Island Inferno

by Chuck Holton

  He kept the chute pointed at the clearing, willing his canopy to stay aloft. Come on … Come on! A little gust of wind would be real nice right about now!

  But it wasn’t happening. He was just too low to make it to the large clearing. The smallest of the three was much closer, though. With a little luck, he might actually make it there. It was probably more than a kilometer from where he needed to be, but at least it wasn’t trees. He aimed his canopy that way.

  The clearing was tiny, perhaps only ninety feet in diameter, roughly equal to the height of the trees surrounding it. Even under perfect conditions, it would be a difficult target to hit. But at night, with combat equipment, it would be a miracle if he didn’t break something.

  Rip fought the urge to pull the quick release on his rucksack, which was meant to be lowered on a fifteen-foot line prior to landing, because he wasn’t out of the woods yet—literally. If he landed in the trees, he wanted every ounce of protection on his legs.

  The tops of the trees reached out for him. This is going to be close!

  He pulled his feet up to miss the topmost branches of one tree on the edge of the clearing, then dumped air in order to keep from smashing into the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.

  The ground rose up much too fast. He braked at the last second, pulling both toggles all the way down to his knees.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  A large bush loomed in front of him just as his boots entered the tall grass and impacted earth. Not bothering to try to make a standing landing, he took a lesson from his static line airborne training all those years ago and kept his feet and knees together to absorb the shock, trying to execute a textbook Parachute Landing Fall.

  Once his feet hit the ground, he pivoted and rolled onto his side with a grunt, but the forward momentum caused his feet and the heavy rucksack to continue over his head, and he rolled a second time, tangling up in the static lines.

  But this time he rolled onto something besides earth.

  Something alive!

  A bloodcurdling scream shattered the night.

  Isla Coiba. 0450 hours

  THE MAN’S LONG, matted hair flew behind him as he leapt from the tree, landing on all fours like a jungle cat. As soon as he heard the scream, he knew that the girl was in trouble. They had come for her. How had he not heard them? No matter. He would not let them take her again.

  His lithe form made almost no sound as he moved swiftly though the undergrowth like mist in the wind. His bare feet pounded toward the clearing where he had left her.

  Another scream came, this one more terrified than the last. He quickened his pace, bursting into the open. He charged ahead, pushing away the thought that the evil men’s blowguns might find him again.

  Then he spotted something in the sky and stopped so abruptly that he nearly forgot what he was doing there in the first place.

  Something was floating down out of the sky. He counted. Five somethings. Like bats, only much, much larger. He had never seen anything like them; they did not exist in his world.

  Spirits. They are black, evil spirits.

  Fear gripped him like never before in his life. They were coming for him. To punish him for not protecting her.

  He turned and ran as fast as he could. It was too late for the girl. It was too late for him. He would hide. It was the only thing he could think to do. They had come to steal his life force. Better to die in hiding than to let the spirits consume him with one crunch, like a beetle. No, he would go somewhere that they would never find him.

  He ran like the wind and didn’t look back.

  Oh no! He’s found me!

  Fernanda’s scream echoed off of the mountainside, sending sleeping birds to flight. She had no time to contemplate how he had found her, but she had been dreaming about Chombon’s filthy, vile face leering at her when he pounced.

  She pushed him off of her and lashed out with both feet, hearing the man grunt as she kicked him in the chest. She had no idea whether his intent this time was murder or rape or both, but she had endured too much to give up without a fight. With a guttural cry, she raked her fingernails at his face again, surprised when she instead caught something hard, something … plastic? Was he wearing a hard hat?

  Vines were everywhere, draped over her, all around her, as if someone had come along in the dark and wrapped her up in them. Wait, not vines … Is this a net?

  She flailed both arms, trying desperately to get away. But he rose and threw himself on top of her. A fist crashed down on her temple, sending an explosion of pain through her head. She brought her knee up as hard as she could, and he gasped and rolled off of her, groaning.

  Still seeing stars from the blow and nearly delirious with fright, she rolled to her stomach, trying to claw her way out of the net. She heard him rise behind her, cursing in Spanish. But before she could get free, one of his heavy, muscled arms snaked around her neck, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the glint of a knife in the other.

  She closed her eyes. “No! Please!”

  Suddenly, he froze. “What did you say? You speak English?” It was not Chombon’s voice, but he was choking her.

  Chombon doesn’t speak English!

  “Yes, I speak English. Please let go of me!”

  The man released his hold a little. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Fernanda. I’m a college student.”

  He let go completely and pushed her away. “What are you doing here?”

  She rolled over and got to her knees, facing him. His face was painted in light and dark stripes. He still held the knife warily as he regarded her. He wore some sort of uniform and a helmet, and was that a parachute?

  “I’m on spring break. What are you doing here?” she spat out.

  Is he a … a soldier?

  “Spring break?” His voice was incredulous. He shoved the knife back into a sheath on his chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Fernanda gasped as a group of parachutes—black silhouettes against the lightening sky—sailed past, high above the treetops.

