“It looks like—“
We turned our heads at the sound of approaching sirens. A fire engine rolled up. For a few moments nothing happened and I guessed they were radioing for more appliances. Then the police arrived. Their car came in at high speed, braked sharply as it encountered our small convoy of US army vehicles, and pulled up in front. A rear door opened and a short, wide police officer got out, straightened his uniform, and walked back to us with the deliberate gait of someone prepared to enforce the law. It was never a good idea to wait in these circumstances so I lifted my helmet visor and went forward to meet him. I couldn’t tell what rank he was, but there was a lot of gold braid and stars on his jacket. He gesticulated at the fire and asked me in colourful Spanish what the hell we were doing there.
I had to shout over the roar of the fire. “We just extracted your hostages and detained two people-traffickers,” I explained patiently. “We think one of our men may have done this. He has perhaps gone a little crazy?” I made a circular motion of my forefinger at one temple. “We came to get him back.”
“No.” He stared down the street, as if our man was going to be standing there, and said, “You must leave this to us.”
“He is a citizen of the United States—”
“And he is destroying property and killing citizens of the Republic of the Honduras!”
“Sir, your government gave us permission to operate here.”
“For a hostage extraction. This is not a hostage extraction. Go home. Now.”
He said this with a flip of the hand, turned his back on me and returned to his car. No doubt he was going to call in police reinforcements, probably the army, too.
Another couple of fire engines pulled up. There were people everywhere now and the air was full of the heat and smoke and noise of the fire, heavy motors throbbing and the shouts of firemen as they unravelled hoses. A slow, grinding crash told me the roof or floors of one of the burning houses had collapsed, and seconds later a cloud of sparks rose within the smoke above the buildings. Then another crash and another cloud of sparks and smoke billowed across the road, stinging my eyes and nose. It was hard to see what the firemen could do about this at the moment beyond stopping the fire from spreading to neighbouring houses and the next street.
I rejoined Cliff Marshall and Sam Govind at the car. “They’re not going to let us take over.“
“Idiots!” Cliff said. “They have no idea what they’re up against.”
“I know. Question is, what can we do? This is their territory. They may manage to catch up with Bill Archer and they may manage to kill him, but he’s going to take out a good few of them first. I only wanted to bring him in – the guy needs help. My God.” I wiped some blown ash off my face and my hand came away black with camo paint. “How does something like this happen? One moment we’ve got a diplomatic triumph on our hands, minutes later it’s turned into the makings of a full-on international incident.”
Cliff said, “Where do you think Bill is now?”
“Not here, Cliff. This is just a distraction – he’s gone off to create havoc somewhere else. They’ll realize that sooner or later and deploy army units all over the city, looking and listening out for him.” I sighed. “Guys, I don’t know what the legal situation actually is but my gut feeling is that, diplomatically speaking, we could make things worse rather than better by trying to intervene. And if their soldiers spot our soldiers all hell could break loose. We’d better pull out. Sam, take one of the all-terrains and come with me. We’ll stick around just in case we can help. Cliff, take the rest of the guys and the gear back to the air base. Make yourselves comfortable if you can; I don’t know how long this is going to take.”
*
The men left for the air base and Sam and I drove a short distance away in the all-terrain and stopped again to decide on a strategy. The NavAid was showing a street map of Tegucigalpa. I changed the scale so that we could view the city in its geographical context.
“The question is, Sam, does Bill Archer have an exit strategy? If we can guess what it is it’ll give us a clue to where he’ll strike next.” I pointed at the screen. “There are mountains up here to the north-east and some open country to the south-west. Either one would be a good bet, but right now he only has to go a couple of ks to the east and he’ll be that much nearer the mountains.”
“He’s not acting rationally, Jim. He may not be thinking that far ahead.”
I heaved a sigh. “Well, we’ve got to position ourselves somewhere. Our only chance is if we can get to him before the local cops and army do. You got any better ideas?”
“Not really. It’s a toss-up. He may not even move that far; he could be in the next street – he could be anywhere. The first we’ll know is when we hear grenades or gunfire.”
“Decision time, Sam. Let’s take a gamble and drive a couple of ks east.”
*
Some gambles pay off, some don’t. This one didn’t.
We parked on high ground and got out of the all-terrain. Sam took his helmet off; I did the same and rubbed a hand through the sweat on my scalp. We stood there, scanning around and listening to the sounds of a city waking up: the increasing hum of traffic and honking of horns against the growing background noise of shutters and doors opening, dogs barking, and people bustling along pavements. The conflagration we’d just left seemed to have died down, marked only by a column of smoke, brown against the rising sun. Fifteen minutes went by. Half an hour. Then the sky lit up way over to the south-west. I counted off nearly twelve seconds before we heard the explosion. It was all of four ks away.
Sam pointed. “It’s down there.”
“Shit, got it badly wrong. Let’s go.” We replaced our helmets and I climbed into the driver’s seat, Sam slammed the passenger door behind him and I accelerated away.
