“Thanks, John. Appreciate your vote of confidence,” Beaman commented dryly. “Just make sure you have the extraction choppers standing by. We’re going to need them at noon, local time. Tell ‘em the LZ may be hot. I’ll keep you posted. Team, out.”
Beaman removed the earpiece and was stowing the transceiver when the two flank scout teams slid on their bellies back into the little makeshift command post.
“Didn’t see a thing,” Johnston whispered as he opened and began chewing on an energy bar. “Nothing but damn vines, branches and snakes. Especially snakes. Snakes everywhere.”
Nothing frightened the Chief. Nothing but snakes, that is.
Beaman motioned for Johnston to follow him as he crawled back to the tree line.
“Chief, let me show you something.” He pointed at the camera beneath the orchid, high up in the tree. “See that? Someone is very interested in keeping an eye on this place.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Johnston grunted as he squinted into his own binoculars. “Anything else?”
Beaman shook his head.
“Not that I could find. Now, all we have to do is get over to that shack and check it out without that camera seeing us. Any ideas?”
Johnston carefully gazed out over the clearing.
“No way to slip past it that I can see. We can’t wait until dark and it’s probably infrared-fitted anyway. I vote we follow the true SEAL tradition and break the bastard, use the old direct approach.”
“Can Cantrell hit it?”
“Skipper, that kid can hit Ike’s nose on a dime at a thousand yards with that M-60 of his. Shot like that will be a piece of cake. I imagine the folks who are watching the screen…if any of the sons of bitches are awake…are used to it going on the fritz out here. Out in the jungle like this, it has to happen all the time.”
“OK, let’s make it happen. As soon as that thing is out, though, we move to the shack in one big hurry. Who knows what else they may have trained on this clearing. Then we’ll see what’s inside and go from there. Cantrell and Martinelli stay out here to give us cover.”
It was a bold plan, but the only viable one if they hoped to accomplish their mission. There could be trip wires, booby traps, land mines planted amidst the jungle growth between them and the shack. And none of them had any idea what might await them once they entered the dilapidated shed. They could only hope the camera and the sheer remoteness of the place were its only protection.
Johnston slipped over to Cantrell’s post in the mahogany tree. Beaman watched as Johnston pointed up into the trees. Cantrell looked hard, squinted, checked the wind, measured the distance with his practiced eye, then nodded. He flashed an “okay” hand sign to Beaman, winked, and smiled.
Johnston gathered Broughton and Dumkowski and slowly moved around to the right, spreading out so they were about ten feet apart. In a few minutes, four SEALs were crouched and ready to move across the clearing as soon as Cantrell poked the eye out.
Beaman pointed to the camera and nodded to Cantrell. The SEAL gunner took careful aim with his M-60 and squeezed off a quick three-round burst. The 7.62mm NATO rounds ripped through the humid jungle air, angling upward, then, with the effect of drag and gravity, arcing back down to the target exactly as the shooter had calculated. The first jacket round smashed the camera lens and shattered the circuit boards behind it before losing energy and embedding itself in the rear case. It had accomplished the job already but the next two rounds crushed what was left of the case and tumbled to the jungle floor.
The parts of the surveillance device hit the ground. Bill Beaman ran across the clearing to the shadows at the side of the tumbled down shack. The other three men ran zigzag courses across the open ground and flopped down a few yards short of the door. So far, so good. There had been no one firing at them yet.
Beaman glanced over his shoulder and pointed at the shack’s door. Three H&K machine pistols were aimed in that direction.
Beaman stood to one side and gave the door a kick. The one rusty hinge that held the thing upright snapped easily and it fell into the shed, landing flat on the dirt floor in a billow of powdery dust. Beaman followed it in, moving low and fast, looking all about in the half-darkness, his finger on the trigger and ready to fire. He slammed his body backward against the wall and almost brought the rickety structure down with the force.
Nothing.
The small room was empty except for spider webs, a couple of sticks of rotted furniture and a lonely centipede that scurried through the dirt, trying to hide from the sunlight Beaman had let in.
