Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  Just as the two senior SEALs leaped from rock to rock, back down to the road, they could hear the approach of another truck. They scurried for cover.

  Cantrell waited until the vehicle was a few yards from the buried C-4. He pushed the little red button on his firing mechanism. The C-4 erupted with a roar, showering the cab of the truck with dirt and debris but doing no other damage than to likely cause the driver and the armed guard to soil their trousers.

  The frightened driver jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop instead of trying to drive on. The truck skewed dangerously, stopping inches before it would have dropped right over the side. The guard, stunned by the blast directly in his face, sat for an instant before stepping through the open door and trying to jump free. Good that he did. Down between his legs was a thousand foot vertical drop. He slid carefully back into the cab, slamming the door shut again. Then the two men jumped out the driver's side door to face the barrel of an M-60 pointing directly at their chests.

  The guard threw down his weapon. Both men raised their hands, their knees trembling visibly. Cantrell yelled at them in Spanish to lie face down in the road. The two didn't hesitate.

  Beaman and Johnston bounded onto the road as Broughton and Martinelli ran up from their hiding places. Martinelli yanked up the weatherworn tarpaulin covering the bed of the old truck. Under it lay a stack of moldering leaves, reaching eight feet high from the bed bottom. The stench of rotting vegetation was almost over-powering.

  "Hey, Skipper. Look what I found."

  Beaman looked at the stack of vegetation then at the two peasants lying in the dust.

  "Cantrell, kindly ask our friends where they are going on such a fine morning."

  Cantrell pulled back the action on the M-60, noisily chambering a round.

  "Gladly, Skipper. First let me get their attention." He pulled the trigger. The machine gun was on full-auto. 7.62mm NATO rounds kicked up dust clouds all around the peasants at seven hundred and fifty rounds a minute. The two twitched and yelled in fear.

  "Skipper, I believe I got their attention now." Cantrell started to talk to the two in passable Spanish. "Mis compadres, we know of de Santiago and the coca fields. Tell us where you are driving the truck, por favor."

  Neither of the two seemed inclined to talk. They stared wide-eyed at each other but lay there silently in the middle of the muddy road.

  Beaman looked up at Cantrell and spoke in Spanish.

  "Tie them to the truck. When we are up the road a hundred meters, detonate the rockslide. It will carry the road, the truck and this scum all the way back down into the valley."

  Cantrell answered, "Si, mi Capitan!"

  Beaman turned his back and started to walk up the road.

  It was the truck driver who yelled first.

  "Wait, wait! Don't kill us. I will tell you what you want to know."

  “Quickly. I am losing patience.”

  The words spilled from the peasant’s trembling lips.

  “There is a huge factory, hidden in a deep valley many miles away, between here and Chorera. It is a two-day drive by truck. No city nearby. Only stops for fuel and spare parts.”

  When Beaman tried to have the man show him the factory’s location on his map, it was evident the driver was completely illiterate.

  Pointing at the truck, Beaman said, "You drive. Take us to the factory."

  The SEALs cleared out the back of the truck. They climbed up into the truck bed, glad to be riding now since much of the backtrack was seriously uphill. Beaman, wearing the guard’s floppy straw hat and stinking jacket, rode up front in the cab with the driver. The frightened guard was in back with the others.

  They cranked up and rounded the bend in the road. Beaman pulled a little transmitter from his pocket and pressed a button. High up on the slope, the charges of C-4 detonated in perfect order, lacing the rock outcropping, the explosions reverberating off the mountains across the valley.

  One boulder bounded down the slope, striking a few more, then more, until soon the whole mountain seemed to be sliding down to the valley floor. Hundreds of meters of the old Inca roadway disappeared, dragged down the mountain by the tons of rock and dirt and gravity.

  The slide expanded until it threatened to engulf the section of road where the truck sat. Beaman hit the driver hard in the shoulder.

  "Vamoose, muchacho. We don't want to die here."

