"He was the best,” Kincaid answered quickly. "He turned up with his throat cut. That confirmed that what he told me was real. They don't knock off somebody and send that kind of message unless they are serious about keeping something big under wraps. Oh, and there’s one other thing I’ve learned about this de Santiago."
Ward looked across the rim of his glass at his friend.
“He can leap tall buildings in a single bound?”
“Just about. He’s not just a drug lord. And he’s not just a rebel leader. He’s a zealot. I hear he’s convinced that God put him on this earth to win the revolution and make him rich at the same time. And he doesn’t care who or how many have to die in the process. He’s smart. He’s dangerous. And he’s crazy as a loon.”
Jonathan Ward studied the toes of his running shoes for a moment. With the sun now gone, the breeze carried a hint of chill.
Ellen stuck her head through the door.
"You two old war dogs done sniffing? Decided who is the alpha male?"
Kincaid laughed.
"Yep. All decided, and looks like I win again. Now, these war dogs are hungry as a couple of stray curs."
"That's good. I've fixed enough to feed a pack of hounds. Let's eat out here. It looks like such a beautiful night. Everything’s in the kitchen. Fix a tray and we're in business."
The two friends didn't need another invitation. They jostled for position as they went through the door. Ellen laughed at the two of them.
“Just like the old days, fighting to see who gets to the food first."
"Yeah, some things never change,” Ward agreed.
Kincaid stuck his finger in the guacamole and sampled a big dollop of it.
"Yeah, like Ellen's cooking. Answer a question for me. What did you ever see in this ugly old sailor anyway? Sneak away with me and I'll make you the ‘Queen of the North.’"
Ellen poked him in the ribs.
"Now stop that,” she said with a giggle. “You just want me for my cooking."
He glanced coyly at her trim body, only half-hidden by the sweat pants and tee shirt she wore.
"Is that a problem?"
Ward shoved him aside with a well-placed hip.
“Bad enough you come down here and drink up all my liquor and eat up my food. Now, you’re trying to steal my woman right out from under my nose!”
“’My woman?” Ellen yelped and tossed a potholder in her husband’s general direction.
The three of them settled into the banter of old friends. Comfortable riposte. The meal was consumed with gusto. The night sky darkened. Low lights snapped on, illuminating the path that wound through the garden. Stars appeared one by one over their heads. An occasional jet taking off from Lindbergh Field nearby roared overhead, causing what the locals had termed “the Point Loma pause” in their conversation until it was gone.
Ellen hustled to clear away the remnants of dinner and brought out a tray of coffee and port.
"Jon, I have to run over to Sally Desseaux's house to pick up the program for the Submarine Birthday Ball,” she announced. “Be back in an hour. You two capable of independent steaming for that long?"
They both nodded. They knew she was making herself scarce once again.
"Well, maybe for a bit, hon. Hurry back, though. Never can tell when the neighbors might call the cops," Ward answered.
They waited for the sound of the car starting and pulling out of the drive.
"Damn, Jon. Has anybody ever told you what a lucky son of a bitch you are? Wish I could find a woman like that."
Ward glanced over at his friend.
"I’ll have to agree with you on that one. God knows she puts up with a lot. Raised two great kids while I was off floating a boat somewhere. You'd find yourself somebody if you only made an effort to look."
Kincaid poured some port into a glass.
"Where are the kids anyway? Let's see, Linda is sixteen and Jim is fourteen by now, huh?"
Ward laughed and took the bottle from his friend to pour his own drink.
"You're a little behind the times. Linda is nineteen and a junior at William and Mary. Jim is seventeen and a plebe at the Naval Academy."
Tom Kincaid whistled softly and settled back into the lounge chair.
"Damn, time flies! Last time I saw Jim, he was worrying about making the Little League team and Linda was studying for the driver’s license test."
Ward laughed again.
"Seems like that to me, too. The house sure is a whole lot quieter now."