There was nothing at all in this place to threaten a SEAL. Mixed with his relief, Beaman had to deal with the disappointment. They had jumped out of that airplane, climbed a mountain, swam through what his grandpappy would have called a “young Noah,” and all for nothing.
The other three SEALs stepped into the shack, their guns poised, and joined Beaman. Johnston shrugged.
“Not much here to guard, Skipper.”
Dumkowski added, “And not a damn thing to blow up!”
“Doesn’t look much like it,” Beaman said, still whispering, as if he didn’t want to disturb the spiders. “But why would they have that camera…”
The floor between Beaman’s feet began to move. He jumped back against the wall, his gun barrel aimed where a trap door was opening up. Johnston and Dumkowski leaped out the doorway they had just entered and rolled to either side, the barrels of their own H&Ks just visible.
Broughton had nowhere to go. He was caught at the back of the shed and could only crouch down in the shadows and hope whoever it was wouldn’t look his way. He would have to shoot before the newcomer did, no questions asked. There would be no hesitation.
The floor lifted fully and hinged back. Fluorescent light glowed from the entrance. A man climbed clumsily up the steps. He was half-asleep. He was muttering barely understandable profanities about monkeys and cameras. He stepped out into the shed. He stopped in his tracks, startled by the shape in front of him, hidden by the dark shadows. With a grunt of surprise, he tried desperately to grab the rifle he had slung across his back.
Broughton rose slowly, keeping the muzzle of his machine pistol pointed directly between the eyes of the fearful man. He stopped his attempt to get his rifle around and simply raised his hands, pleading for mercy. A dark, wet stain slowly bloomed on the front of his dirt-smudged khaki pants.
Beaman grabbed the rifle from behind and roughly ripped it off the guard, frisked him quickly for side arms or a knife, then shoved the now-unarmed man into the far corner. The terrified man tripped and fell flat on his face in the dirt, raising his own cloud of dust. Dumkowski put his knee in the middle of the guard’s back, grabbed his arms and tied them and his feet tightly, then gagged him to stop any attempt at a yelled warning to his compatriots. The man was crying and whimpering into the dust, any fight scared out of him.
At the nod from Beaman, Johnston pulled the pin on a flash grenade and tossed it down the stairway. An awful whoomph and a burst of bright, white light erupted back up the well. The four SEALs leaped down the steps before the noise had stopped reverberating or the smoke had begun to clear.
They found a shattered laboratory. The place was strewn with broken glass, damaged equipment, and unidentified liquids that dripped off bench tops onto the floor. Small fires burned in several spots, ignited by the grenade. Smoke and dust hung thickly in the cool air of the space. Three men dressed in lab coats, stunned by the concussion of the grenade, were slowly attempting to pick themselves up. They shook the fragments of glass and insulation and ceiling tile from their clothing and hair. One man in uniform khakis lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the ladder. One leg was cocked at an odd angle and blood oozed from numerous wounds. He did not move.
Johnston dragged the dead guard out of the way, making sure their escape would not be hindered. The other SEALs tossed the dazed scientists back onto the floor and tied them securely. They offered no resistance. The atta
ck team looked around them for any other signs of life, ears tuned for the sound of more guards that might be coming from farther back in a sizeable underground bunker. Or for gunfire from above that might signal trouble approaching from the jungle.
Beaman yelled up the stairs at Dumkowski, telling him to bring his own prisoner down and to guard all four. The SEAL rolled the guard down the stairs like a barrel and took station where he could see them all. He was rewarded with four sets of wide, frightened eyes staring back at him.
Beaman led the other two team members farther into the underground compound. Rooms stretched into more rooms as they explored the amazingly large space, more labs, dorm rooms, even a rough rec room with a pool table and a bar stocked mostly with Russian vodka. Nothing showed above ground. Down here there was a fully outfitted research facility with all the comforts and capabilities a team of biochemists would seem to need. As they pushed through, the place was completely empty and silent now.
