"Excuse me?" Mendez said, leaning forward.
Farbeaux stared at the picture for a moment longer and then let it fall to the table. "Last year I ran into this gentleman in an unusual situation in the American desert; I believe his name is Everett."
"Lieutenant Commander Carl Everett, of the U.S. Navy, to be more precise," Rosolo insisted. "I was unable to uncover his current duties or station, but it is a matter of closed naval records that he was once a SEAL, and a highly decorated one," he said, watching the tall Frenchman closely.
"I believe he is on detached service from the military. He works for what is best described as a think tank. The military is where the organization gets all of its security people, and they only surround themselves with the best." He turned his eyes toward Rosolo. "And you, watchdog, if you truly knew anything about the special operations units of the American navy, you would know that a man is never a former SEAL, he is a SEAL."
"Regardless of semantics, this is upsetting at the very least, is it not, Henri?" Mendez asked as he brought out more pictures and shoved them toward Farbeaux.
"These were taken at a national park in Montana. Do you recognize any of these people?" Rosolo probed.
Farbeaux looked the four photos over. They were grainy and taken from a distance with a telephoto lens through the glass windows of a vehicle.
"I have never seen these two before," he said. His eyes lingered on the close-up of Mendenhall. "But this one here," he slid a photo of the black sergeant back toward Mendez, "may work with the SEAL, Everett."
"Then the puzzle fits together. Our friend Senor Rosolo overheard a conversation Everett had with a second party on a secured and scrambled phone, that these people would be in Montana searching for the map of Padilla. To make a long story short, Rosolo attempted to stop them from recovering something that would lead them here and, I am sorry to say, he failed miserably, only managing to kill two federal park employees. And he was still unable to recover or destroy the map." Mendez's eyes looked directly at his assassin.
"They found the map?"
"We must assume they have, and they will undoubtedly act upon it," Mendez said, slapping his hand on the tabletop angrily.
"The organization in question is rather tenacious when it comes to getting at the heart of any matter. I have learned through experience that their resources are astounding and their pockets very deep, even deeper than yours."
"Well, they seem to be everything you admire about them. I came very close to ordering a hit on your ex-wife and their big man in New Orleans. But what sense would there be in closing the gate after your dog has already run away?"
Farbeaux closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He slowly pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.
"I will state this very clearly to both of you. No one is to ever lay a hand on Danielle. Do I make myself clearly understood?" His blue eyes never flinched. His gaze froze Rosolo, after the killer had quickly rose from his seat to stare at Farbeaux after his not-so-veiled threat to his boss.
"Is that so?" Mendez asked.
Farbeaux leaned back in his chair. "It is I who will end her life, not you, and most certainly not him," he said, nodding toward Rosolo.
"Let us hope it is after this excursion, so you may be allowed to take your time with this troublesome woman, which is a husband's right, yes?" Mendez said, trying to break the tension he had created.
"If I know these people, they may already be on their way here. Of course, your security chief here would know that, if he would have stayed and done the job you pay him for, instead of showing up here in the one place on this planet where he is clearly not needed."
"It will take those people weeks to gather the means to follow us here. They will not be coming anytime soon!" Rosolo argued. "And I go where I am told to go, and I was told to come here."
Farbeaux lightly shook his head. Then he felt the gentle vibration under his feet first, as it traveled all the way up to his arms long before the sound reached his ears. He saw the concerned looks on the faces of the two Colombians. It would have been comical if he himself didn't have so much riding on the line.
"You'd better tell the captain to throttle this boat into a faster speed and get this expedition to our destination, because we are about to have company. A lot of company," Farbeaux said, standing. "And if I were you," he added, looking at Mendez, "I would fire this fool for incompetence, because the people he pronounced so proudly weren't coming anytime soon have just arrived." The Frenchman looked skyward and then easily backed under the bridge decking and out of sight.