Kincaid took a sip of the port, inspected the liquid, and nodded approvingly.
"Those old Brit sailors knew a thing or two about living. Nothing like a little port after a great meal." He set the glass down on the little patio table beside his chair and leaned back again. He looked up at the stars before continuing, his voice so low that Ward had to strain to hear him. "Back to our friend, John Bethea. I was still ruminating what Pepe had told me about what de Santiago was up to when Bethea called."
Ward looked over at his friend.
"That’s what you said. John called you. I’m still not sure why. Nobody at that level would have been aware of what was happening with the ODs there in Seattle yet, would they?"
"I wouldn’t have thought so. But I think Bethea and his guys know when de Santiago takes a dump. I knew a little bit about the JDIA, just bits and pieces I'd picked up from being the nosey prick that I am. I’d heard about how they were kicking Taylor's ass for one thing so I like the guy already. Anyway, Bethea said he'd heard I was sniffing around, wanted to know what I was onto. And listen to this. He wanted to know if he could help. That tell you how much different he operates than Taylor?"
Ward shook his head.
"I just met him the other day but Bethea seems like an all-right guy. So you told him your story. How does that connect with him telling you to call me?"
Kincaid picked up his wineglass again and sipped. Ward could hardly see him in the dim glow from the garden lights. His eyes seemed almost luminescent. He heard the excitement in his old friend’s voice.
Tom Kincaid was on a mission.
“I don’t know how he knows, but he knows you and I are friends. And he thinks we can work together on this thing.” He leaned forward and tapped Ward on the knee. “Now, old buddy, tell me what you’re up to.”
“You know I can’t tell you everything because…”
Kincaid pointedly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Ward took it and leaned back to catch a sliver of light from the kitchen window so he could see what it was.
“Now, once again,” Tom Kincaid said with renewed emphasis. “Tell me what you’re up to.”
Lieutenant Commander Bill Beaman looked out the tiny airplane window. The little glass circle reflected nothing more than the dark of the night.
Should be about twenty minutes out now, he thought. He glanced at the luminous dial of his large diver's watch. Twenty-two minutes. Four minutes since the last time he looked. They were nearing the end of a long flight. Seven hours since leaving North Island Naval Air Station.
He glanced around the cabin of the C-17. The lights had been darkened hours before, both to allow the men to sleep and to dark-adapt their vision. The only illumination was a few small red bulbs down low, near the deck. Most of his SEAL team had found sleep. They leaned back in the uncomfortable canvas folding seats that lined the two bulkheads. In the semi-darkness, the cargo compartment seemed cavernous.
Chief Johnston was up, back at the rear of the plane talking quietly with the Air Force jumpmaster. He finished his conversation and walked back down to where Beaman was seated. Johnston was huge and black, his voice like mountain thunder.
"Commander, the zoomie says the weather over the drop zone is socked in. Solid overcast to twenty thousand feet. No way of knowing if we'll break through or if it goes all the way to the ground."
Beaman nodded and pursed his lips.
"Thanks, Chief. Better wake the b
oys. Quick brief then it’ll be time to saddle up."
Johnston was already shaking shoulders and kicking out-stretched feet, bringing the resting warriors back to the real world.
"OK, listen up toads,” he growled, his voice loud and husky to be heard over the thunder of the airplane’s engines. “Almost time to go. Give your gear a final check, make sure your timers and altimeters are working. We’ll be jumping into pea soup, so you'll be trusting them."
He continued to review the jump, the rendezvous, and the thousand other details for the operation. As they listened, the team of eighteen SEALs was busy strapping on equipment. They looked like space warriors, clad in black jump suits with black helmets, oxygen masks dangling from their chests.
"OK toads, radio check," Johnston barked.
Each of the eighteen checked in.
