The Unending Chase

by Cap Daniels

  The computer screen came to life, and Leo went to work typing lines of instructions. The screen soon filled with the face of a goddess. Ginger was probably around thirty years old, with the greenest eyes I’d ever seen, and locks of flowing red hair, over which she visibly had no control.

  “Hey, Leo. Where’s my little cabana boy?”

  “Hello, Ginger. Meet Pretty Boy and Baby Face.”

  Clark and I leaned in to face the screen, neither of us having any idea if the gorgeous redhead could actually see us.

  “Pretty Boy and Baby Face . . . really?” she said.

  “They probably have names,” Leo said, “but who cares?”

  “It’s nice to meet you guys. I’m Ginger. In case Leo hasn’t told you—and he’s probably not told you much of anything—I’ll be your analyst for this mission. I’ll debrief that sexy little devil when it’s all over, and we’ll decide what to do from there. Sound good?”

  “Sure. It sounds good to me,” I said. “But I have some questions.”

  Ginger smiled. “I’m sure you do, but answering your questions isn’t what I do. Your boat will be off Isla San Jose in thirty-six hours. Tell that beautiful little man to keep himself alive, and don’t you dare let anything happen to him.”

  The screen went black, and Ginger was gone.

  I’d never worked with an analyst before, so I had a lot to learn about what she would and wouldn’t do for us. I had a pretty good idea that the list of things she wouldn’t do for Diablo was quite short.

  Trying to think tactically, I said, “Let’s plan for two-hour watches. That’ll give each of us four hours of sleep.”

  Leo laughed uproariously. “You boys can stand watch if you want, but there won’t be so much as a mosquito getting anywhere near this chopper as long as Diablo’s out there. If he don’t kill it, he’ll scare it away no matter how big or bad it is. I’m gettin’ eight hours of quality sleep, and you two can do whatever the hell you want as long as you don’t keep me awake.”

  So much for my tactical thinking.

  Clark finally spoke. “Don’t feel bad, Chase. I have no idea what’s going on, either. I would’ve set a watch, too.”

  “Thank God. I was beginning to think I’d entered the twilight zone.”

  “No, I don’t think this is the twilight zone. I think it may be more like the temperate zone, but either way, I’m in favor of a good night’s sleep. You heard the woman. Our boat’s going to be here in thirty-six hours. I suspect things are going to get pretty exciting soon.”

  We settled in for our first night in the Panamanian jungle.

  9

  Bulls on the Hill

  Dawn broke over the Panamanian coastline, and the smell of a fire lured me from my sleep. I’d spent the night on the floor of the helicopter on top of a sleeping bag and beneath a mosquito net. Leo had been wrong about Diablo protecting us from the mosquitoes, and the net hadn’t worked. Tiny bug bites dotted my skin, but such is life in the tropics.

  As it turned out, the fire was the product of Diablo de Agua. He was cooking fish over the coals of a small fire near the edge of the clearing. He was barefoot, shirtless, and turning the fish over the fire with his bare hands.

  Clark, Leo, and I crawled from the Huey simultaneously, and Diablo actually smiled as he saw us approaching. We all made a visit to the tree line for a morning necessity, and then one by one, we made our way back to el fuego del Diablo. I’d always expected the devil’s fire to be bigger, and I thought the same about the devil himself.

  When I took a seat, Diablo pulled a nice-sized fish from the coals and handed it to me with a brief nod of his head. I took the fish and bounced it on my fingertips. It was too hot to hold, and Diablo laughed as he watched me fumble the fish. It either finally cooled, or I lost sensation in my fingers, and I ate every ounce of meat from the bones.

  Clark and Leo joined us, and they each had a nearly identical experience with a fish that was too hot to touch.

  Leo finally got his scalding-hot fish under control. “Do you have any feelings at all, you little freak?”

  Diablo smiled and placed his hand over his heart.

  The psychologist in me had a field day with that one, but I didn’t think I’d be getting Diablo de Agua to open up to me or anyone else anytime soon.