Captain Santos, to his credit (or the instincts needed by a smuggler and gunrunner), quickly maneuvered the large boat under the overhanging canopy and expertly sliced the bow into the mud, effectively bringing the boat to a harsh stop and hiding her at the same time from any eyes that could spy them from above.
The quiet river was rocked by the sound of helicopters as they flew high overhead. Through the thick trees that crowded the riverbank, Farbeaux could see cargo of some kind hanging from cables attached to the gray-colored choppers. As he watched, he could see the words united states marine corps stenciled in darker gray paint on their rotor booms. The eleven helicopters were followed by two strange-looking craft that screeched over the flowing Amazon. The MV-22 Ospreys shook the jungle as they roared past with their famed tilt rotors in the three-quarter position that supplied them with speed greater than that of any helicopter in the world. The Frenchman noticed the fact that they were traveling low to the ground, possibly meaning they had to stay below radar. Indicating the intruders might not have official clearance to be in Brazil.
But nonetheless, the Event Group was indeed here, and Henri Farbeaux helplessly watched their arrival from the shadows.
EVENT CENTER, NELLIS AFB, NEVADA
Niles and Alice had just received notice of the Group's arrival near the Black River Tributary. The director was talking with the president while Alice listened and took notes. Niles's other assistants were busy in the communications center, monitoring radio traffic for as long as they could before the expedition went in to radio-dark territory. Director Compton was in the process, along with Pete Golding and the computer center and Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena, California, to retask Boris and Natasha, and once that was done the satellite would have been moved farther south by a thousand miles to a place directly over the lagoon and valley. After it had been found, they not only hoped for satellite communication with the Amazon team, but also they thought it possible to get a video feed from Jack.
"Niles," the president said, "the intelligence chiefs of the three branches are gathering what information they can find. But no one has a clue as to why Kennedy and his men would have been on that boat. The consensus is that they were working outside the command of the navy and air force, possibly freelance. I made inquiries with the FBI. They say they have verified there was gunfire at the cemetery and that there was damage sustained to some of the monuments, but there were no bodies."
"With your permission, sir, I would like to start working on this and the Kennedy connection myself, if you concur, of course."
"Granted. Someone somewhere thinks they can do as they please around here. Find out who it is. Now, tell me about the progress of the rescue team."
"We now have competent people in the field and moving upriver, Mr. President. I believe we will know more this time tomorrow. Major Collins knows what the priorities are in this situation. I briefed him about your daughter." Niles paused. "Jack will get those kids home. And maybe it will work out for the best that her expedition was tagged by those SEALs, for whatever reason they were there. I can't see them allowing harm to come to innocents."
"Agreed," the president said. "You keep me informed on what's happening out there when you can." He hesitated. "Something far more precious than gold or prehistoric animals is at stake for me here." He cleared his throat. "I have the coordinates where Proteus will be passing by the site. Damn, they have to b
e inside Brazilian airspace for a long time. I hope they're not tracked as something other than a commercial airline."
"That's a chance we have to take. Proteus is Jack's only backup in case the school bully shows up."
"I just don't think we can protect her over the target area."
"If they run into trouble, Proteus has her fighter escort. They may be able to drive any hostiles off her until she gets out of Brazilian airspace."
The president did not respond for a moment. Then he told Niles, "If I allow a fighter escort inside Brazilian airspace right now, and if they either intentionally or accidentally fire on any attacker, it would be construed as an act of war. The president of Brazil is already giving me one hell of a hard time through the secretary of state."
Niles deflated. Now Proteus was going to be flying into hostile airspace without her needed fighter protection. The mission backup was nothing of the sort. The odds of it working were astronomical, and the odds that they could even get over the right area of jungle even greater.
"We'll talk soon, Niles. Let me know as soon as you hear anything from Major Collins, please."
Niles faced Alice. "Jack has to find Helen and those kids alive."
"You know, Niles?" She looked him straight in the eyes. "I think you should unburden yourself and tell me what has you and the president so frightened."
