Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  There was no choice. He had to try to run the bastard down.

  He caught another glimpse of de Santiago as he darted down another alley fifty feet up the narrow street and to the left. Beaman waded through a pack of street kids as he ran all-out to the alley’s entrance.

  He stopped short to peep around the edge before he entered. No sense dying in an ambush today.

  There was de Santiago again, still fleeing, turning another corner a block ahead. Beaman looked back over his shoulder. Johnston was a hundred yards behind, running to catch up but being hindered by the same bunch of begging kids.

  Beaman couldn’t wait. He darted down the alley, almost slipping down in the slimy muck of wastewater, mud and human feces. He rounded the corner, trying to fight the feeling that the rebel chieftain was leading him along on this chase, staying just far enough ahead to avoid capture, but allowing him to continue the pursuit.

  Down another alley he ran, up the hillside, across another narrow street, fighting his way past a clothesline full of clothes and wading awkwardly through a vendor’s pile of woven baskets.

  No doubt about it. He was gaining on de Santiago.

  The rebel, looking back, ducked down yet another dark, shadowy alley. When Beaman got to the corner, he scooted around without pausing this time.

  De Santiago was nowhere in sight.

  The SEAL caught a deep breath and charged blindly down the alley, looking for a doorway or nook where the bastard might have gone to ground like some jungle varmint. There was no way out that he could see.

  The son of a bitch couldn't possibly have sprinted to the next corner that fast.

  Realization hit him an instant before he sensed more than heard the slightest movement in the alley, above and behind him. The SEAL stopped short, coiled, ready to spring around and confront the rebel leader.

  From above, on top of a narrow tin-roofed overhang that stuck out over the alley, de Santiago snarled down at him.

  “Buenas dias!”

  Beaman turned around slowly. He saw de Santiago on the little eave, an evil smile on his face, his MAC-10 pointed directly at Beaman’s heart.

  "At last, we meet in person, mi amigo Americano. Drop your weapon and keep your hands where I can see them."

  Beaman's H&K fell in the muck. He raised his hands as he desperately looked back down the alley, hoping against hope that he would see Chief Johnston, covering his back.

  The rebel leader hopped down from his perch, landing nimbly. He was still quite agile for someone his age. With the barrel of his gun, he motioned Beaman to step around the corner at the end of the alley and open the door to the nearest shanty.

  "Inside, por favor. I don't think it would be good to stand out here and compare notes on being a brave, strong warrior. Do you?"

  Beaman did as he was told, knowing already that once inside, he was a dead man. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the dark interior. The dirt-floored room was empty except for a dilapidated table and two rickety chairs. There was a small, rough, wooden crucifix hanging on the wall.

  His eyes adjusted. A woman who had been standing back in the corner of the room came into focus. She stood quietly, her hands at her side, watching him and de Santiago, making no effort to flee. It seemed as if she was expecting them. His eyes finally came around. Beaman could see that she wore a simple peasant skirt and blouse, a humble outfit that only accentuated her stunning beauty.

  He could only think of the Angel of Death, that this lovely creature was here to collect his soul once de Santiago separated it from his body.

  She moved slowly over to stand behind de Santiago, to touch his forearm, a gesture so familiar and easy it confirmed that it was no accident that de Santiago’s flight had led to this particular shanty among all the ones in Bogota. The SEAL now knew for certain that he had only moments to live. He couldn’t help but notice that the woman’s movement had the grace and beauty of a ballerina, that there was no malice in her amazing eyes as she watched him.

  "Margarita, my love, let me introduce you to the yanqui soldier I told you about. The one whose skill and bravery I admired so much when we attacked his troops in the mountains. Now, here he is. Imagine that! Only moments ago, he was so convinced I was finally defeated. He and his helicopters and the troops of El Presidente were close to destroying the revolution. Their ambush was so nearly a success. Many of our troops are dead. But not El Jefe. El Jefe lives to continue to lead his people to freedom. But not El Presidente. El Presidente has finally paid for his sins against the people of the country he has raped for so long. He is on his way to hell. Margarita, this is the most glorious day of our revolution! The helicopter of El Presidente is burning down on the field."

