Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  "Tom, for the hundredth time, everybody’s ready. You sure you want to wait around to see if that slime shows up? They may be planning on leaving before he drops by, you know. Or what if he’s gone on to meet them wherever they’re taking the shit already? They gotta know by now about the other guy getting busted downstate.”

  “We’ll move if that happens. I just can’t believe they’ll move out without him here to see it happen, though. Besides, I want him on the premises when this thing goes down so we’ll have a stronger case.” Temple could hear the angry trembling in Kincaid’s voice. “And I just hope those two bastards want to put up a fight so I can save the government of the United States a little money and time.”

  As if on cue, headlights pierced the darkness at the far end of the street. Whoever it was, he was moving quickly.

  Temple's radio squawked: "Black Porsche coming."

  He grabbed the microphone.

  "Heads up, everyone. As soon as we ID Ramirez, we move."

  The black Targa materialized under the dim light at the warehouse door. A short, dark haired man hopped out and entered through a side door.

  Temple focused the sniper scope and squinted into it.

  "That's him. People, move! Move! Move!"

  Two dozen heavily armed men dressed in identical black uniforms rushed out of a pair of buildings farther up the street, moving quickly toward the target warehouse. A dozen more armed men rose from the brush around Temple and Kincaid and rushed the chain link fence. They cut through and charged the warehouse from that side. Two helicopters rose from the landing pad at SEATAC and were circling overhead, playing large searchlights on the scene below while Seattle PD squad cars, their blue lights strobing, blocked all entrances and exits to the complex.

  All that activity outside didn't go unnoticed by those inside. Someone started shooting from the door, firing blindly with a machine pistol. The staccato ripping sound and bright muzzle flash tore through the night and one of the DEA men who were approaching went down with a sharp yelp, clutching his calf.

  A single shot answered. It was the deeper bark of a Wetherby 300 Magnum sniper rifle. The machine pistol clattered to the ground, and its owner tumbled from behind the doorway and crumpled lifelessly to the pavement.

  A bullhorn blasted: "Inside the building! This is the DEA! You are surrounded! Give yourselves up!"

  Defiant gunfire erupted from several windows around the building. It was answered by return fire from the SWAT teams. The smugglers were badly outmatched. Their volleys were random and poorly aimed. The return fire was accurate. The futile shooting from inside the warehouse slowed and finally stopped completely.

  Two dark figures burst out of the back door, trying to make it to the fence. Both carried machine pistols, firing randomly as they ran toward the hole in the fence near where Kincaid and Temple still lay watching.

  "Halt! Drop your weapons or we'll shoot," Temple yelled.

  Both escapees made the mistake of raising their gun barrels in the direction of the two lawmen. Kincaid's Berretta barked at almost the same instant that Temple's Glock fired.

  The two thugs fell.

  The firefight was winding down. It was time to go inside and pick up the pieces. Temple and Kincaid reloaded and slowly approached the building’s large sliding door from the side, being careful not to expose themselves to anyone hiding in the darkness inside. Anyone who might still have a bit of fight left.

  There was the sound of an automobile engine roaring to life inside. The gold Beamer crashed right through the door, its tires squealing. Kincaid jumped to the side, barely clearing the rocketing car. Ken Temple, ten years older and fifty pounds heavier, wasn't quite fleet enough. The right front fender hit him solidly, a powerful blow to his legs and midsection. The force of the impact sent him sprawling awkwardly, flying through the air, tumbling to the ground in a heap, one leg bent at an odd angle. The Beamer’s rear end skewed wildly, the rear fender striking the detective one more time before its driver got it straightened and headed down the service road.

  Tom Kincaid rolled on his shoulder to his feet and came up shooting. The car's rear window shattered with a loud pop, disintegrating into a shower of glass pellets after the first two shots. Someone fired back at him but Kincaid didn’t let up. He emptied the Glock into the fleeing vehicle. It veered to the right and crashed hard into the concrete wall of a building further down the line, its horn a continuous mournful wail as steam and smoke billowed from the crumpled machine.