  The terrified driver punched the truck’s accelerator, popped the clutch, and they jumped ahead, just before another section of the road dropped away in the wake of the avalanche. They were a half-mile farther along the road before the rattle of the truck’s engine washed out the continual roar of the ancient mountain collapsing behind them.

  A three-man jazz combo played soft, pleasant dance music as the small riverboat rocked gently in the wake of a passing ferry. A gentle breeze wafted down from the nearby mountains and kept the mosquitoes and gnats at bay. A table on the deck was laden with a buffet while waiters circulated among the two dozen or so party guests with champagne glasses on trays hoisted over their shoulders. Strands of oriental lamps and hanging baskets of fragrant flowers gave the deck a soft, dreamy feel as darkness fell.

  Three men wearing their customary camouflage uniforms stood at the head of the table talking quietly. One, the man with a horrid scar across his face, seemed especially nervous, anxious to make a point.

  “What could El Jefe be thinking, having all three of us here on this vessel at the same time?” Colonel Guillermo Marquez groused, shifting from one foot to the other. He nervously surveyed the other guests nearby and gulped his wine. “Only in the safety of the hacienda are we ever all together at once. I appreciate the gesture, but…”

  Colonel Ricardo Abella leaned down closer so he would not have to talk too loudly to be heard over the music.

  “Relax, mi amigo. We are in one of the safest towns in our most secure territory. We could not be more protected if we were home in our own beds. It is as he has told us. He wanted to give us a few moments of pleasure, to reward us for all we have done for the revolution.” The tall, stocky guerilla colonel took a sip of his wine and grinned broadly. “Look, the river is beautiful, the evening delightful, and we certainly do not want to offend our host, do we?” He nodded over his shoulder, toward the far side of the boat. “Besides, our wives seem to be enjoying themselves for a change.”

  Sure enough, the three women stood together at the railing, comparing their new party dresses, gifts from El Jefe. They watched the lights of the town that lay on the far side of the river, laughing at a shared comment as they swayed contentedly with the music, trying out a few rusty dance steps. These women had given much to the revolution as well. They stayed home while their men, Juan de Santiago’s most trusted colonels, continued the struggle. De Santiago himself had told them how important they were to the revolution when he met them at the gangplank and welcomed them aboard. It was a wonderful thing to have this rare evening with their husbands, along with a select few of the other members of their staffs and their wives. They appreciated Juan de Santiago actually thinking of such a thing. It was so unlike El Jefe, but they would not complain.

  Even now, de Santiago seemed to be having a wonderful time talking with the beautiful young wife of one of Abella’s lieutenants. He excused himself, took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, and joined the three soldiers who were still huddled at the head of the buffet table.

  “My brave friends, you are not over there with your lovely wives, watching the reflection of the stars in their eyes?”

  “We’re only visiting with each other for a few minutes, El Jefe,” Enrique Fernandez assured him. “These days, we seem to only see each other for seconds at a time in a jungle clearing somewhere or during the meetings at your hacienda. We were just comparing notes.”

  De Santiago pursed his lips, cocked his head, and scolded gently.

  “Ah, but tonight’s for your relaxation, not for work. For celebrating the cul
mination of our plans as they finally come to glorious fruition. Enjoy a nice trip upriver and back and the plentiful food and drink.”

  Guillermo Marquez acknowledged the sentiment with a tip of his wineglass but clearly couldn’t resist expressing his misgivings to his leader.

  “Still, sir, what with the treachery of El Falcone, it seems…”

  “Damn El Falcone!” de Santiago exploded, his voice thunderous and vicious, his face contorted with rage. The wives at the railing turned to see what had caused the outburst. Everyone on deck hushed. The combo lost its tempo for a moment then resumed the soft samba they were playing. “Soon…very soon…El Falcone will be no more,” the leader growled, more quietly now, but his eyes were still wild. “The bastard will no longer threaten me or the revolution.”

  He seemed then to be studying each of the faces of his colonels, to be examining their eyes for some sort of reaction to his words as they all fell into an awkward silence. De Santiago hardly seemed to notice that Guzman, his bodyguard, had stepped up behind him.

