Sergiovski fell into a drunken stupor and was practically unconscious. Zurko, struggling to draw breath, reached up and opened the hatch to let some fresh air in. Waves swept over the sail and poured frigid seawater down the open hatch, drenching both men.
Sergiovski was revived and screamed in anger.
"You idiot! You will sink us! Don't you understand? There are no pumps to get rid of this water."
He shoved Zurko aside and slammed the hatch shut just as another torrent of cold water spilled down the opening.
By the time the Coast Guard cutter eased alongside the tiny mini-sub, the two occupants were more than happy to see any rescuer, even the US military.
They climbed out onto the cutter's deck and into custody. Zurko even fell to his knees and kissed the deck of the cutter before offering his wrists to be handcuffed.
SEAL Lieutenant Commander Bill Beaman sat at the austere metal table across from the Commanding General of the Colombian Army. Chief Johnston fidgeted in his seat on Beaman's right. Both men looked uncomfortable. The truth was, they would have rather assaulted a hostile enemy beach fortification than spend time in a room full of government VIPs like these. El Presidente had insisted on this personal debriefing and it was hard to turn down the personal invitation.
Beaman gazed slowly around the stark room. It was typical of the military briefing rooms he had seen all around the world. The only way to tell that this wasn't Oman or Vadso, Norway, was to look out the window and see the tropical foliage out there. As was typical, maps dominated the walls around a table filled with mostly empty Styrofoam coffee cups. The folding chairs aligned around the table were occupied by Guitteriz's senior military staff, each wearing their dress uniforms with rows of ribbons and plenty of brass, evidently to show off for the Americanos.
President Guitteriz finally entered the room, greeted the Americans warmly, and returned the salutes of his staff. He cleared his throat and began speaking in near-perfect English
"Senor Beaman, once again my country is in debt to you and your brave men. We owe you our everlasting gratitude for ridding us of Juan de Santiago's laboratory. You saved many lives through your skill and bravery." El Presidente glanced around the room then continued in a lowered voice. "Although the next time we would prefer if you asked us first before you jumped into our country and shot our citizens."
Beaman reddened and protested.
"But, El Presidente, we had reason to believe…"
Guitteriz smiled and raised his hand as he interrupted.
"We understand perfectly your security concerns, especially considering past tragic events. I am happy to report to you as well as to my staff that we believe we have taken care of the major leak. Colonel Perez is in charge of our internal security forces. I believe you will be interested in what he has to say."
The swarthy Colonel at the far end of the table rose and strode to the center of the room. His crisply starched khaki uniform and spit-polished boots contrasted sharply with the SEALs’ torn and frayed “cammies.” They only had the outfits they had with them in their packs when they parachuted in. This meeting had been called before they had time to find anything else to wear. Beaman was still not sure why it was so important for them to be here.
Perez stood in front of a small-scale map of the city at the front of the briefing room.
“El Presidente, Lieutenant Commander Beaman, when you expressed concern about our security procedures after that awful ambush of your men in the jungle, we began an intensive search for leaks." He nodded toward the SEAL. "Due to our sources inside de Santiago's organization, we knew we were looking for a spy who was very well hidden and very careful. But one who had access to very sensitive information." Colonel Perez allowed himself the barest crease of a smile. "Fortunately for us, he was not careful enough. The computer system your JDIA gave us made him very lazy and allowed us to catch him. Hidden in the many programs on each machine was a monitoring function that reported every file that each machine accessed. No one knew of this except two computer experts we imported to conduct continuous audits on the units."
"Most ingenious," Guitteriz commented.
Perez nodded an acceptance of the president’s praise and continued.
"We found a relatively minor bureaucrat, a man named Jose Silveras, in our military communications department. He was taking an unusual interest in many files that were outside his authority. We have been feeding him misinformation now for the last two weeks. We are certain that this information is going directly to de Santiago and his staff. If events unfold as we suspect they will in only a short time from now, we will no longer need Senor Silveras in place and he…along with de Santiago…will pay for their betrayal of the people of our country. And, of course, for the lives of your brave men, Lieutenant Commander."
“Thank you, Colonel Perez.” Beaman said with a nod to Perez, then he turned to Guitteriz. “Mr. President, I only request that I be allowed to be there when you capture de Santiago.”
Guitteriz smiled.
“I understand perfectly, Lieutenant Commander. But it will not be necessary. We have our best men set to spring the trap on the bastard once and for all.”
“But I don’t think you understand at all, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.” Beaman stood and leaned on the table with both hands. “It’s not only for the men who died in that ambush. They were soldiers. Good soldiers. They died doing what they were trained to do. I want to be there for all those who died because they were stupid enough to snort de Santiago’s cocaine. Stupidity shouldn’t carry a death sentence. And for the others who have gotten hooked on his shit. And all those who would eventually become his victims if he’s allowed to keep exporting that crap
“You know the real reason I want to be there? Because I hate hypocrites! I hate a man who kills and maims and pretends it’s all for the good of his people, when all he really wants to do is capture the keys to power, to enrich himself through the blood of his own people as well as mine.