  He offered another fish to each of us, and we all cautiously accepted. I broke a small twig into two pieces to receive my fish. Clark opted for a flat rock as a plate, and Leo slid a flight glove onto his left hand. Again, Diablo laughed.

  With breakfast behind us and the sun turning the air into an oven, we retreated to the shade of the camo netting over the Huey.

  I’d been planning through the night, and the time had come to put my plan into action. “Ginger said our ship was thirty-six hours out last night. That’s less than twenty-four hours remaining. Tomorrow morning, the AAS Pearl will enter the canal at Panama City. We believe they’re going to sink her in either the first or second set of locks, essentially shutting down the canal. They plan to gauge our reaction to the event. Knowing how we’ll respond, and especially how long it’ll take for us to react to a catastrophic event in the canal, is an incredibly valuable piece of intelligence. Langley thinks the Chinese are planning a major attack on the canal in the next few months. Knowing what sort of response to expect gives them an invaluable tool for planning such an attack. If we don’t respond for eight, or even ten hours, that is an eternity when chaos is afoot.”

  Leo cleared his throat. “So, you guys are supposed to stop the Chinese from sinking their own ship? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “We’re going to let them do all the sinking they want, and Diablo here is going to be aboard that ship watching and listening to every move they make.”

  I looked at the ninja. “I assume you know Mandarin and Cantonese?”

  He locked eyes with me. At first, his brow was wrinkled and his mouth formed a small frown, then a look of recognition came over his face, and his eyes widened. A broad smile appeared, followed by what I took as a look of mischief. What a mysterious character he was.

  Leo had seen the look as well, but he didn’t hesitate. “How do you plan to get that little devil on board that ship?”

  Remembering Diablo’s legendary ability to get into places he didn’t belong, I turned to him. “Do you have any ideas?”

  Once again, he stared at me with a look of recognition, but he didn’t speak.

  “Look, a mission like this is hard enough when communication is good. It’s impossible if you don’t talk. I need your input.”

  “Bote de piloto.”

  I was relieved to hear him actually speak, but his idea was no good.

  “Unfortunately,” I said in Spanish, “putting you aboard the pilot boat won’t do any good. Both the ship’s captain, Chen Jianguo, and his second-in-command hold a Panama Canal Pilot’s rating, so as long as either man is on the bridge, there’s no requirement to have a canal pilot aboard.”

  Diablo hung his head. I assumed the gesture meant he was unhappy that his idea wouldn’t work, but I was wrong. He lifted his head, glanced at Leo, and then at the Huey.

  “Saltare.”

  I thought about his suggestion and remembered my first mission when I’d jumped from a helicopter onto a container ship bound for Havana. The fall wasn’t bad, but it was under different circumstances. I was leaping aboard a friendly ship making eight knots in relatively calm seas in the northern Caribbean. Diablo was talking about hopping from a Huey onto a Chinese freighter steaming at twenty-three knots through the Pacific. If we got caught, it would be an act of piracy at best. At worst, it would be a gunfight above one of the world’s largest freighters. I didn’t like either of those possible outcomes.

  I’d read volumes about the psychology of command. The Art of War by the Chinese General Sun Tzu was one of my favorites. A recurring theme through that great tactician’s bible is that all war is based on deception. If I could make Captain
Chen believe I was weak and in dire need of his aid, I could pluck the hairs from his beard while he believed I was handing him gold coins.

  “Bueno. Vas a saltar,” I said.

  “What do you mean, ‘he’ll jump’?” said Leo.

  “I mean, he’ll jump, and you’ll convince Captain Chen that you’re lost and scared and weak. Just like Sun Tzu said. When you’re strong, appear weak. We’re going to beat him with his ancestor’s own words.”

  “You’re insane,” he said.

  “Indeed, I am, but I’m also in charge. Now figure out how to talk your little friend there into teaching you enough Mandarin to talk your way out of getting shot while hovering over the deck of that ship.”

  I motioned for Clark to join me, and we headed off toward the tree line.

  “He’s right, you know. You are insane.”

  “I know,” I admitted, “but sanity and ops like this don’t go together. We have to get Diablo on the deck of that boat and then pick him back up after this is all over.”

