by J E Higgins
“My concern is with the ship we’ve been tracking, the Juan Carlo. Your last report, before we shut down the Mexico office, was that it was out of the Panama Canal and beginning to sail around Colombia,” she began.
“Yes,” he replied, “It had exited the Panama Canal into the Pacific.”
“That was three days ago. Where is it now?”
“Hold on,” Ketchum said. While Darson waited, she heard the sound of typing. “The ship is moving along the coast of Peru.”
“Is it moving into territorial waters yet?” she asked.
“No,” came a curt reply from the young man. “It’s remained well outside in international space.”
Darson’s eyes shifted nervously. What she heard could have several interpretations. “Since the last report, has this ship come into contact with any other vessel?”
There was another pause on his end, “I have to check different reports, hold on.”
When routinely tracking ships, like cargo or cruise vessels moving at sea, law enforcement agencies found it easier to use commercial satellite tracking capabilities available online. It was often easier than going to the government services of the National Security Agency or the Defense Intelligence Agency, though inclined to help from time to time, had their own priorities that made working with them sometimes difficult.
“Yes,” he said triumphantly. “Luckily I copied some of the images for my reports. It looks like two days ago, the ship came in close contact with another ship traveling in the same direction. It’s a ship called the Fighting Sailor. It looks like at one point it came unusually close for no apparent reason and stayed that way for about three hours and then broke away.”
Darson’s eyes widened, “This ship you just mentioned, The Fighting Sailor. Where is it right now?”
“Hold on,” Ketchum was heard typing again. “Ah! This one, as I said before, is headed south too. But this one is actually headed for a port in Peru. It entered Peruvian waters a couple of hours ago.”
“Holy shit!” Darson exclaimed, “What port?”
“Well,” he went on, “It appears to be landing at the port of Ilo. It’s a port that’s in Peru but is used by the Bolivians to gain access to the Pacific. It looks like it’s due to dock within the next few hours.”
“Thanks,” she said, cutting Ketchum off in mid-sentence and ending the call abruptly. Pivoting on her heels she darted back to the stairs.
Zaid Saverine looked up at the rays of sun emerging along the lines of the mountains as he listened to the incoming radio traffic. He had just lit a coffee colored Fuma cigar with his gold lighter. He looked down at the display of sophisticated equipment set up in front of him. A quick scan of the computer systems told him what he needed to know. His gaze then shifted toward the long dirt path that was to be used as the runway. He gave it another quick once over to ensure that nothing had been overlooked. It was good.
Taking a drag from his cigar he exhaled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke while he pulled his coat closer to his body to protect him against the evening chill. He hated these moments ─ the waiting, the feeling of vulnerability. Though a former Air Force Combat Controller who had expertly guided numerous aircraft landings in highly dangerous locations, the tense feeling had never left him. In a way, he hoped it never would. It kept him sharp when he needed to be.
A few days after the meeting with his controller, Saverine was contacted for another meeting. In the same bar, the mysterious woman explained to him that the target was on the cargo ship The Fighting Sailor. Which docking at the Peruvian town of Ilo. This would be happening in the next three days.
With the way things were, he had very short notice regarding the location. While his prime instinct was to walk, he also realized that walking off too many jobs after being paid a large sum of money was not good for business or future prospects. Employers with deep pockets tended to have a lot of powerful connections that could get him hired or lose him business down the road. If he was going to walk, he’d better have a damn good reason to do so.
Studying several aerial photographs of the town and port, together with the information he found on the internet, Saverine determined that between the layout of the port and the training his men had done in preparation for an assault could work provided they moved quickly enough. Thankfully, he had several good connections in the region who could facilitate the necessary support very quickly. It wouldn’t be the highly professional job he wanted it to be but, if not successful, it would at least be a good enough attempt to placate his employer.
In the distance, he could hear the faint hum of an incoming plane. The radio he was using to communicate crackled as he heard a man’s voice explain that he was in the vicinity of the landing strip and needed to be guided in. He was flying at a low altitude to avoid being picked up by radar. Having taken off in the dusk hours from a remote airstrip just over the border in Ecuador, he had illegally crossed into Peru. He had flown all night under the cover of darkness on a flight path that steered them through the most remote parts of the country.
Taking his position, Saverine began directing the plane. It was surprising that his friends were able to drum up good, portable navigation equipment. Granted it was a little antiquated, dating back to the late nineties, but it was still getting the job done. With his skillful control, he monitored the computer systems as he directed the plane toward the strip.
Within a short time, a large Ilyushin ll-78 Russian military cargo plane came within sight. It was flying low and skirting the jagged Andean peaks. Saverine quickly glanced at the runway to ensure the red glowing lanterns placed along the edges were all in working order. He wasn’t sure why he did this. His man, Rocko, was diligently racing up and down the runway to guarantee that all was well and making sure there were no last-minute obstacles to be concerned about. It was a great benefit that central Peru was largely dry desert and contained numerous flat plains that could be used for runways.
Gradually the noise of the mammoth plane became louder as it began its descent. The pilot, who spoke in a sing-song voice, explained his actions every step of the way, while Saverine relayed instructions based on the readings from his navigational equipment.