  Kincaid allowed a couple of the assault force to check on the driver of the car. He suspected what condition they would find him in. He reloaded his Glock once again as he ran back to his friend's still body. The big detective lay where he had fallen and did not move. Kincaid dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse at Temple’s throat. He couldn't find one. Desperately hoping, he tried again. There it was. He was still alive.

  He yelled as loudly as he could.

  "Officer down! Get medical help." There didn't seem to be any bleeding. Internal injuries, a head wound. "Get me a chopper! We've got to get him to a hospital!"

  He spied a police helicopter touching down in the field on the other side of the fence. Kincaid used all the strength he could muster to gather up his friend in his arms, drape him over one shoulder, and run toward the chopper.

  A police captain in dress uniform with a lot of braid was climbing out. Showing up now that the shooting was over so he could join in the glory as soon as the media arrived. Kincaid brushed him aside to lift the inert body of his friend into the cabin of the chopper.

  “Get him to the nearest hospital as fast as you can!" he ordered the pilot.

  The captain stepped up. He grabbed Kincaid and gave him a shove away from the helicopter.

  "Just a second, agent. I'm in command here. There are other wounded in that warehouse we will have to triage and see who needs help first. We'll take them all when we have a load ready to evacuate."

  Kincaid glared at the short, rotund little man. Several chins hid his collar devices under mottled flesh.

  "Any other cops hurt?" Kincaid growled.

  "I don’t know, but several of the suspects are wounded. We have to assess which ones are the most seriously…"

  Tom Kincaid was near explosion, and when he interrupted the cop, his voice was loud and menacing, his lips inches from the fat captain’s face.

  "I don't give a damn about them. They should have thought of this before they started. While you’re taking the rectal temperatures of a few bad guys, this brave officer is dying!" He turned to the pilot and bellowed, "Get this piece of shit off the ground before I throw you out and fly it myself."

  The pilot didn't wait for a second invitation. He was on Kincaid’s side. He saluted smartly, pushed the throttle forward, and pulled back on the collector, lifting the helicopter off the ground and dusting Kincaid and the captain with dirt and debris.

  The captain still blustered; yelling things about civil rights and liability suits and chains of command as Kincaid turned and purposefully walked back over to the warehouse.

  The SWAT team was just emerging with a dozen men in handcuffs. Carlos Ramirez, his expensive designer suit dirt-stained and torn, led the prisoners.

  “You won’t believe how much coke they have on those trucks in there,” one of the officers said.

  “How many trucks?”

  “Nine.”

  Kincaid fell into step alongside Ramirez.

  "Mister, I count at least a dozen counts of murder, terrorism, drug smuggling, and probably a few other charges I haven't thought of yet. My only regret is that I won’t get to throw the switch myself when they burn your sorry ass."

  Ramirez managed an insolent smirk.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, DEA. My lawyer will have me out before the sun’s up. And I’ll have your sister before lunch.”

  Kincaid stopped, looked at him sideways, and fought the almost overpowering urge to stick the Glock to the bastard’s foreh
ead and pull the trigger.

  Instead he turned and walked slowly toward the side street and his own parked car.

  He was tired. Very, very tired.

  36

  Juan de Santiago demonstrated his usual impatience as he waited.

  "Are you certain everyone is in place?"

  Antonio de Fuka sighed as long and loudly as he dared and looked back across the little room at El Jefe. The leader paced back and forth, his boots raising little clouds of dust from the dirt floor. He glanced out the room’s lone pane-less window, out onto a squalid street in the midst of the worst shantytown in Bogota.

  “Street” was a misnomer, bestowing more grandeur than the nameless dirt track deserved. It wandered at odd angles among tin-walled shacks and was barely wide enough for a motorized vehicle to squeeze through. Dirty, half-naked children played there, oblivious to the raw sewage coursing through the mud, while grownups napped in the shade of the doorways or huddled together on the corner. De Santiago felt as much at home here as he did in his beloved jungle. Much of the early part of the revolution had been spent here, using the squalor and poverty of this place as the catalyst for the rebellion.