“There has to be more people here than the two guards and the guys in the lab coats,” Beaman said.
He started to cautiously work his way around the edge of a doorway. He caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. Without thought or hesitation he instinctively dived to the ground, shouting out a warning to his following team. The unmistakable staccato roar of an AK-47 on full automatic reverberated in the hallway. Chewed-up cement chips spattered down on him as the wall next to where his head had just been exploded from the impact of bullets.
Beaman rolled and fired several bursts down the corridor, aiming as best he could at where he thought he had seen a man’s face in the near-darkness. From behind him, Johnston tossed another grenade down the hall and yelled, “Fire in the hole!” Beaman covered his head. The grenade burst rocked the walls and blew a blinding swirl of dust and debris out toward the SEALs.
Beaman was hidden by rubble that fell from the ceiling. Johnston grabbed him by his heels and pulled him back into what little protection the wall of the hallway offered.
“You okay, Skipper?”
Beaman coughed and spat and wiped the dust and splatters of blood from his face.
“Yeah, Chief. That was too close.” When he noticed Johnston staring at him, at the blood he was smearing away, he said, “Not mine.”
Broughton went through the door low and fast, his H&K sweeping around the room like a cobra ready to strike. Johnston followed a fraction of a second later. The room had evidently been the security office until minutes ago. The remains of a smashed video monitor and two shattered radio transceivers were strewn about on the concrete floor. A rack with four more AK-47’s lay on the floor to the left of the table. Three broken armchairs made up the only other furniture in the room. The shooter lay in a heap against the far wall, slammed back against a broken table by a considerable force.
Broughton prodded the corpse with his foot, rolling him over so he was face up. He had four bullet holes forming a small neat circle in his forehead.
“Guess he thinks not giving up was a bad idea now,” Broughton muttered.
Beaman looked around for more rooms or any kind of escape hatch. There was nothing left to explore. A small galley, a bunkroom, a library, and this command center they had just destroyed seemed to complete all the rooms leading off from the lab. De Santiago had assumed there was little chance this place would be located, much less disturbed. Its remote location, the surveillance equipment, the secrecy were all the protection this place needed. Only three guards? No back door out?
The arrogance made Beaman angry. He was aware they were deep in rebel-controlled territory. Who knew what kind of hell might descend on them once their presence here was known? And the noise of the first grenade had announced that loud and clear.
The three SEALs returned to the shattered lab. They made sure no one was hiding from them in a crevice or closet somewhere. The fires they had started with the first grenade had burnt themselves out now. The room was still filled with choking, thick smoke. Dumkowski held his weapon on the four prisoners who now struggled against their bonds. He had lined them up neatly and had them sitting on the floor, leaning against a lab bench. Now that they had gotten some of their senses back, they had begun to protest their treatment.
Beaman stepped in front of the four and growled, “All right, start talking. Which one of you bastards is going to tell us what’s going on here?”
The towering figures of four heavily armed SEALs stepped menacingly closer, shoving a weapon in the face of each captive. They stopped squirming and tried to crawl beneath the bench.
Two of them muttered in some strange, guttural language. The other one, a mousy little guy with a decidedly Southern accent, began talking rapidly, his voice trembling but the words pouring out defiantly.
“Now, you looka here. You’re American soldiers, aren’t you? I’m an American citizen and you have no right to come in here and try to kill me or hold me against my will. I’m not breaking any laws, and even if I was, you have no jurisdiction here. I have my rights. Now, get me outta here. I wanna see a lawyer. Or somebody from the American embassy.”
Beaman glared at him as he let him have his say. When the SEAL Commander did speak, everyone in the room felt a chill from the tone of his voice, even as he mimicked the man’s dialect. And the other two men in lab coats seemed to sense what he was saying even if they couldn’t understand his words.