  Did they come to rescue us?

  “Tell me the truth, chica. How did you get out here?”

  She answered him with a sob. This man, whoever he was, hadn’t come to kill her.

  Colón, Panama. 0500 hours

  THE SILVER TOYOTA PRADO and its obese but well-dressed driver bumped over the steel decking that moments earlier had been lowered across the lowest chamber of the east flight of the Gatún locks.

  Oswardo waved at the tired security guard as he passed, then continued to the far side onto what had been a United States military reservation. In his rearview mirror, the sun was rising over Gatún Lake, giving even the filthy cesspool known as the city of Colón a fresh, almost baronial look.

  Fort Sherman. For decades the 9,300-hectare swath of jungle had served as the US Jungle Warfare training center, only to be abandoned on January 1, 2000. And the moment they left, Oswardo was there, planning a way to profit from the country’s windfall.

  That stupid rap music blared again from his cell phone. Rather than try to navigate the narrow road beyond the canal in the dark while talking, he pulled off on the shoulder and picked up the device.

  “¿Sí?”

  Remi’s overstressed voice answered. “I only have a moment, but I knew you would want to hear this. A colleague in the national police phoned and said that ANAM received a satellite phone call from a scientist stranded on Isla Coiba. He claims that his team has been taken captive by armed thugs.”

  Oswardo thought for a moment. “So that confirms that the pirates are hiding out on Coiba?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then you should move forward with all possible speed with our recovery operation, Remi. My man in Chame will supply them with the tools they need.”

  “We will be ready very soon. But there’s more. Apparently there is a woman at the American embassy just recently arrived in the country, who has been asking Panamanian intelligen
ce lots of questions regarding Coiba.”

  “Claro, the Americans always want to put their fingers in everything. Why does this surprise you? Do you think they know something about this problem of ours?”

  “That is also possible. The same contact told me that the raid on the warehouse in the free zone was part of a joint operation with the Americans—and that Americans were at the scene before the police arrived.”

  Oswardo chewed his lip. “They could simply be helping the authorities track down pirates, as they have helped the police deal with drug trafficking in the Darién.”

  “Well, I just thought you might want to know.”

  Oswardo shifted in his seat. “It is appreciated, my friend. Let me know if you hear anything more.” He hit the End button and dropped the phone on the seat. It rang again, and with an exasperated scowl he snatched it back up. “What!”

  The familiar gravelly voice of his newest customer came on the line. “Good morning, Oswardo.”

  He quickly changed his tone of voice. “And a good morning to you, sir. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “What is the status on our order?”

  “We are on schedule. Processing should be complete by early next week. I also have some new products that might interest you.”

  “Ah … unfortunately, our timetable has shifted. My carrier will be in port in Colón within forty-eight hours. Can you have the product for me by then?”

  “What? Forty-eight hours!” He feigned surprise. Customers always did this. He could be ready in twenty-four hours but wouldn’t let his customer know.

  “If you can have it ready by then, I will pay an extra ten thousand.”

  “Make it twenty and I’ll guarantee that you will have it as soon as your ship docks in Colón.”

  “Very well. Did you receive the initial payment?”

  Oswardo winced. Who knew what agencies might be listening? “We should not discuss this now. I will have some information sent to you via secure e-mail.” He finished the call, then pulled a pen from his pocket and scrawled a reminder to himself on a scrap of paper.

  Pulling back onto the road, he steered his vehicle toward old Fort Sherman. As he drove the winding, overgrown road, which had fallen into disrepair like everything else the Americans had abandoned to Panama, the conversation he’d had with Remi bothered him more and more. The Americans had a large interest in slowing the deluge of drugs headed for their borders. But piracy? A knot formed in his gut.

  His new operation was very lucrative, but for a while it would be a risky one. The religious zealots who attacked America in 2001 had done a great disservice to the global arms trade, and he had felt the effects in his own wallet.

  This new product would have a limited lifespan. Governments around the world would sooner or later come up with technology to combat its effectiveness. In Britain, it took only hours after the plot to get liquid explosive aboard jetliners for that window of opportunity to slam shut.

  Fortunately, there were still many uses for his pet project.

  These days the US was, at least in public, devoting much more attention to its ridiculous “War on Terror” than it was to the drug trade. Perhaps this interest in the M/V Invincible was an indication that they were cracking down on piracy as a part of their larger objectives. But if they found the stolen shipment of his new product in the process, that might end his run of keeping his name out of the papers—and destroy the opportunity that had recently presented itself: to be finished with this dangerous business for good.

  This time he didn’t bother pulling to the side of the road; he just stopped. There would be no traffic to block. Retrieving his cell phone, he dialed a number and put the phone to his ear, hoping he hadn’t yet passed out of range.

  When Remi answered, he said, “Oye. Has your man alerted the American embassy about this stranded scientist yet?”

  The line was quiet for a moment. “Of course not. It’s not even six in the morning yet.”

  “Good. I have an idea.”

