by Chuck Holton
“Okay, Staff Sergeant Rubio, I’m ready.” She rose to her feet, aware of how dirty and disheveled she looked. Her clothes were torn and caked with mud, and she smelled like swamp.
“Hey, call me Rip.”
“Okay, Rip. Let’s go.”
He turned and started moving toward the edge of the clearing. She started to follow, then kicked something in the tall grass. Looking down, she saw the glint of a glass bottle, about the size of a wine bottle.
She bent and picked it up. It looked clean and new and was full of water. She suddenly remembered how thirsty she was.
“Hey, Rip. You dropped your water bottle. Mind if I have a drink?” She struggled to twist the bottle’s cap.
“Don’t open that bottle!” Rip rushed toward her. It startled her so much, she dropped the bottle.
“No!” Rip launched himself at her, and she screamed as he drove her to the ground, landing on top of her.
So he isn’t a good guy after all!
She pushed him away, struggling desperately to beat him off of her. Pawing at the ground, one hand found a large stick, and she picked it up and swung it at him, landing a solid blow on his left shoulder.
He sat up astride her and quickly pinned her arms with his own. “Whoa! Whoa, hermana. Chill out for a minute, would you?”
She struggled like a wildcat. “Get off!”
“All right, look. I’ll get off you, but you have to promise to stop hitting me.”
She tried to bite his arm. “Yeah, right. If you think I’m just going to let you assault me, you’re wrong.”
He jumped off her and backed away. She struggled to her feet and circled him warily, holding the stick like a club in both hands.
“Where did you get that thing?” Rip kept his distance while looking in the grass for the bottle.
“You dropped it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It was lying right there on the ground.”
“Okay, let me explain. That bottle may be very dangerous. Help me find it.”
She kept circling him like a boxer. “Look, if you don’t want to share your water …”
“Listen to me! I’m here searching for some bottles just like that one. They’re filled with liquid explosives!”
She stopped circling. “What?”
He spotted the bottle and picked it up carefully. “Holy smokes. How did this get here?”
“I’m telling you, I found it on the ground!”
Rip looked up at her. “If this bottle had broken, we’d both be dead.”
She gave him a dubious stare. “I think you’re loco.”
“No, I’m telling you, this is just like some bottles we found in Lebanon last month, and I promise you don’t want to be around when this thing gets opened. It’s like … whoosh!” His eyes went even wider.
She dropped the stick. “Well, I don’t know how it got here.”
He shook his head. “This mission just keeps getting weirder.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Man, chica, you pack quite a punch.”
“Yeah, well, I’m getting tired of being assaulted.”
He grinned. “Hey, sorry about that. You want some water?”
“I’d love some, if you promise not to tackle me.”
Still looking at the bottle, Rip absently unclipped a small tube from the shoulder strap of his rucksack. “Here, bite on the end of this.”
Her thirst overcame her wariness, and she did as he instructed. The water had a slightly plastic taste, but she could feel its coolness spreading throughout her body. Wonderful.
As she drank, Rip pushed a button on what looked to be a walkie-talkie on his side and spoke into a small microphone he’d hung from one ear. “Valor One, Valor Five.”
She was standing close enough that she could hear the answer crackle in his headset.
“This is Valor One, go.”
Rip keyed the microphone again. “Be advised, I’ve recovered what I believe to be approximately one liter of ITEB, over.”
“Say again, over?”
“I have a bottle of the stuff, Coop. We found it on the ground.”
“Rubio, if this is one of your pranks, I’m going to have your hide. Do we need to come to you?”
“Negative, we’re on our way to your position. And it’s no joke, bro. We’ll be there in approximately one-zero mikes, out.”
He looked at her, grinning slightly. “Well, chica, now that you’ve drunk all my water, I guess we should be going.”
Fernanda blushed as she pulled the hydration tube out of her mouth. “Sorry. Thanks though. I was dying of thirst.”
“No problem. Are you okay to walk?” He surveyed her ragged clothing, and she flushed some more.
“I’m fine. Much better, actually.”
Rip removed his pack and tucked the bottle inside. Then he shrugged back into it and pulled a compass from his pocket. He pointed toward the far end of the clearing, where the mist-shrouded mountains were just becoming visible in the distance. “Okay, then, let’s go that way.”
They waded through the tall grass and were soon wet from the waist down from the dew. She did her best to keep up with the lithe soldier, though his confident strides made it difficult. Within moments, they were both perspiring heavily.
At the edge of the clearing, they encountered a nearly impenetrable wall of undergrowth. After several unsuccessful attempts to plow through it, Rip mopped his brow and spat out, “This is stink-in’ thick!”
Fernanda, who had opted not to follow until he was successful, stood several yards away looking at the dirt under her fingernails. “Tell me about it.”
Rip took off his pack and pulled out a small machete. Then after several minutes of hacking a path through the vines and branches, he reshouldered the load. “Okay, now let’s try it.”
Once they got into the shade of the towering hardwoods that surrounded the clearing, the way opened up a little. They crossed a small brook that ran clear and cool over a sunken creek bed, and she grimaced at the irony of how close she’d been to good water the night before.