  "Everything is ready, El Jefe," de Fuka assured his leader yet again. "Our men are in position. The ordnance is poised as you directed. They will attack on your signal. We will not fail."

  De Santiago merely grunted. The waiting this time was especially difficult. He was well aware that his staff considered him a man of most limited patience. The past three days had not detracted from that image. They knew how momentous this occasion would be. There was no room for error. That’s why they had taken such unusual precautions in rounding up his most trusted fighters, his most battle-tested soldiers, their most sophisticated weapons and shooters, and in slipping them into Bogota undetected. Even with his well-positioned intelligence gatherers, gaining information about the debriefing Guitteriz would be holding with the yanqui soldier was more difficult than anything they had ever done.

  Security had been unusually high around this meeting and that raised de Santiago’s antenna. Even Jose Silveras, the most valuable of spies, could find out little other than the location and the time. Luckily, Silveras found enough details in the many databases to help them piece together a plan, but only at the last possible minute. Now it had been confirmed through two other sources, so de Santiago and de Fuka had given the order to proceed with the plan. This would be the best chance they would have to get revenge for the damage the Americano had done. And it was a fine opportunity to remove El Presidente and throw the government into chaos.

  This was a move born of desperation, but it would be just as effective nonetheless. It was a glorious day for the people, for the revolution.

  There was one other distraction: the troubling lack of information from the north. The first shipment of dosed cocaine should have arrived at the secret off-load south of Seattle, and the second load of freight, Sui’s heroin, should be well on its way down the Straits of Juan de Fuca via the mini-sub by now. And de Santiago should have heard from Novstad, Zurko, or Ramirez with some kind of update.

  They had been silent. It was not a good omen.

  Perhaps they were only being very cautious. It would be a most inopportune time for the DEA or the JDIA to get wind of the potent product he was sending into America. They would know how serious El Jefe was about his revolution, about his plan to capture the American market, about how adept he was at breaking their pitiful anti-drug barrier. How eager the customers were in their country to try his mix.

  There might be another reason why he had not heard anything yet. Perhaps they were merely derelict in their duty. For that, they would eventually answer. De Santiago hoped for such a simple explanation. He suspected deep down in his bones that another disaster had struck. His masterfully created plan was already in shambles here at home.

  El Jefe knew something else, and it was the most disturbing realization of all. His people were beginning to doubt him. Word of all the setbacks had spread among his supporters. Many were beginning to question his ability to lead the revolution.

  With this ultimate bold move, he would show them he still had the power to lead. Very soon, he would finally control his country, once and for all. Those who had betrayed him would pay, right along with the yanqui bastards.

  Guzman stepped through the doorway from the street.

  "El Jefe, the car; it is ready," he grunted as he checked his wristwatch.

  De Santiago glanced back at his lovely Margarita, who sat quietly in the far corner of the rustic room.

  “I will come back for you soon, my dear. And when I do, you will make love to the new president of our country.”

  She smiled beautifully, her face seemingly lighting up the dark, dank room, and she blew him a kiss.

  De Santiago strode purposely out the doorway of the shanty and stepped into the open rear door of the black Land Rover, ready to witness first-hand the long overdue grand climax of his revolution.

  Rudi Sergiovski tried one more time. The underwater telephone seemed to be working fine. The signal was going out all right. He could hear his voice reflecting off the ocean surface fifty meters above him.

  So where was that damn Swede and his rust bucket of a ship?

  Sergiovski checked his navigation again. He was right where he was supposed to be, precisely at the rendezvous point.

  "Hey, Phillipe, my friend. Check my navigation. Make sure I have it right."

  Phillip Zurko reluctantly roused himself from the stool where he was dozing. He moved over to look at the navigation console.

  "Looks okay to me. What's the worry?"