The wheels touched the ground at the far end of the runway eliciting a loud dragging noise as it tried to slow down. Gradually, the roaring became louder as the massive plane rapidly neared. In no time, the heat from the turbines was sending bursts of warm air around Saverine’s work station as the plane taxied to his position.
Rocko deplaned and shuffled up to the station. His round belly jiggled in rhythm with every step he took. “Plane landed pretty good boss,” he offered.
“Good,” Saverine replied, “You can bring up the trucks now.”
The big-bellied man nodded and quickly waddled into the darkness. The plane slowly flipped around until it was facing back the way it had come kicking up a massive whirlwind of dust and pebbles that lasted only a few seconds before coming to a complete halt. In the illumination of the rising sun, it was a welcome sight.
Flipping a switch at his work station, Saverine turned on a row of floodlights positioned off to the side. The door at the rear of the plane began to lower. A few minutes later he heard someone shouting in Spanish. Shortly after that, shadows began moving from the rear of the plane onto the ground. The shadows made their way to where the floodlights were in two parallel rows.
Rising from his work station, Saverine walked toward the figure marching just ahead of the group. Estevan Guerrero, his old friend, looked like he had just completed a long journey over the mountains. Coming to within a few feet of each other, Saverine opened the greetings, “All went well with the move?” He shouted over the roar of the plane’s turbines.
“It went smoothly enough,” Guerrero answered, nodding his head as he looked back at his approaching men.
“I have trucks ready just over there,” Saverine pointed with his thumb to the berm just behind him.
Guerrero turned back toward
his men, waving his arm to direct them to continue to where his boss had pointed. The men stepped out in silence as they hurried over the berm.
“Did you get a look at the specs I sent you?” Saverine continued.
“I did,” Guerrero replied. “For the amount of time that we’ve had to put this together, it’s not the worst plan. Still, my honest opinion is that we should have fucking walked on this one. We’re flying blind. We’re idiots looking for trouble.”
“I know,” Saverine responded. “And, I agree, this is amateur cowboy shit at best, and my professional instincts say we should walk away. But we took their money, and they’ve paid very well. We both know what it would look like if we bailed in the middle.”
Guerrero spit a large ball of saliva onto the ground. “It’s not like we’re cheating them,” he said almost bitterly. “This operation is so important to them and yet they’ve given us shit for information, and they’ve delivered it late enough that it does us no real good. They’re treating us like cannon fodder.”
Saverine took a puff of his cigar, “That’s why we’re not taking any more risk than needed. We go in take a decent shot. If things work out and we succeed, great. If shit goes bad because the enemy turns out to be worse than we were told then we fall back and get out. At that point, we’ve fulfilled the contract as good as I’m inclined to try. They can kiss my ass after that.”
“I guess that will work,” Guerrero said reluctantly. “Do we have everything we’ll need?”
Saverine shrugged, “I’ve good contacts in the black market but with the short timetable I’ve sprung on them, I’m not sure what all they’ve been able to arrange. And, unlike how I normally prefer to operate, I haven’t had a chance to see all the goods personally and account for them. Fortunately, I’ve had success arranging the airstrip in a relatively decent location, and I’ve arranged for trucks that will take us to Matarani on the coast. There, just north of the port, we should have high-powered speed boats waiting for us with the rest of our equipment.
“But, I haven’t seen them yet and have had no confirmation they’re in place. If they’re there, we ride them along the coastline in pairs of two to avoid suspicion. Ilo is about a hundred or so miles south. It’s a day-long journey, and we should arrive just in time to catch our target coming into port. If all goes well, we hit ’em, then ride back up the coastline and come back here where the plane will take us all back across the border…a cinch.”
“Sounds so simple,” Guerrero was sarcastic. Both men knew that this whole thing was too much wishful thinking. The day was just beginning and their target, whom they knew next to nothing about, was set to dock in the late hours in a port they’d never actually been to and was a hundred miles away.
With nothing more to be said, the two men followed the rest of the mercenaries over the berm to where Rocko was waiting with a convoy of pickup trucks. The mercenaries had all come dressed in civilian attire─blue-jeans and T-shirts─and a few days of facial growth. Once they had hidden their packs and gear under canvass covers, they looked like ordinary farm hands and ranchers coming in from the field. Saverine figured they would be less conspicuous traveling in small groups in a loose string of pickup trucks rather than in larger cargo trucks that might spark attention from police or inquisitive busybodies.
With the trucks now loaded, Rocko set out like a traffic cop as he began sending the vehicles off in groups of two and three in ten-minute intervals. The drivers were familiar with the area and where they needed to go. Moving in smaller groups looked more natural and was easier to control than a lengthy convoy.
Saverine took the lead truck, needing to reach the staging site first to ensure everything was ready for the next phase of the mission. Guerrero was in the last vehicle with Rocko in case there was any difficulty along the way. The sun was emerging over the mountain range to the east bringing daylight transforming the landscape from dark outlines to clear visuals. Looking at a map he had found on the passenger seat, Guerrero saw that their landing site was just short of eighty miles from their destination. More and more he was beginning to regret signing on for this operation.
