by Eric Meyer
The line went dead, and Nolan hung up.
“Who was it?” Carol asked.
“The kids?”
“Don’t worry, when I knew what was wrong, I sent them to bed. They didn’t like it, moaned like hell, said their grandparents didn’t send them that early.” She grinned, but the smile was forced.
“It was the guys who took John and Violet. Colombians, no question.”
“What did they want?”
“A swap. Me for the Robsons.” He showed her the coordinates. “I have to get going. They said you could come with me to bring them back.”
“Are you crazy? Not in a million years. And you’d leave the kids unguarded? Don’t even think about it!”
“What choice do I have?
“To say no.”
He sighed. “I can’t, Carol. I’ll call a cab. You’re right about the kids. They shouldn’t be left. I’ll be fine. I’ll be well armed and prepared. I reckon I can get the drop on them.”
“You’re a fool,” she said in abject exasperation. “They’ll kill you. And you haven’t even got the use of both arms. You don’t stand a chance.”
“I reckon I do. Anyway, I’ll call a cab. I’m going. John and Violet will come back in the cab.”
A half hour later, the cab arrived. He’d said goodbye to the kids, picked up his holdall, and left. Carol refused to even acknowledge him going. As they drove away, he saw her white face looking at him from the open front door. She was frozen, didn’t wave, and didn’t smile. Just stood watching. Watching him drive to his death.
Chapter Thirteen
As the cab drove through the Californian night, he reflected on his chances. He was no fool, and the veteran of countless engagements. His chances were not good. But he could still pull it off, simply because he was so skilled and experienced in this kind of undercover combat. And he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He’d hung on to the blade in his collar, just in case. He hardly noticed it was there, even if it did mean ruining otherwise perfectly good shirts by cutting a narrow slot in the collar. In the holdall, he had a selection of weapons he’d taken from a concealed compartment in the trunk of his Camaro. He’d have liked to have brought the Camaro and not relied on a taxi, but John and Violet were old and may not be in a fit state to drive the heavy muscle car home. And the Colombians had said for him to bring someone else for that purpose, so he needed to do exactly as they said to make it seem as if he’d given in. They’d be intensely suspicious, of course. But as long as he gave them no reason to start shooting, there was a chance. It was a long drive, and the time was one thirty when they reached the map coordinates he’d been given. They were on an isolated track with thick forest on either side. In the dark of the back seat of the cab, he checked his weapons. He needed no lights; part of his training was stripping and re-assembling pistols and rifles by feel alone. But the driver still heard the metallic clicks.
“What’re you up to, Buddy? I don’t want nothing illegal doing down in my cab.”
“Just checking my tools, driver. Nothing illegal, don’t worry.”
The man grunted and let it go. Nolan finished his checks, put on a pair of night vision goggles, and stepped out of the cab. As he did so, he leaned into the open driver’s windows and pulled out the keys.
“Hey, what gives?” the driver shouted angrily. Then he caught sight of Nolan, wearing his NVS goggles and cocking the lever on a MP5K, the Heckler and Koch submachine gun that was small enough to fit under a coat. “Look, no offence meant, Buddy. I’d like my keys back. I ain’t going anywhere.”
“You’ll have them back when your return fare is here. Until then, I need to make sure of their ride.”
He scouted up ahead until he’d found the most likely place where the Colombians would stop their vehicle. He planted the MP5K under a bush and walked back to the cab. He’d checked carefully with the NVS goggles, conscious that the enemy was similarly equipped, but all he’d seen was scores of trees, shaded ghostly green in the goggles. He tucked a knife in his left sock, and a small pistol, a Beretta 950 Jetfire, into his undershorts. The Beretta was a miracle of engineering; tiny, yet packing a nine shot clip. It was his best hope that it might survive a rough search undetected. Then he picked up an M4-A1. They’d expect him to come armed, and it was the kind of weapon he’d bring. No surprises. Do exactly what they thought he’d do, and he stood a chance. Then he waited. And waited. He checked his wristwatch. It was a quarter after two and no sign of them. The minutes ticked by slowly, and then he heard a noise in the distance. Just after two-thirty, and a car stopped. Through his NVS goggles he could see it was a large Chevy Suburban. The lights flashed three times. And Nolan didn’t move. The driver looked at him nervously.