  “El Jefe, if I may have a moment,” Guzman finally said, discretely tapping de Santiago on his shoulder.

  The leader tensed his jaws then finally smiled again.

  “Gentlemen, enjoy this evening with your beautiful wives and your brave compadres. The revolution will still be there in the morning, I assure you.” His grin became almost wicked then. “I highly recommend the oysters, flown in fresh from Barranquilla today. They will temper the steel in your swords later in the evening when you are back in your suites with your ladies, if you know what I mean.”

  He clinked glasses with each of his three colonels in turn, winked knowingly, and followed Guzman to the darkness at the far end of the boat.

  The drinks, the music, the soft rocking of the boat on the river finally seemed to be working their magic. The three soldiers began to relax. They strafed the buffet once more then strolled over to stand with their wives, watching as the boat’s crew cast off the lines and eased the vessel out into the current. They even dared quick kisses and stiff hugs as the boat pulled away from the wharf. The wife of Enrique Fernandez had to bend down to meet his lips and the others allowed themselves polite laughter at the sight.

  Marquez, the internal security expert, could not shake the strong uneasiness that almost overpowered him since he had boarded the party boat. The feeling was there despite the rare glow on his lady’s face or the perfection of the soft-lit, fragrant evening. He knew he should be obeying his leader’s order, enjoying this rare time away from the stealth and intrigue and death of his typical day.

  Of all the members of de Santiago’s inner circle, he was the one who had the most difficulty dismissing the threat of El Falcone. He, of all de Santiago’s staff, understood the nature of one who was privy to such sensitive information and was so willing to share it with the enemy. He only regretted that the leader had not allowed him to pursue the spy himself. It was his job after all. But de Santiago had been adamant on that subject.

  Of one thing he was certain; El Falcone would know about the party this night aboard the riverboat. If he did, so did the enemy.

  Marquez again tried to dismiss his fears, smiled and kissed his wife again, then led her past the other guests to the stern of the boat. The big paddlewheel was pushing them upriver now, its splashes igniting soft phosphorescence in the water. The lights of the town were easing away, dimming in the soft mist of the warm evening. Now, away from the lights, the stars overhead were brilliant, the sky vast and dark.

  Then Marquez saw something. Something that made his heart stop for a moment.

  There, standing side by side on the wharf from which the boat had moved away a few moments before, was Juan de Santiago and Guzman. They were quietly watching the boat steam upriver, not waving or hailing them to come back.

  Why would the boat leave without the host of the party on board?

  Guillermo Marquez realized the answer to his question only an instant before the deck buckled beneath his feet. Before the massive explosion ripped the doomed vessel apart. Before white, hot fire devoured the entire world.

  “I hope you realize what you have done,” Guzman said sadly. Horrified people were running past them, trying to see what the tremendous explosion on the river had been. Some windows had shattered in the building behind them and there was the distant wailing of a siren, already headed their way.

  “Oh, I know perfectly well, Guzman. I have sacrificed the lives of true patriots to make certain I have sent the soul of one damned traitor to burn in hell.”

  The river’s current brought bits of flaming wreckage past them but there were no cries of survivors. The flickering fires lit the stony face of Juan de Santiago with an eerie light, revealing what appeared to be pure hate in his eyes.

  “You have killed men who are valuable to you, to the revolution.”

  “There are a hundred more waiting to take their place.”

  “But how can you be certain that one of the colonels was El Falcone?”

  “I cannot be certain, of course. But it was a gamble I was forced to take. Our plan is too critical to risk having him remain alive a moment longer. The process of elimination leaves no one else.” He turned toward Guzman. “Unless he is you, my friend.”

  Guzman didn’t give the leader time to ponder that possibility any longer. He ushered El Jefe back toward his car before someone in the panicked crowd recognized the leader of the revolution walking there among them.

  17

  Spadefish slid almost effortlessly through the deep, little more than a black shape in a world without light. Eight hundred feet above, the sun was setting in a glorious splash of red and orange painted over a turquoise blue sea. The brilliant light show never filtered through to this depth. The march of sun and moon across the sky was meaningless. Day and night were marked only by the changing of the watch aboard the submarine.