Chapter 28
The onset of the night had seemingly come faster than usual. At least that’s how it felt to Crane as he and his men carefully set about launching their boats into the water. Dressed in dark black fatigues and matching balaclavas, the mercenaries looked like modern versions of Japanese ninjas.
Crane and his men were about to suit up in their tactical gear. The final weapons checks were made, and optical equipment tested one last time. Their ammunition was wrapped tightly in plastic to protect it from the corrosive effects of the salt water. Broken from the packaging, the belts of hollow points were loaded into their drums and packed into plastic garbage bags to be deployed quickly during a gunfight but still protected from the spray of salt water.
There had been serious consideration given to bringing IA2 rifles and Glock pistols along for the mission. However, after a review of the plan, Mulgrane brought up the fact that they would be a cumbersome addition that had no practical use. Instead, the decision was to use Minimi machine guns which could lay down heavy volumes of fire and would be more helpful in the running gunfight they envisioned.
The plan called for Crane, and most of the team to move down the coast in the motor boats. Meanwhile, Ramon Espinoza and Pedro Sandoval would go on ahead in a small fishing boat and tie up along the wharf. As the plan went, Crane and the rest of the team would attack from the sea, hitting Gutiérrez and his men during their transition from the cargo ship to land where they figured he would be the most vulnerable. In the event that Crane and his men were discovered early, the two Spaniards would lay down suppressive fire covering the assault. After that, they would focus their efforts on Baez and the security detail awaiting on land in case they tried to get involved.
Crane looked at his watch. The fluorescent green markings on the timetable read 2200 hours. Espinoza and Sandoval had taken off an hour ago to stage and provide a mobile observation post. Motor boats waiting out in the water with no lights on would raise suspicion, especially, if there was an advance team patrolling the area. That Baez and his ground force would very likely be lurking around was not lost on anyone.
The last of the boats dropped into the water. As a precaution the staging point had been an inlet a short distance north of the Ilo port, close to the public beach and also close enough that they wouldn’t be noticed by someone scanning the coastline from a ship. The prime concern, at this point, was that they would be discovered by an annoying beachgoer wandering around and stumbling onto them, or worse, some cop rolling by on a random patrol route.
They had hoped to find in their previous recces of the area someplace more discreet to stage from. Unfortunately, the only places that met their needs were too far away to be practical. The saving grace to their situation was that by staging during the late hours, the police in town generally kept their focus on the residential areas and downtown hot spots.
Their equipment had been pre-loaded earlier that day when the sun was out, and everything could be inventoried and accounted for. Experience taught them that trying to load and prepare in pitch darkness always led to problems. With the boats now in the water, the mercenaries finished suiting up, strapping their rifles across their chests as they gathered around their leader.
Standing in the center of the group, Crane began to speak. “Alright lads, this is it. This is what we’ve all been working up to the last few months…this night.” He looked around at the darkened faces surrounding him. Though their faces were not entirely visible, he could still make out the stone-cold looks of serious men listening to him.
“We’re just waiting on the call from our observer team to let us know when our ship is coming in, then we’re moving out. Remember, we come in behind them and at all times we keep to the open waters. We’ve all been around that port so we know how easy it can be to get boxed in and trapped. As it stands, we only have a ro
ugh idea of how many we’ll be up against and what firepower we can expect to encounter when this all goes hot.
“If things go south, we need to disengage and get the hell out of there!” He sighed before continuing. “I also want to remind you that we won’t have good visual on our target. We only know that he’ll be part of this group coming off the ship. He could be any one of those guys we’re about to engage. That means we have to kill them all or as many as possible and hope we get him.”
A chorus of grunting was heard from the group as they nodded in agreement. Crane took another deep breath and exhaled. It was all just a waiting game at this point. Suddenly, his cell phone began to vibrate. He retrieved it from his pocket and placed it to his ear.
“Devon,” Ramon Espinoza began, “We have a visual, the ship is coming in.”
“Are you sure it’s ours?” Crane questioned as his eyes lit up.
“The name of the ship is clearly written along the side,” Espinoza replied, with contained excitement, “Just like you figured, it’s slowed a good distance out just as it started to come in line with the port. And I’m looking through my binos and seeing them offloading to several smaller watercraft. Looks like rubber rafts are being used to reach the shore.”
“Good!” Crane added, “That means they won’t have heavy weapons just small arms.”
The Spaniard continued, “We also see a strange convoy of trucks moving onto the pier in a very suspicious way. This has to be them.”
“Then we’re moving. Get ready,” Crane commanded.
“We already are,” the Spaniard replied.
Crane ended the call and immediately turned to his men. “We’re moving!” He snapped.
The men instantly made for the boats. Trudging the short distance through the water they began piling into their crafts. Each boat would operate in two-man teams, one steering and the other engaging the enemy. Crane joined McNaulty. Kusaki and Harkness took another one. The other two boats were occupied by the two Irishmen and the two Belgians. Untying the lines that bound them to the shore, they pushed off to give them a little distance before starting their motors.