“What’s going on?”
“Wait. It won’t be long.”
Five minutes drifted by. The Chevy door opened, and he saw a heavy-set man climb out. He walked a few yards towards the cab.
“We can see you, Senor Nolan. We have night vision, too,” he shouted. “You need to start walking towards us. Otherwise we will kill them.”
Nolan edged towards the thick woods at the side of the track.
“I need to know that they’re still alive. Show them to me,” he shouted back.
There was a brief pause, and he saw the green shape of the man talking to someone in the Suburban. Then he shouted a reply.
“They are not here. We left them nearby. You will never find the place. You must come to us first. Then we will take you to see them.”
Nolan cursed to himself. So it was a setup. He’d prayed the Robsons would be there so that he’d have a chance of releasing them. As they weren’t, it meant they never intended keeping up their part of the bargain. He weighed distances, looked at the features of the track that lay between him and the Suburban, and tried to work out how good their night vision gear was; certainly not as good as his Naval issue equipment. And how many men were in the vehicle? Probably another three, as the Robsons weren’t along. He was about to start forward and maneuver into a position from which he could take them, when all hell broke loose.
The first indication that something strange was happening was a dark shadow that flew overhead, like a giant bird of prey. He knew what it was instantly, a T10 free fall parachute, and standard equipment for the Navy Seals. Beneath it, a man was guiding it expertly to a gentle landing. Above it, another ‘chute floated down, and above that, another.
“Chief, keep your head down,” someone shouted.
He recognized the deep, bass tones of Will Bryce. Another voice, Talley, ordering the Platoon to lay down covering fire. Bravo Platoon had arrived. The action was fast and furious, and almost surreal as gunfire from more than a dozen Heckler and Koch 416s spat out their message of death. Nolan threw himself to the ground to stay out of the crossfire. The Colombians were returning fire, and he was in danger of getting hit by the withering fire that crisscrossed the forest track. Pieces of foliage fell onto his head, cut from the trees by the intense gunfire, and a scream came from the Colombians’ position as one of them was hit. And then the impossible happened, the Colombians fought back hard. They brought up an M60, positioning it behind their Suburban, and unseen by the Seals. A hail of 7.62mm bullets hammered out, forcing the more lightly armed parachutists to desperately dive under cover. The machine gunner had no notions of using short bursts to conserve ammunition. He fired and held his finger on the trigger, only stopping to lace on new ammunition belts. Nolan crept deeper into the trees and ran towards the Suburban. It had stopped right where he’d expected it, and more importantly, next to where he’d stashed the MP5K. There was still time to retrieve the situation before the Platoon was forced to bring to bear heavier weapons. That would mean the death of the Colombians, and the death of the only lead to the whereabouts of the Robsons. As he ran, he wondered how the hell the Seals had found out where he was. There was only one answer, Carol Summers. She’d had the coordinates and times of the rendezvous. It would have been simple and str
aightforward to contact Talley. Somehow they’d managed to acquire an aircraft. Probably, Rear Admiral Drew Jacks had facilitated it and authorized the operation. He’d sure be keen to put an end to the antics of the Salazar clan. Yes, a short flight in a C-130 from San Diego, and a HALO drop would put them right on the button. Except that the unexpected M60 had endangered everything. He reached the spot and picked up the MP5K. The weapon was loaded, cocked, and ready. Only having the use of one arm meant that there was no time to play around when the bullets were firing. It was pick it up and go. Ahead of him, the machine gun had stopped firing, but only for a few seconds while they attached yet another belt of ammunition. The firing started again, the bright gun flashes lighting up the dark forest track, and in the intense stroboscopic effect, Nolan saw the enemy clearly.