  The fat Russian was beginning to sweat and his voice had involuntarily risen an octave.

  "The worry, my unlearned companion, is this: our fuel cells only have so much capacity. We have about two hours power left right now. If Novstad doesn't show quickly, we are out of luck. It will get very dark and cold in here."

  Zurko wished he had paid a lot more attention when the garrulous Sergiovski had explained to him how the Zibrus worked.

  "Is there nothing you can do?” he gulped. “Surely you have back-ups! A battery? A diesel engine? Something!"

  The Russian took a swig of vodka from his bottle then wiped his lips with his sleeve. Zurko suspected the man was getting near drunk by now.

  "It works like this, Senor Zurko.” Sergiovski didn’t even try to hide the derision in his voice when he spoke Zurko’s name. “The fuel cells give us all our power. All our power. That means power for propulsion to drive back to shore, power for light, power to clean the air, and power to pump water." He took another belt of the vodka. He was exasperated at having to waste effort explaining their predicament yet again to this thick-skulled Latino. "The fuel cells need hydrogen and we are almost out of hydrogen. The Helena K has our re-supply. Without it, we are stuck out here, dead in the water. You want to ask the US Coast Guard for a tow to shore?"

  “Surely we have emergency systems that we could…”

  "There was no capacity for any emergency systems. They were removed so we could carry more cocaine, remember? I warned you about this when we designed this piece of shit. You insisted. You and your beloved El Jefe. You said another ton of cocaine was much more important than a 'smelly old diesel,' I think you called it."

  Sergiovski belched and jerked upward on the sub’s control yoke. The little Zibrus angled sharply for the surface.

  “What are you doing?”

  "We will surface and try to radio that stupid Swede," Sergiovski muttered, more to himself than in answer to Zurko’s question. “Maybe he is lost, looking for us.”

  The mini-sub bobbed to the surface, its tiny sail barely clearing the wave tops. Zurko stared out through the thick glass porthole to see the choppy gray north Pacific. Waves lapped up and over the little porthole and he felt himself getting queasy.

  “But Senor Sergiovski, we should not be using the radio out here because…”

  Th
e look on the Russian’s red face stopped him cold. Sergiovski fiddled with the dials of the radio, then he spoke in English in his thick Russian accent, his words further slurred by the effects of the mostly empty bottle of vodka.

  "Helena K, this is Zibrus. We are at rendezvous. Where are you? Over."

  The Russian repeated the phrase over and over, listening vainly between transmissions, desperately hoping the freighter would reply.

  There was nothing but static on the little speaker.

  In the sky a thousand feet overhead, a United States Coast Guard C-130 turned in slow, lazy circles. Its mission was a mostly hopeless one, to assist in the recovery of the Cyclone and the search for any more possible survivors. The search was futile and the crew knew it. They were tired now after hours of looking at nothing more than miles and miles of wave tops. They were angry over the vicious surprise attack on one of their own that had brought them out here in the first place.

  Even this soon after the ambush, the name Helena K was infamous throughout the Coast Guard. When the pilot heard the name of the ship in his headset, he was immediately alert.

  He listened carefully to the repeated transmissions, the seeming desperation in the voice. Whatever craft the “Zibrus” might be, it seemed frantic to contact the killer ship. The C-130’s pilot continued to listen while his copilot used the other radio to contact the rescue cutter that was towing what remained of the Cyclone slowly back to Port Angeles.

  The cutter made a small course change and headed in the direction of the radio call. It would be six hours before they could get there.

  The C-130 had already located the source of the radio transmissions and soon slowly orbited above it, watching the tiny black shape far below, bobbing on the ocean’s surface.

  The fuel cells on the Zibrus held out almost an hour longer than Sergiovski predicted. As they gave out, the lights on the mini-sub darkened. The only illumination inside was the sunlight through the two tiny portholes. The air inside grew thick and heavy. Within an hour of the failure of the cells, it was already getting difficult for the men inside to breathe.