  “Fine,” he said, “but what are we going to do once we drop the crazy little dude on that ship?”

  “We’re going to steal a boat and go for a swim.”

  Clark shook his head. “I can’t wait to hear this one.”

  “Langley thinks the Chinese may be planning to blow either the Bridge of the Americas or the Centennial Bridge after they sink the freighter.”

  “Why?” Clark’s mouth was agape as he waited for my explanation.

  “Imagine what that would do to the canal. It would shut it down for weeks at best, and most likely months. In addition to that, it would also make the sinking look more like an act of terrorism than an intentional act of self-sabotage. It’s brilliant.”

  “And insane,” he huffed.

  “When was the last time the Chinese did anything that wasn’t insane?”

  “You have a point,” he admitted, “but that’s over-the-top, even for the Chinese.”

  “I agree, but that doesn’t mean they’re not going to do it.”

  He shrugged. “So, if we find out they’re going to blow one of the bridges, what then? Do we stop them, report them, or just watch?”

  “I don’t think watching is an option, and who would we report it to? I think our only option is to try and stop them. What do you think?”

  He grinned. “I think I’m glad you’re in charge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “By the way,” he said, “my Mandarin sucks, but my Cantonese is pretty good. If you’re planning what I think you’re planning, I’m pretty sure I can convincingly pull off the role of a scared, lost Huey pilot to whoever’s on the bridge of the Pearl. They won’t see the little devil falling from the sky. But we’re going to have to do it under cover of darkness. We’ll never pull it off in the daylight.”

  “Perfect.”

  Finally, something was going right.

  “Now, all we need is a boat,” I said. “I think we need to go shopping.”

  Clark put on that mischievous, crooked smile. “I’ll ask Daddy for the keys.”

  We found Leo and Diablo huddled under a tree, practicing distress calls in a language that resembled a form of unknown Asian.

  Clark laughed. “Don’t worry, Leo. I’ll take care of the character acting if you’ll get us as close to that freighter as possible so our little devil can hop aboard. Deal?”

  “Now, that I can do,” said Leo, obviously relieved he didn’t actually need to learn a new language in twelve hours.

  “Speaking of flying, how do you feel about a little recon mission? We need to find a boat that we can”—Clark made quotation marks in the air—“borrow.”

  “That sounds like a lot more fun than learning Chinese from a mute. Let’s go.” Leo stood on shaky legs and stretched, his knees popping like firecrackers. “It’s hell gettin’ old, boys. I don’t recommend it.”

  “I’d say it beats the alternative,” I quipped.

  Leo pursed his lips. “I suppose you’ve got a point there.”

  We pulled the camo netting from the Huey and climbed aboard. We were soon climbing out of the clearing on Bona and heading north toward the southern end of the canal.

  “We’re thinking a workboat from the fuel depot on Taboguilla might be the best option,” said Clark.

  “Sure,” Leo said. “Whatever you guys think is best. But there’s a marina and anchorage with about a thousand boats at Flamenco Island. I think that might be worth a look.”

  Clark glanced at me, then back at Leo. “Hey, this is your neighborhood, Mr. Rogers. Flamenco sounds good. Let’s have a look.”

  Leo adjusted the directional gyro to agree with the magnetic compass, and lowered the nose, picking up a few more knots of airspeed. “We’ll fly over Taboguilla on the way so you can have a look, but I think you may like the selection a little further north even better.”

  We flew over the fuel depot and saw two freighters and a half dozen small working boats tied to the docks. The location was good, but I didn’t know how seriously they took their security. I certainly didn’t need to get caught stealing a boat in Panama. I snapped a mental picture of Taboguilla and planned to compare it to Flamenco.

  Leo pointed out the Flamenco Island Lighthouse and Fort Grant as we approached from the south.

  “Look at all those nice, beautiful boats anchored out there with nobody watching over them,” he said.

  “They’re ripe for the picking,” I admitted, “but how do we know which ones are unoccupied?”

