by Chuck Holton
Then, as deliberately as he had approached the door, he retreated to his place at the head of the five-man stack, keeping his weapon trained on the lock and trailing a thin wire from the spool in his left hand. Sweat trickled down his back, and he tried to ignore the foul burnt smell in the dingy hallway.
Rip snapped a thumbs-up and his heart rate quickened as his headset crackled.
“Three, two, one … execute! Execute! Execute!”
Eyes shut tight behind his tactical goggles, Rip depressed the switch in his left hand, and the padlock evaporated with a loud pop, causing the door to slam open at the same time.
Before it could bounce back, Rip charged through the smoky opening with his silenced MP5 submachine gun leading the way. He cut left inside the door and scanned his sector, immediately locking on to a ski-masked form wielding an assault rifle emerging from behind a filthy couch in the corner.
A woman sat on the couch, bound and blindfolded. Rip instantly acquired his target using the infrared laser sight atop his own weapon and slapped the trigger twice in rapid succession. The nine-millimeter rounds exited the barrel with barely a hiss, and a microsecond later impacted with a double thwack, catching the terrorist somewhere in the chest.
Without waiting for the target to drop, he continued to scan his sector, hearing the same hissthwack as the rest of the assault team dealt swiftly with any threats they encountered. Then he heard a quick sequence of crisp reports from the rest of the team, signaling that their sections were clear.
An open doorway lay just beyond the couch in Rip’s sector. A click of the thumb switch on his weapon created a short infrared burst from his under-barrel tac-light that showed cases of water bottles stacked up inside the small room beyond the door.
Bingo! We have a winner.
Rip gave his sector a quick secondary scan and then moved to one side of the open doorway. He made sure to keep his weapon focused on the area behind the couch that he couldn’t see and called out, “Red zone, couch!”
A fleeting thought of Gabi, lying on a couch with that VNE punk flashed in his mind. He shook his head and put the thought away. Not now.
His team sergeant, John Cooper, was to Rip’s right and had a better view of the back of the couch. “Red zone, clear,” he replied, coolly.
Rip spun to face the doorway and had to wait less than two seconds before the rest of the team stacked up behind him, ready to clear the next room. They wouldn’t use demolitions this time, even if there had been a door.
He checked his weapon, knowing it was loaded with special frangible rounds designed to break apart on contact without passing through the target. His gut tightened. One stray bullet was all it would take to blow them all to burning shreds. He imagined what might happen to his mother and Gabi if he were gone. Not like he’d been around to take care of them recently anyway.
As soon as he felt the pat on his shoulder, Rip took a deep breath and charged through the doorway. Before he made it three steps, a bolt of lightning seemed to strike him in the chest. The thunderous boom that followed slammed him to the floor, disoriented and ears ringing despite his advanced electronic hearing protection.
Something went wrong. Very wrong.
Flat on his back, staring at where the ceiling should have been, Rip saw only stars.
Then the lights came on.
Someone flipped his night-vision goggles out of the way, and then Coop’s face came into slow focus above him. The dark-haired master sergeant’s voice seemed tinny and far away. “You okay, Rubio?”
Rip shook his head and blinked several times. “Wow. What happened, bro?”
Coop smiled. “I think they got us, buddy.”
The shriek of a referee’s whistle cut through the night air. Someone outside shouted, “Weapons on safe!”
John shifted his own weapon to his left hand and offered Rip his right. “Better quit lying around. Here comes trouble.”
Rip took the hand offered him and shakily got to his feet. Just then, a stocky man in black fatigues and a rumpled cloth patrol cap strode through the doorway, chewing a huge wad of tobacco.
The man surveyed the scene, then spit on the dirt floor. “Well, I’ll be. Seems like Staff Sergeant Rubio here done got hisself blowed up and took the rest of y’all with him.” He turned to face the rest of the men, who were still outside the small room. “Can anybody tell me what was his major malfunction?”
“Booby trap.” Rubio coughed. “I forgot to check the doorway for a booby trap.”