Johnston barked out, "OK, we are ten minutes from the jump point. We will jump forty-seven miles from the landing zone. Course is one-nine-seven. Winds at altitude are one-two-one knots from zero-four-seven. Set that in your jump computers. Landing zone coordinates are 75 degrees, 31.22 minutes longitude, 06 degrees, 48.36 minutes latitude. Elevation is four-seven-five-zero meters. All checked?"
Seventeen times he heard, "Yes, Chief." He was number eighteen.
The jumpmaster gave Johnston a thumbs-up sign. He stood and balanced himself against the slight bucking of the airplane.
"All right, toads. Up and at 'em."
The co-pilot's voice came through their radios.
"Door coming open in two minutes. Everyone on oxygen."
At fifty-two thousand feet, anyone without oxygen would suffocate in seconds. The jumpmaster pulled on a heavy fur-lined parka and Arctic mittens. Air temperature outside the giant plane was seventy-two degrees below zero. It was going to be cold outside.
"One minute to drop. Door coming open."
The big ramp across the back of the plane rumbled downward like a giant mouth in a slow yawn. A small red light at the upper left of the door blinked on. The plane shuddered as the flaps extended. The SEALs would be jumping with the C-17 flying at just above its stall speed, but that was still over one hundred and fifty knots. Even then, the flaps were needed for lift to allow the plane to fly so slowly.
"Thirty seconds to drop. Good luck, gentlemen."
No one spoke. They all stared at the toes of their boots.
"Ten seconds."
The red light died out and a green one flashed on. The jumpmaster gave the SEALs a hearty thumbs-up.
Beaman strolled casually out the back of the plane and dropped away into the night as gravity jerked him downward. Johnston and the others followed him out into the cold darkness.
The SEALs had developed this technique years ago to allow them to jump into hostile territory without the dangerous necessity of having their mother plane fly low over the landing zone, making it and its cargo of jumpers an easy target for ground fire. Instead, they jumped from a high-flying plane and did a long free fall in the direction of the landing zone. This particular maneuver was called a “HALO” jump. It was possible to cover over a hundred miles this way. This was the "HA" or "high altitude" part of it. It required very specialized survival equipment for the harsh, frigid environment they had to endure during the initial portion of the jump. Still, the "LO" or "low opening" was the most dangerous part of the procedure. To limit the amount of time any radar had a chance of detecting the large aerodynamic parachutes, they didn't open them until they were within fifteen hundred feet of the ground. That meant over fifty thousand feet of free fall, ten minutes of dropping all alone through an icy, pitch-black sky.
A HALO jump took extraordinary nerves and discipline. Even on a clear night, when the jumper could see the ground below and the stars above, the urge to pull the cord became nearly unbearable. Jumping into a thick cloud cover notched up the stress level to an entirely different plateau. Up, down, left, right, it all became meaningless. There was no reference point to use. The SEALs had to rely entirely on the instruments strapped to their arms, a compass for direction, an altimeter and a timer, all on one forearm. On the other were a small GPS receiver and the jump computer.
As they fell earthward, the thick clouds enveloped each of them. Nothing visible. No stars, no ground, no friends in sight dropping through the night with them.
Watch the compass. Make the course corrections that the computer and GPS called for. Listen for the beep of the altimeter and try not to remember that the lowest bidder manufactured it.
Beaman heard the telltale chirp from his own forearm. He gratefully yanked the lanyard. He could still only see thick clouds all about him. No sign of the ground yet.
He felt the hard jerk as the chute opened and slowed his drop. Only a second later, he dropped through the bottom of the cloud cover. He was only seven or eight hundred feet above the ground. To his left, barely a half-mile away, the Andes rose high. A sheer wall disappearing back into the clouds that had just spit him out like a hailstone. To his right, a steep rocky slope was even closer.
Off to his left a couple of degrees and about a thousand yards ahead was the tiny jungle clearing they were aiming at. He tugged gently on his left steering shroud and flared the chute out to drift that way then dropped neatly into the center of the clearing as if drawn by some invisible magnetism. He had fallen almost ten miles through dense clouds and landed within a few feet of dead center of where he had been aiming.