I couldn’t keep up any sort of speed. It was already seven o’clock, the roads meandered, and on the major routes the traffic was really starting to build. Sam had restored the street map on the NavAid and he shouted detours; still we seemed to be no nearer. We kept the windows open but there was little chance of hearing much over the traffic noise. Even if we did, sound would bounce off roads and houses, so we wouldn’t know which direction it was coming from.
We went up another hill and I stopped the car to get out and listen. We could hear automatic gunfire, still some way off. Then a clattering which grew louder.
“What the hell’s that?” Govind shouted.
“Sounds to me like they’re using an old helicopter. That could speed things up for them. May also guide us in.”
We went back to the all-terrain and drove on. From time to time the sky peeped between the rows of houses and we got glimpses of the helicopter cruising back and forth, training a searchlight. Then it began to hover. We figured we must be getting near. Now nothing could conceal the sounds: more grenades, automatic fire from a lot of weapons. We reached an army roadblock with barriers across the street and two armed soldiers. I stopped the all-terrain and they levelled their automatic rifles at us. We got out slowly, hands held high, and I shouted to them in Spanish.
“I am Colonel Jim Slater of the United States Special Forces and this is Captain Sam Govind. It is one of our men in there. Maybe I can speak to him, get him to turn himself in.”
Two pairs of eyes drilled into me. They said nothing. The rifles were still levelled. Had they understood? Surely my Spanish wasn’t that bad? They probably understood English, so I tried that.
“Come on, guys, we’re unarmed. We may be able to help. It sure won’t do any harm. One of you can come with us.”
They moved together, exchanging words out of the sides of their mouths without taking their eyes – or weapons – off us. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the rattle of the gunfire and the clatter of the helicopter. The muzzles of the rifles dropped a little. One shouted back at us, “A police negotiator tried already. All he got was bullets.”
“Yeah, but I know this guy.
He may listen to me.”
They looked at each other, then the one who spoke said something to his partner and jerked his head to us. We followed him down the street. It didn’t look to me like much talking was going on. To our right, rifle muzzles were poking out of every window and whether these guys had a target or not they were blazing away, raking a tall house opposite. The Honduran soldier pushed us close to the right-hand wall and we walked doubled over to lower our profiles. The helicopter passed overhead, its searchlight sweeping the house and its surroundings and revealing yet more soldiers. They were everywhere we looked, crouched, rifles at the ready. Further along the street several cars were on fire, sending flames and black smoke soaring. If one of those vehicles was the car with the loud hailer we were wasting our time.
We stopped and I studied the house, watching for muzzle flashes. One. Two. Three. He was single tapping, moving from room to room, choosing his target each time. The soldiers continued to fire. Seconds ticked by but now there was nothing coming back. What was he up to?
The soldiers on the ground were slow to realize it, but gradually the firing eased off, then stopped altogether. There was an ominous silence. Had he quit the building? I assumed there’d be soldiers on the other side of the house ready to pick him off if he made an appearance there, and the helicopter would spot him if he got onto the roof and tried to jump houses.
Then I flinched as every room in the house lit up brilliantly again and again in a series of loud explosions. Glass fragments rained down, tinkling as they hit the road. Sam and I looked at each other. Even before the after-image from the explosions had faded completely from my retinas I could see the flickering light of flames. Soon they were licking from the upper windows.
“Grenades,” Sam said.
“Yeah, and at least one of them was incendiary.”
I straightened up and looked around to see where that salvo had come from, but all I could see were automatic rifles, no grenade launchers. Now the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the helicopter clop-clopping back and forth overhead. Someone shouted a command and the soldiers began to move, converging on the house from all directions, running fast through any exposed areas. From the helicopter they would look like ants heading back to their nest. A soldier shot out the front door lock and kicked it open and they stepped inside. There was a rumble of collapsing timbers and a shower of dust and sparks billowed from the broken lower windows. The soldiers hurried out and seconds later the blaze engulfed the entire house. As they backed away an army officer strode across the road to them. Before our Honduran escort could stop me I’d run over to speak to him.
I identified myself quickly. “I came here to get him to surrender,” I said.
His lip curled. “You are too late. He just blew himself up.”
“That…?” I swallowed. “I thought it was your men.”
“No, not us, we were waiting for him to run out of ammunition. He did it himself.”
The house was now an inferno, sheets of flame pouring from every window, soaring into the sky and illuminating the entire scene. The heat was intense and we both moved away. In the reddish light I could make out bodies lying in the street, and another hanging out of a ground floor window in the building opposite. The officer followed my gaze, nodding grimly.
My body went slack. All I could say was, “I am sorry. I am very, very sorry.”
The helicopter banked overhead and flew off. Then, in the distance, the siren of a fire engine rose and grew louder.
By the time it got here there wouldn’t be much left of the house or of Bill Archer. He must have pulled the pin on every grenade he had, then just waited.
It seemed he had an exit strategy after all.
8
This time I wasn’t surprised to be called to Washington. Three days ago I went there to be told someone wanted my body back. This time someone wanted my head on a plate. So one way and another it seemed like things hadn’t changed all that much. Even the weather was replicating the last trip, a warm, penetrating drizzle that didn’t merit a waterproof but made clothes and everything else damp to the touch.