  “Anchor lights,” he said as if I was supposed to know what he meant. My look of confusion must have encouraged him to continue. “If the anchor lights are on during the day, that means there’s most likely nobody aboard to turn them off and on, so the boat’s probably empty.”

  “Brilliant.” I tried to pick out anchor lights in the bright morning sun, but it wasn’t easy.

  “I know you boys don’t want to leave your fingerprints on this little shit show of yours, but you can always rent or buy a boat. There’s no chance of ending up in a Panamanian jail cell that way.”

  Clark turned to me. “Why didn’t you think of that since you’re in charge and all?”

  Leo chuckled. “Let me tell you a little story. There was this young bull standing beside an old bull on top of a hill, looking over a meadow full of cows grazing on the green grass. The young bull said to the old bull, ‘Hey, let’s run down there and have us one of those fine-looking cows.’ The old bull looked down at the bright-eyed, excited young bull, and said, ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s just walk down there and have all of them.’”

  I was getting smarter, but I still had a lot to learn. Perhaps I’d be an old bull someday.

  10

  A Bridge to Hell

  It should’ve come as no surprise that Leo, our resident old bull, knew a guy.

  “There’s a guy up in Gamboa I know who’d be glad to sell you a boat if you’ve got the cash. He likes American dollars. Have you got any of those?”

  Leo seemed to ignore the helicopter when he flew. It was almost as if the Huey was an integral part of him, and that they had some unwritten but unbreakable agreement that each would instinctively take care of the other.

  “We have a few,” I said, “but where’s Gamboa?”

  “It’s about fifteen miles up the ditch on the eastern shore. He’s not a company man, but he’s a friend of the cause. If he knows you’re with me, he’ll trust you enough to sell you a boat without too many questions.”

  “How about no questions?” I asked. “I don’t want either of our names bouncing around down here after we’re gone.”

  “Ha, so you don’t want anybody to know Pretty Boy and Baby Face were in Central America, huh?”

  “No, it’d be better if we were ghosts.”

  “Anonymity ain’t cheap in the jungle, but it can be bought if you have enough of them American greenbacks.”

  “I have the controls!” Clark declared from the left seat.
r />   Leo lifted his hands in an obvious surrender of the aircraft, and we started a high-speed dive to the left.

  With his hands full of Huey controls, Clark pointed with his chin. “Look at those two boats side-by-side just south of the ferry terminal at Snake Point.”

  I was impressed. Clark knew his Panamanian geography and a little Spanish. Punta Culebra made up the southwestern tip of Naos Island and housed the terminal for the ferry to Tobago Island.

  Just south of the point, a pair of open-deck workboats were making fifteen or twenty knots and running close enough together, that from our altitude, they looked like one boat.

  “They took on some cargo near the ferry terminal,” Clark said. “Before they got it tarped, I thought I saw explosives markings on the crates.”

  “How the hell did you see that from all the way up here?” Leo scoffed.

  “Baby Face has young eyes,” Clark quipped.

  As we drew closer, Leo said, “Those look like salvage tenders. They haul gear and personnel for the salvage crews around here. I can’t think of any reason why they’d be hauling explosives, though.”

  Two crewmen from the southernmost boat stared skyward, obviously wondering why a helicopter was diving on them. Clark must have noticed them, as well. He broke hard right and came to a hover just west of Fort Grant.

  “Let’s give them time to swallow the bait, and then we’ll see where they go.”

  Clark’s ploy worked. The two crewmen turned and nonchalantly made their way back into the pilothouse. To them, we must have appeared to be just another helicopter sightseeing tour. I didn’t know anyone who used a Huey as a sightseeing chopper, but Central America doesn’t necessarily play by the same rules as the rest of the world.

  In a nearly motionless hover, Clark banked the chopper around to the right and started a gentle climb, appearing disinterested in the workboats.

  We were anything but disinterested.

  Leo had a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes as we climbed to a thousand feet. That altitude gave us a nice vantage point to watch the boats without being too obvious.

  Leo pulled the binoculars from his face and pointed toward the bridge. “It looks like they’re headed up the canal toward Balboa.”