“Weeell,” the rotund man’s bushy mustache arched in a smug grin, “looks like my little present might have knocked some sense into ya. Only problem is, next time, this won’t be no training run in the tire house, and that boom you hear won’t be a little love tap like mine was. No sir, that’ll be the sound of your soul leaving your body. You get what I’m saying?”
Nausea churned in Rip’s gut. He managed a nod and a weak, “Yeah.”
“Good. You musta got discombobulated after checking the red zone behind that couch and plumb went silly as a rooster wearin’ socks!”
Rip’s face was getting hotter, and his temper was approaching the “red zone.”
Coop must’ve noticed. “Okay, point taken. Shall we do it again?”
The instructor looked at his watch. “Well, seein’ as how I’m aworkin’ here as a civilian now, and CSI is gonna be on in thirty minutes, I say we knock off for the night. Y’all go meet with Major Williams for an after-action review. He’s waiting for you in the control room.”
The other team members grunted assent and headed out the door of the tire house. Rip dropped the magazine out of his weapon and popped the snap on his chinstrap, then removed his helmet and headed for the door.
The instructor spit again and threw a beefy arm around Rip’s shoulders. “Listen, don’t let what happened tonight bug ya, Staff Sergeant. I’ve been workin’ EOD for twenty-two years. I was a sergeant major over at phase three of EOD school at Redstone Arsenal before I retired. That’s why they brought me back to work with you guys. It’s my job to make sure y’all have what you need to survive out there.”
Rip swallowed some water from his CamelBak—and some frustration with it. “No problem, sir.”
Face it, Rubio. You got distracted. And distracted will get you killed.
The grizzled old noncommissioned officer smiled as they walked toward the control tower. “Hey, don’t you go callin’ me sir, now. Makes me feel all funny. Call me Jed.”
“Okay, Jed.”
“Now listen, it’ll behoove you to remember something.”
“What’s that, Jed?” I’ll never understand what bee hooves have to do with anything.
“The easy way in is always mined.”
Rip nodded. “Roger that.”
University of Panama Campus, Panama City. 0945 hours
“Ach! You’ve got to be kidding me!” Hedi staggered around the parking lot under the large backpack that had just been lifted onto her back.
Her classmates Carlos and Zack shot concerned looks at one another while Fernanda stood with one hand on the trunk of her car and the other stifling a laugh.
Zack stepped in front of Hedi and studied her contorted face. “Should I … do you want me to help you take it off?”
Carlos spoke up before she could reply. “Wait up, brah. I’m thinkin’ she’s gonna have to get used to it sooner or later.” He leaned on Fernanda’s Nissan and raised his eyebrows. “She hasn’t even filled up her water bottles yet.”
Hedi put a hand on Zack’s shoulder to steady herself, blowing a loose blond strand of hair out of her face, and looked Carlos in the eye. “No. I am fine. The weight, it just surprised me a little.”
She shrugged her pack higher and tried to stand erect, then squeaked as she nearly fell over backward and took Zack with her. Fernanda gasped.
Carlos just shook his head. “I’m telling you, man. We’re gonna end up carrying these girls’ stuff.”
Fernanda shot him an i
cy look and then turned back to Zack and Hedi. “Maybe we should just stack our bags next to the car until Professor Quintero gets here.”
Hedi dropped her bag with a thud. “Good idea.”
Other than Fernanda’s light blue Sentra, Zack’s was the only other car in the parking lot. It was the first Saturday morning of spring break at Florida State’s Panama City campus, and most people had already left.
“Dude, what kind of car is that, anyway?” Carlos raised his sunglasses to gawk at Zack’s beat-up vehicle, which looked like some fifth-grader’s attempt to build a go-cart out of pieces left on the field after a crash-up derby.
Zack shrugged sheepishly, stooping to hide the key under his front tire. “Dunno. I bought it from a taxi driver who was retiring.”
“You bought a Panamanian taxi?” Carlos’s eyes bulged. “Are you loco?”