  Isla Coiba. 0500 hours

  What the …?

  Rip’s mind reeled as he stared at the crying figure of a woman before him, whom he had nearly killed with his combat knife. Once in Ranger school he had gotten so exhausted that he started hallucinating—Salma Hayek appeared with coffee and doughnuts for him one night on a patrol. He was no less surprised now.

  But this was no hallucination.

  He struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Wasn’t this island supposed to be deserted? And what is a woman doing in the middle of the jungle, alone?

  The girl was still on her knees, sobbing into her hands with a couple of static lines from his parachute draped over one shoulder. Her black hair was a tangled mess, and her clothes—what he could see in the predawn darkness—were torn and dirty.

  “Tell me again how you got here?”

  She tried to answer through her tears. “I … we were taken by … by …” She moaned and began crying even harder.

  Rip unstrapped his carbine. Did she say we?

  He started to worry that her crying could be heard by anyone within a quarter mile. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s going to be all right.” He reached down and disconnected his rucksack, then popped the quick releases on his harness. Then he moved closer to the girl to try and comfort her.

  She pulled away. “Don’t touch me!”

  He backed off a little. “Whoa, chica. Listen, I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m an American soldier, and I need you to tell me what’s going on here. I can help you if you tell me what happened. But please stop crying.” He hated to see girls cry.

  He waited a moment as she composed herself. Even with the wild black mane and torn clothing, he could tell that she was very pretty. She looked to be a little younger than he was.

  She touched a swollen left eye and sniffed. “You hit me!”

  “Oh, sorry about that.” She hadn’t exactly been the welcome wagon herself.

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. My name is Fernanda Lerida. I’m a master’s student at FSU in Panama City.”

  “You’re an American?”

  “No. I’m Panameña. My family owns a coffee business in Boquete.”

  “What are you doing on this island?”

  “I’m part of a research team. We … we were here to collect moths. But some men showed up and captured us. Well, Alex got away, but—”

  “Who’s Alex?”

  “My … he’s the professor leading the expedition. Anyway, the other two in our group, Zack and Carlos, are still with them—whoever they are.”

  Rip scanned the clearing. “We think they’re pirates.”

  “Pirates?”

  “Yep. Go on.”

  She thought for a moment. “I escaped from them but got lost and ended up here. Did Alex call you to come rescue us?”

  Rip’s radio headset crackled in his ear. “Hey, Rubio? You okay?”

  It was Coop. Rip held up an index finger to Fernanda. “Just a sec.” He pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Yeah. But you ain’t gonna believe what happened, bro.”

  “We saw you had a malfunction. What happened?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. Wait until you see what I found on the ground.”

  “Do you need help? We’re about a klick south of you in the big clearing.”

  “Negative. I’ll come to you. But be advised, I have encountered one Panamanian female and will be bringing her with me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious, Coop.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain when I get there.”

  He glanced back at Fernanda. She had disentangled herself from his shroud lines and was studying him with a look that told him she was still trying to decide if she was hallucinating too.

  “How many soldiers are there?”

  “There are six of us.”

  “Did you come to rescue us?”

  Rip frowned. “Not exac
tly. We didn’t know you were here. But don’t worry. We’ll get you out. It just might be a while. Give me a few minutes to roll up my chute, then we’ll go meet the others.”

  She sniffled again. “Okay.”

  Rip shook his head. This is surreal.

  Isla Coiba. 0505 hours

  A BATTLE BETWEEN relief and disbelief was raging in Fernanda’s mind—and disbelief was winning.

  How could this be? An American soldier, falling out of the sky? She watched him busily collecting up his parachute. He said he was here to help and that her kidnappers were pirates. But she was still wary. He had, after all, attacked her.

  “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  He stopped for a moment and looked at her, then smiled. “Sorry. Staff Sergeant Rip Rubio, US Army Special Forces.”

  Her brain was still playing catch-up. “Uh … nice to meet you. Are you Latino?”

  “Sí.” He unbuckled his helmet and dropped it on top of his parachute.

  “¿De dónde?”

  “I was born in L.A., but my family is from Mexico.”

  Fernanda sat down and watched as he scooped up his chute and harness in a bundle and stuffed it underneath a bush. Then he pulled a small pair of binoculars from his backpack and hung them around his neck on a cord. He produced a cap from his pocket and put it on, then swung his rucksack onto his back and picked up his rifle, which was much more compact than the ones the pirates had carried.

  “If there are only six of you, you’ll be outnumbered. There are more pirates than that.”

  He went to one knee in front of her, balancing the gun across his other thigh. He took off his hat and scanned the clearing as he spoke. “That’s good to know. I need you to tell me everything you know about them, but let’s go find the others first, okay?”

  It had gotten a bit lighter in the last few moments, though it would still be perhaps half an hour until the sun rose. Staff Sergeant Rubio was very athletic, with stark, chiseled features and very intense eyes that made her feel like he could handle anything. For the first time since the capture, she allowed herself to think that maybe things would turn out all right.