  He gestured toward the window of the shanty with the barrel of his MAC-10, his eyes shining with tears as he spoke. “Wonderful Margarita, it is a glorious day. You can see the smoke of El Presidente’s funeral pyre from here. And before the ashes of the wreckage have cooled, my army and I will take the capitol and return the government to our people once and for all."

  Beaman pursed his lips and shook his head. If he was to die, he was at least going to get in one good dig.

  "Juan, my man, you don’t know how wrong you are. So very wrong. That chopper your missiles took down? That was nothing more than a radio-controlled drone, a decoy to draw out your gunners. El Presidente is still very much alive. Safe and sound. And you, my friend, are finished."

  De Santiago eyes went wide, his mouth opened, and he screamed in rage.

  "Noooooo!" But then an eerie calm seemed to sweep over his face. The evil smirk was back as he bowed his neck in defiance. "No, it is not that simple, mi amigo Americano. As long as El Jefe lives, the revolution continues. I am very much alive, mi amigo. The rest of the revolution begins as soon as I have the pleasure of killing you, just as I killed your traitorous spy, El Falcone. It’s a shame in a way, though. At least you are a soldier, a brave soldier, your loyalties sincere and uncompromised, and that I admire. You are not like the bastard coward El Falcone who would steal from me all the time he was stabbing his leader in the back. All traitors must eventually die. I took special pleasure in seeing his life end. But you? It is a shame that we had to fight against each other and not serve side-by-side.” He raised his pistol to eye level, the muzzle of the MAC-10 two inches from the bridge of Beaman’s nose. “Still, it is now time for you, too, to die."

  The SEAL tensed.

  De Santiago sighted down the barrel. He could not see Margarita Alvarado reaching behind her and pulling the needle-sharp stiletto from the belt of her skirt. She cooed sweetly into de Santiago’s ear.

  “You are right, Juan my darling. It is time for all traitors to die. And this is for my father, Enrique Alverado."

  A puzzled look crossed de Santiago’s face as she aimed the point of her knife to a spot just above his collar. She shoved it sharply upward.

  Beaman dropped instinctively and rolled frantically through the dust of the shanty’s floor to the minimal shelter of the rough wooden table. He didn’t have time to see the sweet smile on Margarita Alverado’s face.

  El Jefe was probably alive just long enough to hear the next words from the full lips of his love.

  “I am El Falcone. I have my revenge at last."

  The blade broke through his cerebellum and into his cerebrum. He felt a sting, saw a blinding flash, then there was nothingness.

  El Jefe and the revolution were dead.

  Epilogue

  Sui Kia Shun sat alone in stony silence. The garden that was so calming, that brought him so much joy, was now dark and foreboding. A thundercloud blocked most of the late afternoon sun. Even the songbirds seemed to sense his mood and were oddly silent.

  The young woman slipped out the glass doors of the house and walked quietly across the stone patio to stand before him. He did not acknowledge her presence. She cast her eyes downward, staring at the ground, and finally spoke.

  "My father, I have bad news to report. We have bee
n informed that the American Coast Guard sank the Colombian's ship. All our shipment was lost. Almost an entire year's production gone. The guards we placed aboard have perished as well."

  Shun showed no sign he had heard her words as he picked up an exquisite jade carving from the granite table next to his chair. The delicate little bird, fashioned from the finest white jade, was over fifteen hundred years old. Artisans living during the T'ang Dynasty had spent years fashioning every minute detail. The priceless artifact warmed in Shun's hand, and normally, it would have brought him much comfort.

  He suddenly smashed his hand down on the table, shattering the carving into a thousand fragments.