"How did the senator ever keep anything from you?"
"I'm waiting."
"Helen's graduate students, well, one student in particular…" Niles shook his head. "She slipped her Secret Service protection and got on that boat with Helen and the others. She's the president's eldest daughter, Kelly."
CONFLUENCE OF THE BLACK WATER TRIBUTARY AND THE AMAZON RIVER
The stern section was the last one to be lowered into place with the assistance of navy divers sent by the repair ship USS Cayuga, of the Stennis's battle group. They detached the cable and the U.S. Marine Corps Seahawk peeled away over the thick canopy of trees and circled, awaiting the order to pick up the ten navy divers.
In the water, Master Chief Jenks, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, placed the last of the joining bolts through the flanges that attached each section to the thick expandable rubber gaskets that gave Teacher the flexibility she would need to navigate the tributary. The rubber was so thick, a man alone couldn't bend it, but with Teacher's powerful water jet thrusters, the gaskets between the sections stretched as easily as pulling on a rubber band.
The technicians from the Group's Logistics department, who had been chosen for the first phase of the mission, were busy pumping out brackish water that had accumulated in Teacher's bilges during her assembly. Jenks was assisted by three men from the Engineering department for the initial firing of the two huge diesel engines. The rest of the crew was busy pulling double duty in readying Teacher for her journey. Two Seahawks had scouted as far down the Black Water Tributary as they could before they had lost sight of the river as it fell under the thick canopy of trees. One of the pilots had thought he had spied something under the canopy, but upon closer inspection nothing was visible when they passed again over the Rio Madonna ten miles back. The marine choppers pushed as far forward as fifty miles before their fuel state dictated that they needed to return to the rendezvous.
Sarah and Jack unstrapped equipment in the research labs while Carl and Danielle assisted Professors Ellenshaw and Nathan as they filled the immense tank that would hopefully hold live specimens. Mendenhall was with the rest of the security team, consisting of Corporal Henry Sanchez, Lance Corporal Shaw, Spec 5 Jackson, army specialist Walter Lebowitz, and army sergeant Larry Ito. They were carefully charging the batteries of the small two-man submersible and filling the Teacher's fuel bunkers with diesel from two five-hundred-gallon rubber bladders a third MV-22 Osprey had settled easily upon the riverbank. The rest of the crew was made up of fifteen lab assistants whose department heads were Virginia Pollock, Dr. Heidi Rodriguez, Dr. Allison Waltrip, head surgeon of the Event Group, and Professor Keating of the Anthropology team. The assistants loaded the supplies of food, water, and other essentials for their journey.
Jenks placed the last expandable bolt and torque-wrenched it down. Then he tossed the tool to the frogman who was standing atop the gracefully rounded stern, just above the boat's emblem that was painted on both sides of the fantail. The beautiful woman's eye, set in green against the white hull, stood out starkly on the green-tinted river. With everything but the firing of the engines complete, the frogman called in the last of the Seahawks to pick up the remaining men that would return to the Stennis battle group. A few villagers from Rio Feliz gathered and were quite excited to see helicopters hovering and flying about, a rare sight for many of them. But by far the item to draw the largest group of onlookers was Teacher herself. She sat anchored to the shore of the Amazon, her gleaming white hull shining in the bright sun, the tinted widows of her forward pilothouse sparkling. The villagers had never before seen a craft whose upper bow was glass enclosed as Teacher's was. They could see figures moving inside and were amazed by the amount of people that would occupy the boat. Jack had ordered gifts of candy bars and a few medical supplies to be handed out to the village elders as a goodwill gesture for the disturbance the Americans were causing to the small outpost of families.
