by Chuck Holton
Fernanda was again awed by the savage beauty of the island, though as they got closer, she realized that it wasn’t quite as unspoiled as she’d originally thought. Here and there piles of flotsam that had washed up on shore were scattered haphazardly along with logs, old coconuts, and lots of other debris. Even still, the swaying palm trees and dark rocky outcroppings on both ends of the beach looked like something out of a travel magazine.
I am going to have fun, even if it kills me.
Two minutes later Vincente backed the boat into the beach. Everyone piled out into knee-deep water and started a human chain to off-load their backpacks and other equipment.
When they were done, everything was in a small pile in the shade of an almond tree just above the high watermark. Tiny hermit crabs were everywhere, leaving tracks that made it look like mice on motorbikes had staged a rally on the beach.
The waves were doing their best to swamp the Pescador, so there wasn’t time for long good-byes with their captain. With a toothless grin and a wave, Vincente pushed the boat into deeper water, started it up, and sped off around the rocky outcropping, out of sight.
Fernanda turned back toward the lush jungle that crowded the beach. Far beyond the nearest pines, she could see dark, jungle-covered mountains with mist swirling ominously down from their peaks, and clouds gathered on the horizon.
Suddenly Fernanda felt very, very alone.
Isla Coiba. 2340 hours
THE NIGHT AIR hung heavy and still over Coiba, and lightning flashed on the horizon as Nero Sancho fought to keep the large single-engine cargo plane airborne. The Antonov AN-2 was as reliable a plane as any made, but it was a little like flying your house while sitting in the attic.
The ancient Russian aircraft droned in low and slow over the waves, aiming for the grass airstrip visible to Nero only as a lighter band against the black canopy of the jungle. He crossed himself hastily and said a silent prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe, whose icon was taped to his instrument panel.
The trailing edge of the airstrip rose and fell in the small multi-paned windscreen, and he could barely make out the beams of six high-powered flashlights spread out in the banana palms to signal the end of the airstrip.
Nero tried not to close his eyes as the row of palm trees between the beach and the airstrip loomed ahead. As soon as they flashed by beneath the plane, he cut the throttle and let the behemoth’s front wheels bounce once, then again on the rough ground, shuddering down the short runway.
He fought to keep the wheels straight as he engaged the brakes with his left hand, still praying that the plane wouldn’t hit a stump or a ditch and flip over. It shuddered to the end of the grassy strip and stopped. Flashlights bounced through the tall grass as Chombon’s men converged on the plane.
Ordinarily, he would never have agreed to take this job, flying into a remote, unused airstrip in the middle of the night, bringing supplies to a group of men obviously up to no good. Especially in this place. It made him shudder just to say its name. Everyone in his hometown of Colón knew someone who had come here and never returned. Even though they had shut the dreaded prisons for good, it was illegal to land here. The island and surrounding waters had been designated Patria Mundial—a World Heritage site.
Nero unstrapped himself from the cockpit and climbed down into the cargo bay, unlocking the side door and pushing it open. The smell of aviation fuel mingled with that of dew and humidity and decay. A muscular black man loped toward him through the grass, carrying a large flashlight. Nero climbed down and extended his hand.
“Chombon, it is good to see you again.”
“You are late.”
Nero shrugged. “Aviation is not an exact science, hermano.”
“You will not be able to make both trips tonight.” Chombon scowled.
Nero spread his hands. “I am sorry. What can I say? We will have to try again next week. In the meantime, I’ve brought you something special.” He led the way over to the open aircraft door, reached inside, pulled out a bottle of rum, and handed it to the gang leader. “This will solve some of your problems, no?”
Chombon examined the bottle in the light of his torch. “Perhaps. It has been a very bad week. What I really need, Sancho, is more men. I’ve sent a text message to Antonio about it, but it would help if you would remind him as well.”
He bowed slightly. “As you wish.” There is no shortage of criminals in Colón.