  His eyes burned like embers as he raised them to the woman. His voice roared when he spoke.

  "You have brought great shame and disgrace on this house. This mission was yours to complete. It was your responsibility to assure its success. Leave now. You are no longer worthy to be my daughter."

  The young woman, her head still bowed low, nodded once then shuffled out the door. She knew that she could never return to her home nor speak with him again.

  A low rumble of angry thunder reverberated off the mountains as she quietly slid the door closed behind her.

  Tom Kincaid stepped off the elevator into the intensive care unit. He hated hospitals, the sounds, the smells of the places. Every time he stepped into one, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from rocketing back almost twenty years. He had rushed to the emergency room at Angel of Mercy Hospital, only to be told he was too late. That his beautiful sister had just died of a massive drug overdose. And that senseless loss had left him all alone, with no one else. It was a gaping hole in his life he had never been able to fill.

  The feeling of frustration and helplessness was still with him. He had used it to his advantage, to steel his resolve to do all he could to prevent other bright lights from being snuffed out.

  The nurse at the monitoring desk warned him that Temple was sleeping.

  "Your friend is doing as well as could be expected given the extent of his injuries. He had massive injuries. We didn't think he would make it when he first got here. Another five minutes and he likely wouldn't have. It was touch and go for the last couple of days. He's a fighter, though. And strong as an ox."

  Kincaid thought about the big cop who had become such a close friend in such a short time. The nurse was right. He was a tough old so-and-so, but the last time he had seen Temple, the detective was unconscious and barely clinging to life.

  "So he’s going to make it?" he asked pensively.

  The nurse smiled and nodded.

  "He should be all right, barring any complications. Rehabilitation is going to be tough, though. He’ll have to relearn a few things, like how to walk.” She checked her wristwatch. “We’re not supposed to let any visitors into ICU except during visiting hours. But I know what you two just went through together. You can go in for a few minutes now."

  Kincaid followed her into the little curtained-off enclosure. Temple lay there on the hospital bed, connected by a maze of wires and tubes to bottles of clear liquids dripping into his veins and machines monitoring every function of his battered body. He looked deathly pale and not nearly the robust cop he had been a few days before.

  “How come we can’t ever find a cop when we need one?” Kincaid asked, almost whispering.

  Temple's eyes blinked open.

  “Hey, Tommy,” he croaked. "We get 'em?"

  Kincaid smiled.

  "Yep. All except the two trucks that got away. We don’t know where they ended up. Rashad won't be a bother to anybody anymore, though. Ramirez is going away for a long, long time, too."

  "Good. Good."

  Kincaid's smile grew even broader.

  "Guess what else. Rick Taylor called. Wants me to come to D. C. Take over all enforcement for the DEA. Make him look good. He’s too busy doing press conferences to try to run down any druggies anymore."

  "No kiddin’. What you tell him?"

  "Told him where he and his political cronies could stick his job. Besides, I got a better offer. Detective Temple, you're talking to the new Deputy Director of the JDIA. I work for John Bethea now. And I’ll need somebody I can trust to head the Northwest office. Know anybody who might be interested in a cushy government job in…say…six months?"

  Temple tried to smile, but even that slight effort made him groan from the pain. The nurse touched Kincaid's arm.

  "He needs his rest. You'd better say good-bye for now."

  Kincaid grasped his friend's hand.

  "Ken, get better. And hey! Don't be playing grab-ass with these nurses around here. I can't have you facing a sexual harassment charge first thing on the job. I'll be back tomorrow."

  “Hey, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, big guy?”

  “Enjoyed taking down some bad guys with you.”

  The party was in a fashionable two-story apartment, just up the hill from Berkley. Some of the attendees were students, mostly women, but most of the rest worked together at a software publishing company down in Oakland. They had already watched the sun as it dropped below the skyline of San Francisco to the west. Now it was time for the first of the powder to be brought out.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” the host, a tall, long haired man, bragged. “The guy I got it from says it’s really rare stuff, a special Colombian blend. Once you try it, you’ll never be satisfied with the regular thing again.”