A short while later they emerged into a much larger clearing, and she heard a short whistle coming from the tree line on the other side. But Rip didn’t head toward the whistle. Instead he turned and skirted along the edge of the clearing.
“Where are you going, Rip?”
He turned to her and put a finger to his lips, then whispered, “We can’t go across the middle of the clearing—too exposed. Just follow me and try to be quiet, okay?”
She wouldn’t make a very good soldier. “Oh, sorry.”
Several minutes later they’d covered the distance to the other side of the clearing. Fernanda could hear the faint sound of surf in the distance. Then she heard the whistle again, quieter this time. At first she didn’t see anyone, then a soldier stood from underneath some trees and waved them over. His camouflage uniform matched Sergeant Rubio’s, and he had the same green-and-black stripes on his face.
They walked into a tight circle of five men, all facing outward on one knee. She studied their painted faces. Their wide-eyed looks were tempered by an underlying seriousness that didn’t make her feel any less out of place.
A tall, rugged-looking soldier stood and walked to where Rip had gone to a knee again. “I’m glad to see you in one piece, Rubio. When I saw that you had a malfunction, I prayed for you all the way to the ground. I was sure you were going into the trees.”
Fernanda was surprised to hear a soldier talk that way, and from the expression on Rip’s face, she gathered he was too. Once she realized she was the only one of the group who was standing, she went to a crouch.
“Hey, uh, thanks, Coop. Look what I found.” Rip jerked a thumb toward Fernanda.
The muscular soldier took off his cap, revealing a head of black hair. He looked at Fernanda and then back at Rip. “Man, I thought you were kidding!”
One of the other soldiers, a black man, turned toward them and chuckled. “Dude can’t go anywhere without
picking up girls.”
“At ease, Doc,” Rip said with a frown. “Gentlemen, this is Fernanda, uh …”
“Lerida,” she finished for him.
“Right.”
The black-haired man extended a hand. “Hi. I’m Master Sergeant John Cooper. Don’t mind Doc Kelly there. He jokes with everybody. How did you get here?”
“She’s a Panamanian.” Rip answered for her. “A student at the university in Panama City. She’s part of an expedition here, and the rest of her team is being held by the pirates.”
One of the other men, this one shorter with his hat kicked back to reveal a shock of blond hair, spoke up. “Wonderful. Just what we need.”
Fernanda couldn’t tell if his sarcastic tone was in reference to her team being captured or to her being here.
“That’s Sweeney,” Rip said. “He’s just mad because he was born a redneck.”
“Shhh!” John held up a hand for silence. Everyone froze. The faint whine of a motor floated across the clearing from somewhere beyond the trees. Its volume increased as it came closer and then cut off.
Doc hissed, “Is that a car or a plane?”
“It’s a boat,” she said. “The way he turned the motor off, they do that when they coast in to the beach.”
“That would make sense,” a clean-cut soldier whispered from behind John. “The beach is that way.” He pointed a gloved hand in the direction of the sound.
Rip leaned over to Fernanda. “That’s Frank Baldwin, weapons sergeant.”
“Sounds like the pirates are getting a visitor. I wonder what for?” John asked.
“Who knows, bro? But wait until you see this.” Rip pulled off his pack and retrieved the glass bottle, then passed it to him.
Muted exclamations came from every man in the group. The looks on the other men’s faces chased away any lingering doubts that Fernanda had about whether Rip had been telling the truth.
“You seriously found this just lying in the grass,” John said.
Rip shook his head. “No, Fernanda did. The first time I saw it, she was about to open the thing.”
She shrugged sheepishly. “I was thirsty.”
“Well, opening that bottle would have fixed that problem for good,” the blond redneck commented.
Doc put a hand on her knee. “Somebody was looking out for you, honey. How long have you been running around out here?”
Fernanda had to think for a moment. “We got here four days ago. The pirates took us the day before yesterday, and I escaped yesterday afternoon.”
Sergeant Cooper pointed to the biggest man in the group, one who hadn’t spoken yet. “Buzz, get on the horn and give Phoenix an update on all we’ve found so far. We need to get this show on the road. And ask her what to do with this bottle. It’s my understanding this stuff is pretty unstable.”
“Roger that.” The big man sounded a little like John Wayne in the old American movies she sometimes watched late at night. He took off his pack and started producing electronic gadgets from it. She assumed it was the radio and its accessories.
John turned to the others. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” He pulled a map from his pocket and spread it between them. “We’re here.” He pointed to the map with a blade of grass. “Sweeney, you and Hogan circle around to the east and see if you can get up on this hill right here.”
Fernanda noticed that the map had the same type of topographic lines on it as the one that Alex had used.
Alex! Where are you right now? Should she ask the team to look for the professor? But apparently they had a plan already.
John continued. “Frank and I will go southwest toward the beach and see if we can get some intel on that boat we heard. Rip, you and Doc stay here with Fernanda and the gear. And keep commo with Phoenix.”
“What? Come on, vato. Don’t leave me on rucksack patrol!”
“Hey, Staff Sergeant.” John’s tone was calm but firm. “Let’s just focus on getting the job done. We don’t have much time.”