“Good. Now let’s get this cargo loaded.” Chombon turned and whistled. Several men ran to the tail of the plane and lifted it up, rotating the fuselage around and pointing the nose back toward the sea. Then another column of men emerged from the wood line, each carrying a crate or box. Some of the cargo required the combined efforts of several men.
Nero climbed back into the plane and flipped the button that lowered the rear cargo door. Chombon’s men trudged up the ramp with their burdens, then dropped the boxes and returned for more.
While securing the cartons, Nero noticed that they contained everything from electronics to clothing, all made in Indonesia. He could guess how the products came to be on Coiba.
Get in, get out, don’t ask questions. Do what you were hired to do.
As the cargo continued to be loaded, he kept an ear tuned to the approaching sounds of thunder. The lightning flashes were getting closer, and the first gusts of wind made the palm fronds rustle in anticipation of the storm.
Chombon reappeared. “If we stack things on top of each other, there would be enough room to fit all of the cargo. That would save you the second trip.”
Nero nodded. “That it would, señor. Because with that much weight, the Guadalupe would never get off the ground.”
Torrijos-Tocumen International Airport, Panama. 2355 hours
You’ve got to love the red-eye.
The double doors swung open in front of Rip to reveal a typical Latin American airport: crowded, smoky, and chaotic. The men of Task Force Valor shouldered their carry-ons and joined the air-conditioned bedlam of locals, tourists, and businesspeople, all scurrying through the lower-level terminal of Panama’s Torrijos-Tocumen International.
“There’s a lot of people here for midnight, y’all,” Buzz Hogan drawled as they strode through the crowd.
Rip checked his watch. “Yeah, bro. We got through customs pretty quick though. Phoenix might not be here yet.”
They had just arrived on the last plane from Miami for the night, and Rip fell in behind Buzz, who because of his huge physical presence, just naturally created a path through the throng of humanity.
John Cooper came up behind him. “Hey, my first team leader in the Ranger battalion was on the mission to take over this airport during Operation Just Cause in ’89. He told me that two of the guys in the platoon were killed in a firefight in the men’s restroom on this level.”
“Wow. That’s sad.” Doc Kelly switched his knapsack to the opposite shoulder. “I wonder if there’s a memorial or a plaque or anything.”
Sweeney snorted. “In the latrine?”
Doc shrugged. “Not necessarily there, but somewhere in the airport maybe.”
Buzz scanned over the heads of the crowd. “There’s the latrine if anybody wants to see for themselves.” He pointed to the far end of the terminal where a universal stick-figure sign hung above a green door next to the rental cars.
“Well, I’d like to check it out anyhow,” Frank said. “I didn’t even want to try getting around that large African woman who had the aisle seat in my row.”
Doc feigned offense. “You got a problem with Africans now, cracker boy?”
Frank was unfazed at the joke. “Not in the least. It’s ugly people like you who bother me.”
Doc laughed and took Frank’s carry-on. “Let me hold your purse while you go to the powder room, Sally.”
“I’ll go too,” Coop said. “You guys mind watching our packs?”
“No problem, vato.” Rip grabbed his team sergeant’s rucksack and set it at his feet. “
We’ll wait for Phoenix out front.”
“Good idea. Meet you there.” Coop and Frank headed for the latrine.
The rest of the team walked to the exit. They moved between the Avis car rental desk and a small snack bar, then out the double doors to the covered portico. Travelers were embracing loved ones and a couple of bored policemen in starched tan uniforms stood smoking on the far side of the three-lane pickup zone.
“Wow. It’s not as hot as I thought it would be.”
“Famous last words, Doc.” Sweeney dropped his pack on the ground and ran a hand through his blond hair.
A black Suburban with dark tinted windows rolled to a stop in front of them. The passenger door opened, and Agent Walker stepped out. “Hello, boys. Need a lift?”
Hogan grinned. “Why yes we do, little lady. Where ya goin’?”
Phoenix looked up at the bearded weapons sergeant and wrinkled her nose. “Crazy, big fella.”