  “Oooh, Juan Valdez lives,” one of the college girls giggled. She was pretty, dark-eyed, with lively, mischievous eyes. “Give me the first toot.”

  “You sure you can handle it?”

  “Try me!”

  “Maybe I will.”

  She cuffed him on the shoulder playfully, then bent over to try the rare, special blend cocaine while the crowd cheered her on.

  Spadefish lay tied to the pier, quietly at rest. The fresh coat of black paint glistened in the morning sunshine. Her commissioning and unit awards pennants snapped sharply from the staff mounted to the after edge of the sail. A portable stage rested across her back a few feet farther aft. It was decorated with red, white, and blue bunting and a large Spadefish insignia hung on the back wall.

  The crew, all in dress uniforms, stood in ranks on the pier, alongside the old black ship they loved. They faced a sizeable crowd of invited guests, all seated to listen to the speakers for this occasion.

  Ellen Ward sat in the front row with her children, Linda and Jim Ward, seated on either side of her. She couldn’t help it. She brushed away tears from her eyes as she listened to what each of the speakers had to say about what she had always called her husband’s “mistress.” John Bethea sat behind Ellen, next to Bob Beaman and his SEAL team.

  Up on the stage, Tom Donnegan and Pierre Desseaux had each spent ten minutes extolling the virtues and proud history of Spadefish. Desseaux's remarks, though, sounded forced. He detailed the actions of the submarine and her crew during her last mission.

  Jon Ward stepped up to the microphone.

  "Admiral, it is with great regret that I request permission to inactivate USS Spadefish."

  Admiral Donnegan rose and gave the order.

  "Captain, inactivate USS Spadefish."

  Ward saluted smartly and turned to Joe Glass, who was standing beside the commissioning pennant.

  "XO, haul down the commissioning pennant."

  Glass slowly lowered the thin wedge of cloth that signified Spadefish as a commissioned ship. Further aft, Ed Beasly slowly lowered the Stars and Stripes.

  Admiral Donnegan and Captain Desseaux rose and walked off the sub and onto the pier. Jon Ward turned to Glass one more time.

  "XO, secure the watch."

  Ward led the last of Spadefish's crew slowly over the gangway onto the pier. To a man, they each looked back at her, as if they wanted to say a final goodbye, but the words simply wouldn’t come.

  Ward stopped and stood there for a moment, watching the way the current tugged at th
e old submarine. Out there in the harbor, way beyond where Spadefish now lay tethered, another sub was just pulling away, the Cherry Two tug at her side, headed proudly out for the open sea. For a moment, as the wake of the other sub rocked her, it almost looked as if Ward’s old boat was tugging at her moorings, straining to steam back out there where she belonged, too. But then, she seemed to settle down once again against the pier, content to stay right where she was.

  The brave old girl was going to her final rest at last.

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  About the Authors

  Commander George Wallace

  Commander George Wallace retired to the civilian business world in 1995, after twenty-two years of service on nuclear submarines. He served on two of Admiral Rickover's famous "Forty One for Freedom", the USS John Adams SSBN 620 and the USS Woodrow Wilson SSBN 624, during which time he made nine one-hundred-day deterrent patrols through the height of the Cold War.

  Commander Wallace served as Executive Officer on the Sturgeon class nuclear attack submarine USS Spadefish, SSN 668. Spadefish and all her sisters were decommisioned during the downsizings that occurred in the 1990's. The passing of that great ship served as the inspiration for "Final Bearing."

  Commander Wallace commanded the Los Angeles class nuclear attack submarine USS Houston, SSN 713 from February 1990 to August 1992. During this tour of duty that he worked extensively with the SEAL community developing SEAL/submarine tactics. Under Commander Wallace, the Houston was awarded the CIA Meritorious Unit Citation.