One of them was on the ground, dead. Two men manned the machine gun, one firing and the other loading. And the fourth man was kneeling down, and firing short, disciplined bursts with an M-16. He had to do something before Bravo Platoon rolled over them. There were only seconds before the grenades started to fall around their position. It couldn’t happen. He had to take one of them alive. What he needed was a sniper rifle with night vision sights, not this short-barreled German built 9mm submachine gun; and a commo system so that he could liaise with the Platoon. But it was all he had. The Colombians stopped firing for a few seconds to load yet another belt. They were shouting at each other, exhilarated and obviously expecting to beat back whoever was shooting at them. So far they had no idea, and perhaps they assumed it was just Nolan and a couple of friends. Probably, they were hyped up on coke, using their own product to give them false courage. It meant they would be lax and utterly confident in their superior abilities.
They have a lesson to learn, he reflected grimly.
For most of them, the last one they’d ever need. He waited until they changed belts, and the track went dark. But he was in position. He ran out and shot the man with the M-16 from close range with a three shot burst, no more than ten feet away from him. The shooter was knocked to the ground, and Nolan ran into the center of the Colombians and the cover of the Suburban. The last thing he needed was to get hit by his own people. Both Colombians turned, their eyes wide with surprise and murderous intent.
Coke for sure.
He shot the man behind the M60 and gestured for the last man to put up his hands. That was when the grenade sailed over the Suburban and landed between them.
“Granada!”
Nolan recognized the word for ‘grenade’ in Spanish. But he was already moving. He ran forward, dragged the man down, and started rolling to the ground at the side of the vehicle. When the grenade exploded, it was as if the ground lifted, and the heavy Chevrolet bucked up and down on its springs as the rear of the vehicle was torn off in the blast. He felt a shard of steel slice into his leg, and the man he’d thrown down jumped as he was hit by more shards of hot metal. And then everything was silent, except for the ringing in his ears.
“You okay, Chief?”
He looked up at the man wearing night vision goggles. He recognized the voice, Will Bryce.
“I’m okay, but I’m not sure about this guy. Something hit him when that grenade exploded. I need him. He’s the only link to where the Robsons are being held.”
“I’ll look at him now.” He looked down, seeing Nolan’s leg with his NVS goggles.
“Jesus, Chief, you’ve been hit. Your pants’ leg is shredded, and you’re bleeding badly.”
“Forget that for now, Will. Just see to this guy. He has to tell us where the Robsons are being held.”
Bryce knelt down and inspected the casualty.
“He’s pretty bad, Chief. I don’t think he’s got long. Look, he was hit in the chest with a grenade fragment.”
“Is he conscious?”
Bryce shook his head. “Not now, and I doubt he’ll ever recover. He’s going, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Nolan looked up as a group of Seals came up to the Chevy.
“You okay?” Talley asked him.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just a scratch.” Nolan couldn’t help himself. He was angry, and there was a chance he could have handled this himself. “You severely wounded the one guy I was trying to keep alive to find out where the kids’ grandparents are being held. I had this in hand, Boss, before you brought the Platoon in to help.”
Talley looked sheepish and sounded defensive. “I’m sorry about that. When we got the word, Admiral Jacks insisted we go in and take the characters out. But just because they’re all dead, doesn’t mean there aren’t a whole heap of leads to where they’re holding your folks. Why don’t we check everything out before the recriminations start? Don’t forget, you’re alive, and these characters are dead. For your information, I doubt you could have taken them. Not four heavily armed men, even though I’m sure you had a few tricks up your sleeve. The odds weren’t in your favor, Chief.”
Nolan realized he’d been on an adrenaline high, and Talley was right. Without the Platoon, he would likely have been killed. He mumbled an apology.
“I came over too hard, Boss. Thanks for what you did. You’re right. I would probably have been killed.”
“That’s okay.” He looked up as more of the men arrived. “Zeke, would you take a look at the SUV? See if there’s anything that points us towards the hostages.”
Murray glanced at the damaged Suburban. “You mean like the satnav?”
“The what?”