“Mr. President, I want to be there to see the look on the bastard’s face when he realizes the gig is up. When it dawns on him that no amount of his rhetoric can rally enough support to prevent him from spending the rest of his miserable days in some especially nasty prison somewhere.
“Mr. President, I want to be there with my men to see him go down hard!”
Chief Johnston was watching Beaman with wide eyes. He’d served with the man for four years and he had never before heard him utter more than a few sentences at a time. He certainly had never heard him make such an emotional speech to a sitting head of state.
The president rubbed his chin and glanced at his assembled military staff around the metal table. Each man gave a slight nod.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. Permission granted. I can now tell you that your presence here today is part of a trap that we are laying for de Santiago, and this meeting is part of the bait. Now, Senor Beaman, this is how we propose to deal with him once and for all time."
Juan de Santiago stared out through the dirt-smeared windshield of the Land Rover as it squeezed between the hovels and through the crowds of ragged urchins who rushed to see the odd vehicle as it passed. They stopped at the end of a street that allowed them a view of the place where the debriefing was supposed to be held.
"Antonio, are you quite sure they are meeting down there?" He gestured toward the small military compound a few hundred meters below them. It was little more than a couple of hastily constructed tar paper-covered barracks, with a low earth berm and chain link fence around it, and a helicopter-landing pad in the middle. It had only built here on the outskirts of Bogota in the last few weeks. It hardly seemed like the kind of place the president of the country would use for a military briefing.
Antonio de Fuka nodded vigorously.
"Si, El Jefe. That is what Silveras reported and he has been without error in the past. El Presidente apparently felt that secrecy was his best protection and this unlikely meeting place would be saf
est."
They watched as a few government troops lounged around the doors to one of the barracks. They were mostly out of uniform as they smoked and played cards. Their weapons were carelessly tossed aside. They were seemingly unconcerned about any possible rebel attack.
De Santiago snorted. His troops would never be so slovenly, so careless.
"How long now until El Presidente arrives?"
De Fuka spoke into his cell phone, listened, then answered de Santiago.
"His helicopter just left the presidential residence. It should be here in ten minutes at the most."
De Santiago nodded and smiled. The revolution would be over in ten minutes. His dream of freeing his people from the despot capitalist would be realized. And he would finally be El Jefe in more than name only. Once the president was removed, he could assemble his troops from the jungles and overrun the capitol.
All the land would be his! And God only knew how much of the rest of the world would open up to him.
"Good," he said, punching Guzman on the shoulder. "Drive closer, my friend. I want to feel the heat when El Presidente begins his journey to hell."
Guzman slipped the Land Rover into gear and slowly drove down the winding road toward the compound.
"Everyone is in place and ready?” De Santiago continued to question his lieutenant. “You are quite sure?"
De Fuka spoke into the cell phone once again and nodded.
"Si, El Jefe. As I have reported, everyone is ready. The missile shooters are all back on the ridge over there waiting. They will shoot down the helicopter when it is directly over the compound. The fighters are ready to crash the gates and shoot anyone who moves. The missile shooters will shoot anti-tank missiles into the buildings and will annihilate any vehicle that tries to escape. No one will survive. Of that you can be completely sure."
De Santiago smiled.
“Muy bueno, mi amigo. You will soon have your own cabinet position in your country’s new government, Senor de Fuka. Now tell me again in detail how El Presidente will die.”
Merely hearing de Fuka’s words caused a powerful tingling in his loins.
Soon. Very soon!
The lone Black Hawk helicopter cleared the ridgeline to the east and fluttered lazily on a course directly toward the compound. It flew along straight and level with no attempt at a treetop approach, or any other combat maneuver for that matter. The pilot seemed to have no concern at all about being detected or attacked. It stopped in mid-air, hovering a hundred meters above the landing pad before slowly beginning to settle down like a fat and happy gull.
Stinger missiles rose from the ground with a whoosh from four different locations around the ridge that overlooked the compound from the west. The heat-seeking missiles had no problem at all finding their intended target as they streaked directly toward the Black Hawk’s hot jet exhaust as it made its deliberate descent to the pad. There was no place for the chopper to escape.
The helicopter exploded brilliantly in an orange and black fireball and with a boom that reverberated off the ridges. The twisted metal, rendered incapable of flight, fell heavily onto the pad and burned furiously. Thick black smoke billowed up into the sky and was visible from most of the city in only moments. No one inside could have possibly survived.
As soon as he saw the missiles rise and begin their flight toward El Presidente’s helicopter, de Santiago screamed at Guzman that it was now time to crash the front gate. The Land Rover had pulled in directly behind a bright yellow school bus. It was a touch suggested by de Santiago himself. Anyone guarding the gate of the compound would hesitate to fire in the direction of a school bus.
The school bus barreled down the road, the big black car following closely. It crashed hard through the small barrier that attempted to block the entrance to the compound, then pulled to a halt inside. Rebel fighters poured out the bus’s side and rear doors, guns blazing wildly, scattering a hail of bullets.