A boyish grin lit up Zack’s face. “My girlfriend thinks so. But, hey, it was the best I could find for three hundred bucks. I’m only staying here for a year anyway, then I’m headed back to Florida. Besides, it has a kickin’ stereo system.”
Fernanda wanted to mention that Carlos had no vehicle at all. Instead she said, “It’s probably not a good idea to leave your key there. Somebody’s liable to steal your car.”
Everyone was silent for a second before they all burst out laughing.
Even though Fernanda hadn’t known Zack very long, he seemed to be genuine and generous, if perhaps a bit naive. The best word she could think of to describe Carlos was maleducado, or poorly raised, which belied the fact that his father, Fernanda’s uncle, sent Carlos to the best private school in Panama City.
She turned to Zack. “So are you a biology major like Carlos and Hedi?”
“Nope. I’m shooting for a degree in cultural anthropology at FSU in Tallahassee. I transferred here for a year because I wanted to learn Spanish. Well, that, and I’m fascinated with Latin America. There’s so much cool history, especially here in Panama.” Zack shoved his hands into the pockets of his cutoff cargo pants. “I figured this would be a fun place to spend a year studying. Besides, everything’s wicked cheap.”
Carlos gave Zack’s jalopy a sideways look. “You get what you pay for, brah.”
“But why is a nonbiology student signing up to spend a week in the jungle looking for unclassified species of lepidoptera?” Fernanda asked.
“Oh, that. Well, I’ve wanted to visit Coiba ever since I first read about it in a book about the buccaneers and pirates who conquered this area in the 1500s. It said that the pirates thought Coiba was cursed and held things like flying serpents and trees that would spit acid on you.”
Hedi’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding, right?”
Zack shook his head. “No way. Coiba has an incredible history. It was a penal colony for something like a century. Panama would send its worst criminals there, and they’d basically just roam the island, killing each other off and surviving on whatever they could catch or grow.”
Hedi looked at Fernanda. “What have we gotten into?”
Fernanda winked. “Don’t worry, girl. They closed the colony a few years ago and moved all of the prisoners off the island. It’s a national park now. Besides, Professor Quintero has been there several times. He says it’s one of the last places in Central America that hasn’t been explored. It probably has hundreds of new species of animals and insects.”
“I saw that on the literature he sent out. Do you really think we’ll find something nobody else has?”
Fernanda smiled at her friend. “It’s very possible. The professor’s already credited with discovering twelve new species of butterflies and moths.”
“Really? So he’s, like, famous?”
Laughing, Fernanda said to Hedi, “Well, sort of. I’ve read all of his papers, and he’s brilliant. His most recent discovery is a bright red butterfly he named Nymphalis quinterus. I got to work with him on part of that project. As far as anyone can tell, it exists only in a microecosystem the professor discovered in a section of jungle on what used to be Fort Sherman, over on the Caribbean side of the country. He’s one of the world’s foremost lepidopterists.”
Fernanda realized she was gushing and caught herself. “I’m sure he wouldn’t take us anywhere unsafe.”
“Anyway,” Zack said, “I saw the ad for this trip in the school paper and figured this would be a great way to learn more about the island. And if I have to spend a week chasing bugs around the forest with you guys, I can handle that.”
Everyone laughed. Then a shiny maroon SUV whipped into the parking lot and sped toward the group.
“All right!” Carlos said. “Aquí viene el professor.”
Fernanda felt a flutter in her stomach. That’s the professor, all right.
The Pacific Ocean. 1000 hours
SO THIS IS what it feels like to die.
Naeem grimaced in pain and struggled to get even one eye open. As soon as he did, the blazing sun made him shut it again. It didn’t matter. There was nothing to see.
He lay in the inflatable raft, the saltwater sores on his back and legs seething like he was lying in a pool of acid. At least the hunger pains had disappeared.
When the ship had been attacked, he jumped overboard with the life raft still in its container. Fortunately, the barrel-shaped pod floated, and he clung to it until it had gotten light.
