And if you can’t, you have to tell me and I will send you someplace to get some help. Don’t do what I did and let it eat you up inside for twenty years, okay?”
Earl shook his head yes and wiped his face. Mackey smacked him on the back. “Now go get some sleep. The only easy day was yesterday.” He smiled, and Earl smiled back, some of the stress having left his face. He stood up and started walking over to the raft.
“Hey, Mack,” he called out quietly. Mackey turned to him. “Thanks, man.”
Chapter 13
Sunrise in the Glades
Mackey had finally fallen asleep around three, and three hours later, the sounds of the Everglades began waking him back up again. The birds were screaming bloody murder from every direction, and bugs where buzzing all around in giant annoying clouds. Hodges was sitting by the fire making coffee for everyone. He looked at his watch and sang out.
“Okay ladies! It’s oh-six hundred! Coffee is made but you’ll have to find your own doughnuts!”
The team was groaning from the rafts, each man trying to untangle himself from his mosquito net and stand up. As they stood up, Santos laughed.
“Yo! Jonesy! Shake and bake, baby!” yelled Santos.
Mackey was groggy, but realized that Earl was still fast asleep. Maybe he had finally gotten a few real hours of peace. Mackey smiled to himself and stood up stretching his aching back.
Jones woke up and looked around, totally confused at first. And then, for the first time since Saudi, he smiled his warm relaxed grin that always made everyone around him smile. He looked over at Mackey and mouthed, “thank you”.
Cascaes was up and grabbing coffee as the team packed up their nets and reorganized themselves. Most of them found a moment of privacy in the bushes for their personal business.
Cascaes popped the computer on and checked to see their new waypoint. Much to his surprise, the computer screen came up reading “Training mission aborted. Contact base immediately.”
“Holy shit, coach. Something’s up.” He showed the screen to Mackey.
Mackey sighed. “Never a dull moment.” He unpacked the satellite phone and set up the encrypted call to Dex Murphy. Murphy answered immediately.
“Manager, this is the coach. Got a funny message this mor
ning—what’s up?”
“Nothing funny about it. Where are you?”
“In the middle of the fucking swamp where you put me, what the hell’s going on?”
“I mean exactly, where are you?”
Mackey relayed the question to Cascaes, who plotted their location and read off the coordinates to Mackey, who relayed them back to Dex. Dex mumbled a “shit” when he saw where they were on his map.
“Alright, get back on the river and move as fast as you can downstream. I will try and arrange your pickup and bring you back up here.”
“Does that mean that McKnight didn’t have much luck in Paraguay?” asked Mackey.
“Mack—McKnight is dead, along with his entire staff. So are the Mexican and Brazilian Ambassadors, along with a few hundred civilians. Paraguay TV is saying that they received a call from Al Qaeda claiming responsibility, and promising more attacks if America doesn’t get out of Iraq and Afghanistan. The president has authorized Plan B. That’s you. I need you back in Langley, ASAP. If you hustle downstream, we can get a seaplane to pick you up and bring you directly here. Turn on your emergency homing beacon and we’ll track you from here as you move west. We’ll be in touch as soon as a plane is en route. Over and out.”
Mackey activated the homing beacon. In an instant, their little handheld computer was bouncing signals off of a satellite directly to CIA’s main computer system. Handlers inside the agency could track their every move while sitting in Virginia.
Into the Jungle Page 5