Guzman swung the nose of the Land Rover past the bus and headed directly for the burning remains of the helicopter where the president had just died horribly. De Santiago checked his MAC-10, making sure there was a round chambered. He looked back at his brave fighters who were already pushing El Presidente's routed troops back into their barracks.
The attack was going exactly as planned.
The fighting was so intense that no one noticed a small black globe that was hovering, just peeking over the opposite ridgeline, the hills to the east. Stinger missiles blasted into the air and headed for the president’s chopper. Sensors inside the globe of the OH-58 Kiowa scout helicopter locked onto the missiles and calculated the trajectory back to their launch points. The rebel troops poured from the school bus. Six Apache helicopters leapt over the ridge and hovered there briefly. The data link between the scout chopper and the Apaches automatically downloaded the target coordinates to the Apache pilots' heads-up displays. Hellfire missiles were launched from the Apaches. On the far ridge, four pickup trucks, their store of spare Stingers and anti-tank missiles and their rebel crews were obliterated from the face of the earth in less time than it takes to draw a deep breath.
Without pausing to watch the result of their attack, all six choppers then skittered above the compound, their chin-mounted cannons darting back and forth, spewing death and destruction on the shocked rebel fighters. Many died without even knowing where the bullets were coming from.
The government troops halted their carefully choreographed retreat. They turned as one and opened fire on what was left of their pursuers. Hundreds more troops joined them, shooting from heavily fortified positions inside the barracks. More government troops poured out of shacks and buildings outside the compound, catching the rebels in a deadly vise of concentrated crossfire.
Guzman saw the nature of their predicament. There was only one thing to do. He spun the Land Rover around and stomped on the throttle as hard as he could, trying all the while to place himself between the rain of gunfire and the wide-eyed leader of the revolution who was in the seat behind him. Antonio de Fuka, in the passenger seat, braced himself against the dash, and gritted his teeth.
The machine’s powerful engine rocketed the car away from the gate, back toward the fence that formed the compound’s perimeter. It gathered enough speed to shoot up over the protective earthen berm and slam down in the middle of the razor wire-topped chain link fence. The weight of the vehicle crushed down the fence. Guzman never let up on the accelerator. The car fish-tailed in the dirt but shot forward, dragging a strand of the fence with it as they tried to escape from all the hell that was breaking loose inside the barrack compound behind them.
One of the Apache pilots spied the escaping vehicle through all the smoke. He looked directly at the Land Rover. The chain guns, slaved to his heads-up display, automatically slewed around to aim at what he looked at. He opened fire.
The first shells slammed into the car’s front end. The engine was destroyed in an explosion of fire and steam. The heavy car careened forward from its own momentum, slamming hard into a cement pillar. The impact drove what was left of the motor all the way back into the driver’s compartment and sent Antonio de Fuka hurtling forward through the windshield.
Juan de Santiago ended up in the back floorboard, standing on his head. He pulled himself up, shook himself off, and wiped hot blood from his forehead. He checked himself for wounds. Wasn't his blood. He looked up through the smoke and steam and saw Antonio de Fuka's shattered, lifeless body, rammed halfway through the windshield. An ugly gash on his throat no longer gushed blood. His heart had stopped.
On the other side of the front seat, Guzman moaned and pushed his way back from the steering wheel, struggling to free himself from the mangled mass of metal that captured his legs.
"Help me, El Jefe,” he said with surprising calm. “My legs. They are caught.”
Juan de Santiago squeezed through the crumpled frame of the side window and dropped to the ground outside. He crouched there for a second and looked around.
The Apache had gone on back to circle over the compound, looking for other targets. Three or four government troops were running across the landing pad toward the hole in the fence, heading for where they had seen the car crash.
He did a double take. A familiar face led the troops. The big yanqui soldier. The one from the jungle ambush.
In the midst of all the death and destruction around him, Juan de Santiago’s face split into an evil grin.
He had been right. They would meet again in battle. This was not the place. Not just yet.
More smoke poured from the wrecked Rover and wicked tongues of flame now licked from where the engine had been. There was a strong odor of leaking gasoline.
"Help me, El Jefe. I don't want to burn. I want to be here to protect you when you take the capitol, my leader. Remember how I carried you on my back at the Alverado hacienda when…"
De Santiago turned to him, looked him in the eye, and spat squarely in his face.
“It was you all along, wasn’t it, Guzman? Only you knew enough to be El Falcone. I should have known. I should have known.”
He raised his pistol and pointed it to Guzman’s forehead. He noticed the hungry flames already boiling into the passenger compartment of the car.
De Santiago laughed.
“Fire. Is it not the worst death imaginable?”
He turned his back and scurried across the street, away from the blazing vehicle, ignoring Guzman's screams of agony as the first flames reached his trapped legs.
The leader of the people’s revolution disappeared into the rat’s maze of rough buildings and shanties.
Bill Beaman watched de Santiago’s back as he disappeared into the narrow alley. He leaped the fence and ran after him as hard as he could, but the chase was nigh unto impossible. This was de Santiago's territory, as much as the dense Colombian rainforest was. He knew every twist and turn of these slums. Beaman had the distinct feeling that he was following a rattlesnake right into its den.
Final Bearing Page 47