He laughed. “Well, you’re in good company then.”
Rip was surprised at the exchange. Agent Phoenix must be warming to us.
She surveyed the group. “You’re missing a couple.”
Sweeney jerked a thumb toward the terminal. “They had to visit the little soldier’s room.”
Coop walked up behind him. “I heard that, Bobby. Hi, Phoenix.”
Rip tossed John’s bag to him. “Find anything interesting?”
“Nah. Looks like they’ve remodeled. Frank thinks he saw a couple of patched bullet holes, but I couldn’t tell.”
Phoenix looked puzzled. “O-kay, I must have missed an important part of that conversation.”
Doc grinned. “They were looking for signs of the fighting that happened here back in ’89.”
“Ah, I see. From what I’ve heard, most of that kind of thing is gone.” She stepped to the back of the Suburban and opened the door to the cargo area. “Stash your luggage here. The pallet you packed with the rest of your stuff is waiting for you at the embassy.”
Rip motioned to the figure in the driver’s seat. “Who’s our chauffer?”
“Oh, him. I’ll introduce you in a sec.”
The team piled into the SUV, with Rip ending up in the middle seat, crammed between Coop and Hogan. Phoenix jumped in the front and slammed the door. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Senior Special Agent Marcel Bucard. He’s run the office here in Panama City for the last two years.”
The bespectacled station chief turned to the team and gave a nonchalant wave. “Welcome to Panama.” He spoke in a wheezy voice.
Rip figured the man to be in his midforties, with thinning black hair, a hawkish nose, and almost no chin. If Rip saw the man on the street, he’d think schoolteacher before spy.
Phoenix turned to face the men as Bucard pulled from the curb. “We’re staying in the Euro Hotel, which is a sort of nondescript place in the city, only about ten minutes from the embassy.”
“I hope this place measures up to our standards.” Rip smiled. “Coop spoiled us in Beirut at that fancy German hotel.”
He and Coop bumped fists. “Yeah, buddy.”
Phoenix rolled her eyes. “I don’t think it’ll compare to the Moevenpick, but the Euro is clean, comfortable, and anonymous. And there’s a nice pool out back.”
“How about Internet?” Frank asked.
“No wireless, but they have a few computers in the lobby where you can check e-mail.”
Frank nodded. “That’ll do.”
Coop turned more serious. “So do we have a mission yet?”
Phoenix shook her head. “Not yet. We were able to get more information out of the man who survived the hijacking of the Invincible. He confirmed that cases of ITEB were aboard when the ship was stolen. So finding that ship is our first priority. I have a couple of people working on that back in Virginia, but something tells me these guys will try and sell the ship’s cargo as quickly as possible. So I plan to check out the free zone in Colón tomorrow and see if I can find anything from the ship.”
“What’s the free zone?” Rip asked.
“Oh, it’s like a huge duty-free shopping district near the north end of the Canal. You can find anything there: clothing, big-screen televisions, bulldozers, you name it.”
“Wow,” Coop said. “Liz would love that.”
“Well, it’s only meant for wholesalers, not the general public. But there’s another market near it that regular folks can shop at. The strange thing is that they built a wall all the way around the complex and will only let foreigners in. The rest of Colón is like the cesspool of humanity. Most places in that town it’s not safe to get out of the car.”
“Kind of like L.A., right, Rubio?” Hogan jabbed him in the ribs.
Rip shot Buzz his best “You’re a redneck idiot” look. He noticed that they were driving along a freeway. In the distance, the skyscrapers’ lights painted a modern skyline against the stars. He had to admit, it did look a little like Los Angeles.
“So what’s the security situation like in Panama?” Frank asked from the backseat.
“I can answer that,” Marcel said, slowing for a tollbooth. “The only area where there have been any problems lately is in the Darién Province, up near Colombia. Lots of problems with drug running and such. The Caribbean side of the Isthmus is generally wilder than the Pacific side. Some smuggling is known to happen out of Colón and the former military base near there: Fort Sherman.