Rip clenched his jaw and looked away. “Sorry, bro. That was out of line.”
Buzz took off a headset he’d been speaking softly into for the last several minutes. “We got a problem, boys. Phoenix went to a meeting, and Marcel is running the show until she gets back.”
A muted collective groan arose from the group.
Buzz continued. “And he’s sayin’ we need to postpone the recon until she gets back.”
“He does, does he? How long will that be?”
Buzz held out the headset. “At least an hour. And he wants to talk to you, Coop.”
Whoever Marcel was, he wasn’t popular with this bunch.
John shook his head and walked over to Buzz. He reached inside the big man’s pack and clicked off the radio.
“We just developed communications trouble. Get your gear. Let’s move.”
An image of Chombon’s vicious face came to Fernanda, and she shuddered.
Please, God … help Carlos and Zack hold on just a little longer!
Casco Viejo, Panama City. 0600 hours
I REALLY DON’T HAVE time for this.
Mary Walker locked the door of Marcel’s Jeep Cherokee and stepped out onto the street as she dropped the keys into her pocket. Life in the small plaza had yet to awaken. It sat in the heart of Panama City’s old town. When Marcel drew her the map, he said this quarter was known as Casco Viejo.
His contact in the Panamanian intelligence had never wanted to be seen coming to the US embassy, he said. So when Marcel called to say there was something important to pass along concerning the mission to Coiba, she had no choice but to meet with him.
It would take some time for Task Force Valor to get assembled on the ground and move into position. If she hurried she would certainly be back in time to monitor their reconnaissance, and Marcel could handle things until then.
She had already been up for more than twenty-four hours and could use some sleep, but as long as the team was on the island, rest would have to wait. In the absence of Major Williams, she was feeling the weight of responsibility for commanding the team.
Mary wanted to accompany them on the mission, despite the fact that she wasn’t HALO qualified. But she had learned from the mission in Lebanon how vital it was to have an advocate at headquarters to keep the bureaucrats and politicians out of the way.
The operative said it was urgent, and any operational intel concerning the mission was priority one. So she’d hastily borrowed Marcel’s Jeep and driven the ten minutes through early morning traffic to the Plaza de la Independencia near the presidential palace in the old city. By her estimation, she would be able to meet the operative and be back at the embassy within an hour.
She did a quick survey of the people in the plaza. Some policemen on the opposite side, a few street vendors setting up for the day, and a homeless man sleeping on a park bench. Brightly colored four-story tenement buildings surrounded the plaza, looking fresh and clean in the early morning light.
And here and there half-naked children played and women hung laundry on the balconies above the street. A large whitewashed cathedral, which looked to be at least a couple hundred years old, occupied the far end of the plaza, and mature trees in between were in full bloom with bright purple flowers. Mary wished she had brought her camera. Since she only had her cell phone, she used it instead.
After taking a few pictures, she put the phone in her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, annoyed at her own handwriting. It was so scratchy that even she had a hard time reading it. She was pretty sure it said Calle 6a este. It must be nearby; this was where Marcel told her to park, after all.
In less than a minute she found what she was looking for—a chipped and faded sign mounted on the brick wall of one of the tenement buildings that read 6a E.
The side street was completely empty except for a few parked vehicles. Marcel had given her directions to the Panamanian operative’s safe house, a second floor flat in the dingy green building. Sh
e set off toward the entrance.
The street was red brick, and the buildings, though freshly painted, were very old. The doors to the tenements opened directly onto the street.
She heard a vehicle coming behind her and stepped as close to the building as possible so it could pass.
But it didn’t. There was a squeal of brakes, and Mary turned in time to see a bald, muscular black man and two others jump from a white box van and rush for her.
There was nowhere to go. She turned to run but a heavyset Panamanian with a handlebar mustache blocked her escape. Anger rose in her as survival instincts kicked in.
It’s a trap!
Without waiting for the men to converge on her, she charged the third man, a short, stocky thug leering at her with a mouthful of bad teeth. She spun on the ball of her left foot and launched a roundhouse kick that connected squarely with his jaw, which sent the goon reeling, minus a few of the rotten teeth.
She pivoted to face the other two, just in time to notice something black and plastic in the bald man’s hand as he thrust it at her torso. She twisted away and brought an open palm up hard into his nose, but it was too late. A jolt of electricity shot through her, and every muscle in her body contracted at once.
She dropped hard to the pavement, and the bald man stepped forward and sent another shock of intense pain through her body.
His bloody face was the last thing she saw before she blacked out.
Isla Coiba. 0610 hours
“Please! We have no reason to lie to you.”
“¡Cállate!” Chombon swung the bamboo rod once more, and it landed with a thwack across the shoulders of the blond American boy.
“Aaaaagghhh!” the boy cried.
The pirate leader didn’t speak enough English to know whether his hostage was being truthful or insolent or delirious. But Cesar did, and all Chombon cared about was keeping the boys scared and miserable enough to tell him anything he asked.
Another of his men appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun. He looked from the bruised and bloody captives kneeling in the center of the moldy concrete floor to Chombon standing over them. Jorge gulped and said, “Perdón, Jefe. La lancha viene.”