Jenks watched as the last of the frogmen were lifted away. A single Sea-hawk would patrol in a circular pattern until Teacher was well underway. The master chief climbed a ladder in section five, amidships of the 120-foot craft, and observed a three-man team from the Computer Center hook up the last of the communications gear. He had been impressed by the breadth and quality of everything Toad Everett had brought in. He didn't know who exactly these people were, but you only had to explain to them one time how to do something and after that it was assholes and elbows. He was satisfied amidships as he looked up and saw that the radar array had started its sweeps atop the forty-foot three-span main masts that swept back at a streamlined and aerodynamic angle toward the stern.
"Hell of a design you have here, Chief," said Tommy Stiles, one of Pete Golding's wunderkinds of the Computer Center who had joined the Group two years before, after having been a tech aboard the Aegis missile cruiser USS Yorktown. Stiles would be serving as Teacher's radar and communications technician. Another man, Charles Ray Jackson, would serve as her sonar and underwater detection tech. He came to the Event Group via the "Silent Service," having served his last year aboard USS Seawolf. He nodded his agreement that it was a great boat, at least in appearance.
"Yeah? Well, it just tweaks my fucking ass and gives me goose bumps all over that I could please you two candy asses," Jenks said as he opened the upper aluminum hatch and started down the steps. "Goddamned surface navy and pigboat swabs, what in the hell do you know about anything?" he mumbled with the cigar clamped in his teeth.
Stiles looked over at Jackson, who was winding the excess coaxial cable into a roll for storage. Jackson shrugged. "Just like old times," he said.
"Do all master chiefs have to take a course on how to be the biggest prick in the navy?"
"Nah, they're born that way," Jackson answered.
* * *
Jenks stood by the pilot's chair and stared at his lighted and totally digital control console. The joystick on the chair's left arm was a total departure as a way of maneuvering the boat. She was operated by input signal to the main computer, which interpreted what the pilot was ordering and fired the appropriate electrical motors that operated the water jets at the stern of the boat, thus eliminating the need for cables and hydraulics. The system was known worldwide as "Fly by Wire." Jenks glanced at Jack. They were both sweating profusely; the enclosed areas of Teacher were sweltering due to the lack of air-conditioning while the main power was offline.
"Well, I guess we'd better see if this fuckin' thing will even start," said Jenks. "Or we'll begin this little trip treating everyone for heatstroke, huh, Major?"
"Would be nice to know if she works, Chief," Jack said blan
dly.
"Of course she'll work, goddammit! What would an army major know about it, anyway? What the fuck was I thinking even asking a ground pounder?" Jenks slipped into the pilot's seat. "Are you ready back there?" he asked as soon as he had his headphones in place.
"All set," Mendenhall answered nervously. He had been tagged as the mechanical assistant on this little safari; he and the other members of the security team were doubling as motormen, much to the master chief's chagrin. An engine start-up warning tone sounded over the boat's intercom system from the engineering section in the last compartment of the boat.
"Toad, are you there?" Jenks asked.
"Here," Carl answered through his com system.
"Good. If those engines don't start, bash that big black sergeant in the head with that fire extinguisher; he's the one that hooked up the starter."
"Bash head, got it, Chief," Everett said, grinning at a scowling Mendenhall.
"Okay." Jenks reached over and uncapped a clear plastic cover over a red button that had a computer-generated glowing word: start. "Here we go," he said as he pushed the button and clamped down even harder on his cigar.
Suddenly there was a deep rumble throughout Teacher as the twin diesels fired up. The digital gauges and controls were illuminated blue and green, and the tachometer read that the engines were idling at an even one thousand rpms. Red gauges showed the critical areas of the boat's function, such as engine status, fuel, temperature in each section of the boat with hatch status, and ballast. The blue and green noncritical areas, such as battery state, amperage, speed indication, water depth, and river width, flared to life, the main computer generating their ever-changing numbers and gauges. A large display in the center console allowed the pilot to see a virtual computer-generated display of the area directly to the front of the boat; with a flip of the switch, it could change to a split-screen version that showed all sides including the stern, even underwater. Sensors and a sonar device automatically and constantly relayed signals that the computer interpreted, to generate an ever adjusting image of Teacher's surroundings.
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