“The bigger problem is that Panama is being overrun by the Colombians. They come here and build casinos and office buildings, all of which are good for the national economy, but they’re really just blatant money-laundering schemes. The worst part is that the drug cartels have become so powerful that they are starting to influence politics. And that bodes poorly for the stability of the country. A few months ago there was a string of mafia-style assassinations right in downtown Panama City.”
“The only things I want to know,” Sweeney drawled, “are if the government knows we’re here, and whether or not they’re gonna get squirrelly on us like they did in Lebanon.”
“They don’t know you’re here in an official capacity,” Phoenix answered. “But they will before you go operational. It won’t be a problem. The DEA is down here all the time, and the Panamanian government welcomes their help. From the government’s standpoint, your mission will be another verse of the same song.”
They were getting close to the city center now, and Rip noticed that the road traveled a very long causeway built out over the water, ending at the foot of a forest of skyscrapers.
Marcel shot Phoenix a look. “Be that as it may, I think it was a mistake to bring you all down here. One thing we definitely don’t need is you men causing some sort of incident. I read the brief from your Lebanon mission, saw you were arrested by the military and shipped out of the country. Well, Panama doesn’t have a military anymore, but if the Panamanian police get hold of you, they’ll have you in a prison cell so fast you won’t know what hit you. And there won’t be much I can do to get you out.”
Coop leaned over and mumbled in Rip’s ear. “That’s us. Just a bunch of messy guys.”
After passing one more tollbooth, the causeway deposited them into downtown, and the traffic picked up quite a bit. Rip was impressed with how modern everything was. If it wasn’t for most of the signs being in Spanish, it could easily be downtown L.A.
A few minutes later the Suburban pulled up in front of a modest hotel on a noisy major intersection. The team piled out and retrieved their gear.
Before leaving, Marcel leaned out the window. “I highly suggest that you men do not leave the hotel until we call for you. It won’t do to have you getting in trouble with the police before we can put you to work.”
The team exchanged skeptical looks among themselves. Coop tried the tactful route. “Uh … sure thing, sir. We’ll be ready when you need us.” He gave a halfhearted salute.
The Suburban drove off and everyone looked at Phoenix. “What was that about?” Coop asked.
“Yeah, was he serious? What are we, a troop of Girl Scouts?” Sweeney whined.
Phoenix didn’t look any more amused than the rest of them. She sighed. “Pencil pushers. They’ll be the death of our organization yet. He’s probably worried we’ll lose him a promotion.”
“So we’re stuck here until further notice?”
She shook her head. “Actually, Rip, I think you should accompany me tomorrow. You speak Spanish, right?”
“Sí.”
“Good. You can help translate and drive the rental car.”
“Sure, no problem.” At least he’d have something to do.
Rip hated sitting still.
Isla Coiba. 2400 hours
IT WILL RAIN SOON.
His matted black beard kept the buzzing chitres away from everything but his eyes as he lay in a patch of waist-high grass, watching. The insatiable blood-sucking gnats were unable to infest the rest of his body either, as he had long ago learned to coat his bare brown skin with mud from the river.
He had never seen anyone use the airstrip in all the years he had survived on the island, though he’d known about the runway. Rumors circulated long ago among the prisoners that a secret military training base had been built on this side of the island. And there weren’t many places on the island where dry, level ground existed. He should know; he knew its rivers and ridges better than the tiny deer that roamed its dark interior.
As usual, the men were making more noise than a troupe of howler monkeys. He had heard them from the top of the ridge earlier in the day as they had prepared the grass airstrip. Now they were carrying crates and boxes to the waiting aircraft.
As a child he had seen the large metal birds flying over his village and had been terrified. He believed them to be angry animals that held evil spirits in their mouths. But prison had changed most everything he believed. He now understood that they were simply dead things driven by dead people—people who knew nothing of spirits and medicine men. People who believed in nothing that they could not see.