  Since submerging a mile outbound from buoy Sierra-Delta, Spadefish had run steadily at twenty knots, heading southward. She was now cruising five hundred miles almost due west of Acapulco, Mexico.

  Jon Ward sat at the desk in his tiny stateroom, flipping through the patrol order one more time. His Executive Officer, Joe Glass, sat across from him, both elbows resting on the table, looking at a fresh, empty page of his yellow legal pad.

  "XO, the way I see it,” Ward finally said, “we run down to the patrol box, look around and see what we can turn up. Check on traffic, that sort of thing. But we need to be ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. That’s why we’re there."

  Joe Glass looked up from the pad. He began to hastily scribble notes from the random discussion that he and the skipper were having. Two years’ experience as Ward's Executive Officer had taught him that these sessions were not nearly so random as he first imagined. What to the casual observer appeared to be the skipper stating the obvious, or unconnected thoughts spoken out loud, were, in reality, Ward's way of carefully weaving a complete and complex plan. Glass learned that if he missed noting any of the details, he was in trouble later when he had to rely on little more than his memory.

  "No threat down there that I know of," Ward went on, seemingly thinking out loud.

  "No, except maybe accidentally slamming into a fishing boat," Glass agreed.

  Ward looked up at his XO.

  "I meant an ASW threat.” The Commander was talking about the likelihood of needing any of the sub’s torpedoes. “Anyway, it’s a fact that we need Tomahawks more than we need self-defense weapons. Have Stan load all four torpedo tubes with Tomahawks."

  Normally, a submarine on patrol kept torpedoes loaded in all four torpedo tubes. If the Captain expected to be shooting missiles, he would load three of the tubes with missiles beforehand, but keep one tube loaded with a torpedo for use in case the boat was attacked. That was true in peacetime as well as when at war.

  Glass scribbled a couple of lines then asked, "Why don't we shift weapons stowage around so that four more Tomahawks are ready to load in
all tubes, too?"

  The torpedo room on Spadefish was completely full. All four torpedo tubes now contained Mk 48 ADCAP advanced-capability heavyweight torpedoes, ready to fire immediately if needed. The weapons stowage racks in the torpedo room contained two more ADCAPs, but on this mission, they also held twenty-two TLAM-D Tomahawk land attack cruise missiles. The "D" variant of the missile contained a sub-munitions warhead with one hundred and sixty bomblets, each loaded with 2.2 pounds of high explosives.

  Back-hauling the four-thousand-pound ADCAPs to load each torpedo tube with TLAM-D's was a carefully choreographed game of musical chairs. Removing the torpedoes and reloading each of the four tubes with missiles would keep Chief Bill Ralston and his men busy for at least four hours. Thankfully, Spadefish was equipped with hydraulic weapons-handling equipment, so the backbreaking labor of manually moving the behemoths with ropes and tackle, as was once the case, was now gone. Even so, it was difficult, tedious, and sometimes downright dangerous work.

  The torpedo room load plan was carefully set up well ahead of battle so that the torpedo tubes were ready with the weapons that would be needed. The ones most likely needed next were sitting there, conveniently ready to load. With a normal choice of Tomahawk land attack missiles, Harpoon anti-ship missiles, or torpedoes, and with only four tubes to shoot them from, critical tactical planning was necessary. Suddenly needing to shoot a torpedo when only TLAMs were ready could, at best, mean having to break away from an attack. At worst, the sub would be unable to defend itself.

  Late model Los Angeles-class boats and the new Virginia-class submarines bypassed some of this problem by having twelve external vertical launch tubes for Tomahawk missiles, freeing the torpedo tubes for other duties. Spadefish was much too long in the tooth for such a nicety.

  Both Ward and Glass agreed to put all their eggs in one basket and have eight TLAM-Ds ready to go: four in the tubes, four right behind them, ready to load. If Bill Beaman and his SEAL team needed missiles to rain down on target, they would do their damnedest to have them ready for them.