“Satnav. This is a top of the range model fitted with satnav as standard. We can interrogate it and find out everywhere it’s been.”
Talley grinned. “What are you waiting for, PO1? Chief, get someone to bind that wound on your leg. It looks as if we’ll have some ground to cover if Zeke gets this satnav gadget working.”
“Sure. How did you know where I was? Carol Summers?”
“The cop, yeah. She thought you’d be a goner without help. She sure put pressure on the Admiral to get an operation moving. Some lady, that cop.”
“Yep, she is all off that.”
Will began bandaging his leg.
“How’s that casualty, any chance he’ll pull through?” Nolan asked while he was bending down to fix the dressing.
“Not now, not ever. He went a few minutes ago, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, Zeke will work some magic on that Suburban.”
“Yeah.”
But a few minutes later, Zeke Murray reported in. The news wasn’t good. “The satnav was faulty, and the useless bastards hadn’t even bothered to get it fixed. It doesn’t help us at all.”
“Anything else in the car or on the bodies, any kind of clue?”
“Nothing.”
When the leg was bandaged, he went to chat to the Platoon members who’d come to save him. They were all there, except for two, Carl Winters and Roscoe Bremmer.
“What happened to Carl?”
Will answered. The black man paused, his face sad. “I guess our guard was down, I dunno. We’d left the base and were on our way home. A shooter on a motorcycle got him.”
Nolan grimaced. “And Roscoe?”
“They were waiting for him when he got home. When he didn’t report the next morning, a couple of the boys went around to his place. There were signs of a struggle, some of the furniture was smashed, and no sign of Bremmer. We’ve no idea what happens next. Maybe they’ll make some kind of ransom demand, or maybe his body will appear on the side of some freeway, thrown out of a passing car. Who knows? But one thing I can tell you, Chief. They’ve bitten off more than they can chew. The brass is going crazy, and Admiral Jacks is having kittens. He wants these bastards taken care of, and fast.”
“That’s exactly what I was trying to do here,” Nolan replied. “I just need a lead to get back on their trail.”
“Not any more you don’t,” a voice interrupted. Talley.
“What gives, Boss?”
“Jacks contacted me, and they’ve decrypted the messages we sent to NSA. We
have the location of the Salazar place.”
“That’s great. Where is it?”
Talley shook his head. “Oh, no you don’t, not on your own. Things have moved on. This is not a simple domestic crime any more. These people present a clear and present danger to the US military. As such, an operation has been sanctioned that will finish these people for good. A full scale attack is in the planning stage.”
“What about the Governor of California?”
“No, this had become domestic terrorism, and it’s covered by the Patriot Act. It’s Federal, Chief, out of the Governor’s jurisdiction. Besides, these Colombians are protected by heavy defenses, and any local unit going in would get chewed badly.”
“When are we going in?”
Talley stared at him. “We aren’t going anywhere. You’ve been badly wounded, and you know you’re on sick leave. We’ll take care of this one.”
“I have to go in with the Platoon, Boss. My kids’ grandparents are in there. I have to get them out.”
“It’s too dangerous.” He looked at him for a few moments. “Look, maybe you could go in on a support basis. You’d be an advisor, nothing more. You’ve had more run-ins with these people, so you’d be useful. But that’s it. Don’t even think about being part of the initial assault.”
Nolan nodded. “Thanks, Boss.” He was in.
The helos came in shortly after and ferried them back to Coronado. The NCIS sent in a tow truck to take away the Chevrolet and remove the bodies of the Colombians. It hadn’t happened, any of it. Except that there was one loose end. Nolan was about to board the Blackhawk when he suddenly remembered the cab driver.
“Wait up, give me a couple of minutes.”
He ran along the track, limping as the pain from his injured leg tore through him. The cab driver was still where he’d left him, unable to drive away without his keys. He shivered as Nolan tapped on his window. Slowly, he wound it down.
“I brought your keys, and I need to settle the fare. How much do I owe you? There won’t be a return fare, by the way.”