Seconds later, Chief Johnston flared out to land gently beside him.
"Evening, sir. Thought I’d drop in for a chat. You don’t have the coffee brewed yet?"
"Evening, Chief. I apologize. Nice night for a stroll, though."
"Yes, sir. Let me round up the toads. Mission profile calls for five miles tonight."
“Yes, and we’re not sure who else might crash our little coffee klatch, Chief.”
Beaman glanced around at where they stood, pulling in their ‘chutes. Darkness was their best friend. Still he knew that these jungles had plenty of animals that could see all too well at night.
Some of those animals could be sighting down a rifle barrel at them at that very moment.
14
Bill Beaman stopped at the top of the ridge, wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. Four hours of hard travel and they had covered barely two miles so far. With the tangle of dense jungle growth and the near-vertical terrain, every labored step was a battle. At this rate they would be here until next year before they ever accomplished any of their mission.
The tropical rain poured down once again as if someone above them had opened a spigot in the clouds. It streamed off his campaign hat, dripped off the luxuriant foliage, and turned the gorge behind them into a river. The downpour made it impossible for them to see more than a few feet off the ridge. The splattering rain and roar of the water damped the normal jungle sounds until Beaman could hear nothing else. Juan de Santiago’s rebel army could march right up and say “Good morning!” before he and his men would know they were there.
Chief Johnston broke through the undergrowth a few feet further along the ridge. His camouflage uniform was soaked through with rain and sweat, streaked with black mud.
"Damn, Skipper! This place is a bitch! Map shows we got ourselves two more ridges yet to cross. Does this ever stop?"
He pointed to the skies as he slumped down on the wet ground. Beaman ignored his complaints and looked at his watch.
"Where's Sparks? Almost time to check in."
"He should be here any second if he ain’t drowned. Just behind me."
Three more SEALs struggled up to the narrow ridgeline right on cue. They dumped their packs and swore at the heat and humidity. One of them got busy opening his backpack and unfolding a small satellite dish while the other two flopped down in the mud beside the chief.
Checking his GPS, the SEAL carefully aimed the dish at the swirling clouds as if he was trying to catch it full of rainwater.
"All set, Skipper. Soon as I
plug in the transceiver."
Johnston glared at the two exhausted SEALs.
"Alright O'Brien, Alvarez, you two lazy toads get off your butts and scoot down the hill. I want you two ten meters out. Split up and keep your eyes open. Don't let any nasty surprises get past you."
The two slowly rose, reluctantly reassuming the weight of their packs.
"Aw, come on, Chief. We're beat. Ain't nobody out here but us and the damn monkeys," the shorter, Hispanic SEAL groused.
"Alvarez, quit giving me lip and get movin'. Plenty of time to rest when you cash in. I’m the only one allowed to gripe out here."
The two disappeared into the green, lost in the torrent. More SEALs breasted the ridge. Johnston set them up around the impromptu ridge-top command post.
Sparks handed Beaman the handset for the satellite transceiver.
"All set. You're up on the freq. Solid signal strength. Crypto is in sync."
Beaman set aside the map he had been studying and squeezed the push-to-talk key.
"White Shadow, this is South Station, over."
Through the hissing static, Beaman heard a disembodied voice quickly respond. He had obviously been sitting right there, waiting for the call.
"South Station, this is White Shadow. Go ahead."
"White Shadow, reporting location coordinates Golf Victor Seven, Zulu Bravo Four. Progress five hours behind profile. Request next drop at coordinates Golf Lima Four, Alpha Hotel Three. Profile time plus three. Nothing to report in areas covered. Over"
"South Station, roger drop position and time. New search area ten-click circle…say again, ten-click circle…centered at Golf Lima Four, Alpha Hotel Three. How copy? Over."
Beaman nodded at Johnston before he answered.
"Copy new mission. Estimate three days in area to complete. South Station, out."
Final Bearing Page 16