Harken had called me before I left. He’d said nothing about the operation, just gave me the room number for the meeting and reminded me to wear my medal ribbons.
At the Pentagon reception desk they seemed to be expecting me. After scanning my ID the young man said, “One moment, please, Colonel.” He made a call and there was a brief exchange. He clicked off.
“Please come with me, sir.”
“I can find the way, soldier.”
“I’ve been asked to escort you, sir.”
Escort? This was getting worse by the minute. I followed him into the elevator, which he took to the 5th floor, and along a corridor, traversing one ring after another, speaking to security at each checkpoint, with a more thorough check at the E-ring. We turned right and I was shown into a conference room. Unlike the rooms on the inner ring this one had windows. If I hadn’t lost my sense of direction – and I didn’t think I had – these would provide a nice view out to the Lagoon and over the Potomac in fine weather, but his wasn’t fine weather and the windows looked grey and opaque. Not that it mattered to the four at the table, as they had their backs to the windows. On the left was a four-star general, who I’d never seen before. He had a florid complexion, his buzz cut and moustache were silver-grey, and he filled a tunic that was almost totally obscured by gold braid and medal ribbons. Who the hell was he? Maybe I should have known but the truth was, I tended not to interest myself in guys as high in the stratosphere as that. Next to him, working my way to the right, was Helena Brooke-Masters, Deputy Secretary of State, who seemed to be chairing the meeting. Although we’d met before she offered no greeting, just indicated the chair opposite her with a peremptory wave of the hand. I’d never found her a friendly prospect; her small dark eyes were too close together, she had a beaky nose and thin lips, emphasized by a startling shade of red lipstick, and her hair was curly and cropped short. Today she looked even more grim than usual. That was easy enough to understand: the State Department would have their hands full right now trying to mend fences after this debacle. Sitting next to her was Bob Cressington, who gave me a rueful smile, and on the end was Wendell Harken, whose expression changed not one iota. There was a glass, a jug of iced water, and a smart notepad for each one. Not, I noted, for me.
Helena Brooke-Masters introduced everyone by name and title, including herself, as if I couldn’t possibly know any of them. I was simply wondering who the four-star general was. She left him to last.
“And this is General George Wagner,” she said, “Chief of Staff of the Army.”
My God, the CSA.
This guy was a seriously big hitter. In the army, it didn’t go any higher.
By now everything had slipped into the background except for the four faces in front of me, the slippery leather upholstery of the chair I was sitting on, and the gleaming wood finish of that table.
Helena Brooke-Masters said, “I expect you can guess what this meeting is about, Colonel. We’re endeavouring to sort out the unholy mess you left behind in the Republic of the Honduras.”
I waited.
“Well, what have you got to say about it?”
“What do you want me to say, ma’am? It was an unmitigated disaster.”
She blinked and recoiled slightly. Was she hoping for a stream of lame excuses? If so my candour must have been a disappointment to her.
Bob Cressington coughed lightly. “In fairness, ma’am, the Colonel’s outfit pulled off a considerable coup before that. They rescued ten kidnapped girls, including the US Ambassador’s daughter. They also killed a member of the gang and detained two others. The Ambassador has spoken to us in glowing terms about the conduct of the operation. There were thirty-two soldiers involved in that hostage extraction. This tragedy was the work of just one man.”
It was generous of Bob to intervene. I noted the formality, though. He probably had co
cktails with this woman, but here he addressed her as “ma’am”. Then I returned my gaze to Brooke-Masters. On second thoughts he probably didn’t have cocktails with her.
She sighed. “I think, Colonel, you’d better tell us in your own words exactly what happened.”
I was prepared for this. I gave a full account, up to the point where the windows lit up with grenades and the house went up in flames.
“Sergeant Archer committed suicide?” she asked.
“Yes.” My reply was hardly more than a grunt. I felt again the sadness of that wasted life.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Ma’am, the Honduran forces had the house under close surveillance from the ground and the air, and he wasn’t seen coming out. On the contrary, up to a few moments earlier he was returning fire, so there’s no doubt he was in there. At least one of the grenades was incendiary, probably more than one. The house quickly became an inferno – it burnt to the ground with Sergeant Archer inside it. Not a thing remained.”
“Not a thing,” Brooke-Masters repeated acidly, “except for fifteen people dead: nine soldiers of the Honduran army, two members of the Honduran police force, and four innocent Honduran civilians who failed to escape from their burning houses. Plus a dozen or so injured or wounded, currently being treated in hospitals. Add the damage to property and we’re facing millions of dollars in compensation.”
I didn’t care for the way she brushed aside the death of a man who up to then had served his country well, but it wasn’t a point I could make in these circumstances. “Ma’am, this man’s combat skills and experience were way beyond anything their police and armed forces had ever encountered. We might have been able to prevent at least some of those casualties if they’d allowed us to tackle him, but they refused point blank.”
“You didn’t challenge them on that?”
“The granting of a ‘temporary foreign presence’ was for us to carry out the hostage extraction, not this. I thought we’d be skating on thin ice if we intervened where we were so clearly unwanted. So I sent the men back to the air base, just kept Captain Govind with me to observe events.”
The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3) Page 4