Naeem had been very proud of himself when he managed to deploy the raft and climb inside. But now he was fairly certain it would have been better to stay aboard the Invincible and die at the hands of the pirates with the rest of the crew.
He ran a swollen tongue over his cracked, shriveled lips. How should he die now? Staying in the bottom of the raft to be broiled alive by the tropical sun would take the least amount of energy, but that would undoubtedly take longer than if he rolled into the sea and joined his comrades at the bottom.
But dreams of their bodies being consumed by greedy fish haunted him every time he’d been able to escape the waking nightmare of being lost at sea. He could not bear the thought of them eating him too.
How long had it been? Three days, perhaps. At first he had held out hope for rescue, but when the plane came, it hadn’t seen him, a tiny yellow speck in a vast expanse of blue. That was when he knew he would die in this raft. Alone. Forgotten.
Why had they taken the Invincible? Was it simply random chance? Why kill the crew for a load of lumber? Piracy was almost unheard of in these waters. Unless …
Perhaps they had come for the package.
The thought struck him like a bag full of mud. What if the owner of the package, upon hearing that his client failed to take delivery, chose to murder the crew rather than pay for the return shipping?
Naeem never liked it when the captain took on “special deliveries.” Though he rarely knew what these shipments contained, that they were illegal went without saying. Perhaps Captain Karovik thought these shipments were an easy way to pad his pockets. But in doing so, he put the entire crew and the ship at risk.
This most recent shipment had given Naeem a particularly uneasy feeling. He eyed the metal boxes every time he inventoried the refrigerated provisions container.
When the client never appeared to claim his shipment in Sidon, Naeem wrote in his diary that transporting it was a bad idea. Still, he could not bring himself to hate the captain for what he had done. It was simply how things worked in this business.
He no longer wept for the family he would never see again. Besides, he had no tears left to shed. Being without water while surrounded by it was the worst torture imaginable. Allah once sent a short rainstorm, but even the water that collected in the bottom of the raft was so brackish it only made him thirstier.
He wondered about eternity. Had he lived a life that would please Allah? Deep inside, he feared the answer to that question.
Oh, he’d avoided gross sin—he never drank or smoked. He never visited prostitutes in the ports where the ship called. He sent as much money home to his
family as he could spare. But it wasn’t enough. The irregular work schedule on the ships where he’d served rarely left time for prayer. And he’d never completed the haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca.
As Naeem looked back, he realized he hadn’t really been a Muslim at all. He had simply been born into a Muslim family and had done what he was told, without question. He had been so preoccupied with his suffering on earth that he hadn’t really given what came afterward much thought.
Was it all a lie? Allah, Paradise, Mohammed? Now that it came down to it, what did it matter if death really was the end? What if he could slip into an unknowing, unfeeling sleep and just cease to be? Would that be so bad?
If Allah did exist, he had forgotten about Naeem Bari. What good did it do to pray to an unseen, uncaring entity?
If Allah would not hear him, perhaps some other God would. Part of him realized that even thinking such a thing would be considered the height of blasphemy in Pakistan. But he was not in his country. He was lost on the high seas and ready to take any help he could get.
A feeble prayer formed in his mind. If there is a God who cares, please hear me. Please help.
Nothing happened. No angel appeared. Not even a cloud filled the sky. Naeem sighed. What did I expect?
When the blackness finally came, he welcomed it.
Chorrillo District, Panama City. 1005 hours
The cockroach almost made it across the desk before meeting its fate at the end of a rolled-up magazine. Oswardo kept the periodical tightly bound with rubber bands for just that purpose.
He unceremoniously swept the smashed bug’s remains into the trash can, careful not to disturb the electronic components arranged on his desk, remnants of his latest round of tinkering. He resumed reading today’s copy of La Prensa.
The newspaper had gotten much better in recent years, and though he spent much of his time endeavoring to stay off its pages, he enjoyed reading about the other poor souls who were not so fortunate.
Another drug shipment had washed ashore on the San Blas islands, doubtless dumped at sea by Colombian smugglers after being spotted by Panama’s border police.