“No you looka here, Gomer Pyle. You’re a damned long way from the US of A right now. Ain’t no lawyer gonna be any help gittin’ your miserable ass outta here. In about three minutes, me and my buddies here are gonna set off enough C-4 explosives to send fragments of this place all the way to Bogota. You don’t want to be right here for an up-close view of the fireworks, you’d better start singin’ a tune I wanna hear.”
With the last sentence, Beaman placed the snout of his pistol beneath the American’s nose and gave it a hard, rude shove. There was the smell of excrement and all the color left the American’s face. With a quick glance at the other captives, he bleated out, “It’s all on that laptop computer, the one over by the wall. Everything’s on it. All our work.”
Martinelli stuck his head through the trap door.
“Hey, Skipper. We got company coming!” he hollered. “Looks like a whole bunch coming over the ridge on horseback, moving pretty quick.”
Johnston looked over at Beaman.
“That ain’t the cavalry coming to our rescue, boss. We better get moving.”
Beaman yelled up at Dumkowski.
“Call and get the choppers in here quick as they can. We’ll extract from the clearing.”
“Cantrell’s talking to ‘em now. We sort of figured that’s what we’d have to do. They say fifteen minutes. It’s gonna be real close. I get the impression those Colombian pilots ain’t anxious to come in to a hot LZ.”
Beaman shrugged, as if to say, “Tough!” and yanked the little American to his feet, shoving him toward the ladder.
“You speak their language, Gomer?”
“Some.”
“Then tell them they better go whatever direction we push them or they’ll make real good bullet catchers for us up there.”
The American said something that made the other captives’ eyes go big.
Johnston was pulling two small packages from his backpack.
“We don’t have enough C-4 to blow a place this big, but it’ll mess it up enough they won’t be able to use it for a long, long time. Add the rest of our grenades and it’ll make a nice enough boom.”
Dumkowski and Broughton set the charges and timers as Beaman and Johnston pushed the prisoners up the ladder to Dumkowski. Beaman tucked the laptop computer into his pack, just in case the American was telling the truth. He leaped up the ladder.
The group ran out of the shed into the bright, mid-morning sunshine. They could see two H-60’s clear the ridge to the west, heading their way. To the north, a group of thirty or so riders were barreling down the slopes as well. Coming their way i
n one big hurry. They would all converge at the clearing at about the same time.
“Cantrell, give them a few bursts with that M-60,” Beaman yelled. “These squirt guns of ours won’t reach up there.”
Cantrell braced the machine gun against a tree and squeezed off several three-round bursts. Two riders at the front of the bunch fell from their horses as if yanked by wires. The rest pulled up their mounts and dove for cover. Cantrell fired more bursts as targets came into view. The riders scrambled for a place to hide. Several began firing back, their rounds kicking up dirt at the edge of the clearing.
Martinelli guided the H-60s directly down to the clearing, not a hundred feet out of range from where the rebel bullets were landing. They flared out and barely touched the ground as Beaman’s team shoved the prisoners in and jumped in behind. Cantrell was the last man to leap into a waiting bird. The first of the rebels were back up on their feet and moving their way, firing again. Their shots made distinctive pinging sounds against the fuselage of the choppers.
Cantrell fired back from the doorway, chopping the legs out from under a couple of the rebels. The helicopter lifted away. He didn’t let up until the bird had turned and churned away toward the south.
They were too far away and the chopper rotors were making too much noise for them to hear the boom when Juan de Santiago’s vaunted additive lab blew, sending fragments of the rough shed that had covered it a good fifty feet in the air.
The rebels continued firing futilely after the helicopters after they had disappeared over the ridge.
31
Jon Ward stuck his head into the sonar shack. The dim, blue fluorescent light barely illuminated the four men huddled in the closet-like space. Three of them sat in front of large CRT screens, intently watching the information displayed on them. The uninitiated would see nothing more than shimmering dots and squiggles, an interesting enough show but totally meaningless to anyone who was not an expert in interpreting the underwater noises detected by Spadefish's sonar sensors. These men were experts.
Final Bearing Page 38
