Island Inferno

by Chuck Holton

  This time, Chombon would be there to greet him as he fled.

  He cut behind the latrine hut and crashed through a stand of banana palm, barely slowing down. A few seconds later he was at the lip of the washout. He threw himself down in the prone position and extended the bipod legs on the machine gun. At six hundred rounds per minute, the heavy 7.62mm slugs would cut the psychopathic Indian in half.

  Chombon grimaced and took aim down the washout. The firing continued less than one hundred meters in front of him. His men were mowing down the jungle. Their fire discipline was dismal, but it would have the desired effect. He was ready.

  Less than a minute later, he heard the sound of running feet approaching and gripped the weapon’s stock tightly with sweaty hands. But wait. Something was wrong. The sound was approaching from the wrong direction! Someone was running toward the sound of the firing!

  He swung the machine gun around in time to see a uniformed man charge around the bend in the riverbed. It was not the Mudman, but this man was undoubtedly an enemy. He lined up the sights and squeezed the trigger.

  Chink. Nothing happened. A jam! Chombon tossed the fouled weapon aside and roared, launching himself at the soldier from the edge of the washout.

  The man tried to raise his own rifle, but Chombon hit him high and drove him to the ground with the weapon between them. Chombon screamed in rage and smashed his forehead into the man’s face in a vicious head butt. All of the intense frustration of the last week boiled over. If he ever did actually kill a man with his teeth, this would be the one.

  PAIN EXPLODED IN Rip’s brain as the huge black-skinned man landed on top of him, crushing the M-4 carbine to his chest and knocking the wind out of him.

  Without the heavy aid bag that Doc was carrying, Rip had outpaced the medic and was a good fifty yards ahead. As he struggled for breath, he realized that even though Doc would be here in less than twenty seconds, by then it might be too late.

  Dizzy from the blow and fighting the blackness creeping in from the corners of his vision, Rip released his grip on the weapon and brought both hands up, grabbing his assailant around the neck.

  He could smell the man’s sweat and sour breath, and he pushed for all he was worth on the stubbly, scarred face. As he did, the man landed a blow with a ham-sized fist that glanced off the side of Rip’s head. Then the other fist crashed into his right eye socket, and he saw stars once more.

  Rip had been in plenty of fistfights, but he’d never been hit this hard. This man was strong—too strong. Rip pushed for all he was worth trying to dislodge his attacker, who slammed his forehead into Rip’s face a second time. Things started to get fuzzy as more blows followed, one after the other.

  Rage welled up inside him. I will not die this way! No way was some punk going to take him down.

  The thug was going for another head butt when Rip grabbed his attacker’s greasy hair and smashed his elbow into the man’s nose. The man cried out in pain and rocked back, and Rip used the momentum he’d created to shove the pirate off of him and struggle to his feet. He could taste his own blood and feel it coursing down his face, but that only served to fuel his anger.

  As the dark-skinned man launched at him again, Rip clasped his arms around his attacker’s head, forcing it downward while bringing his knee up as hard as he could.

  The man’s arms flailed and clawed as Rip’s knee thrust the stock of the rifle, still slung around his neck, into the man’s face once, twice, three times. On the fourth, the man loosened his grip and sat down hard. A well-aimed kick to the side of his head put him out cold.

  The giant man had barely flopped over on his back when Rip grabbed for the carbine, slick with both of their blood, and made a woozy attempt at looking around the edges of the ravine they were in, searching for more attackers.

  At that moment, Doc came huffing around the bend and stopped short at the sight of the two blood-soaked combatants. “Whoa, what happened?”

  Rip dropped his weapon to the ready position across his chest. He bent at the waist and dry heaved, resting his hands on his knees. He wiped his sleeve across his face, and it came away covered in crimson.

  Between gasps, Rip said, “Dude jumped out at me … when I came … around the corner.” He started shakily toward the continued firing. “Come on … got to help Sweeney.”

  Doc caught up with him in a few steps and grabbed his sleeve. “Hold up, Rubio. At least catch your breath, or you won’t be any good when you get there. Here.” He held out a green cotton bandanna.

  Rip took it and wiped the blood from his face. “I’m okay, Doc. We’ve got to …”

  Both men froze as the sound of heavy weapons firing reached their ears.

  That’s coming from the beach!

  This wasn’t the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons fire, but a much louder, deeper sound.

  Doc cocked an ear toward the water. “That’s a large-caliber machine gun.”

  There was a huge explosion nearby, and the ground shook. Things were getting worse by the second. Rip’s radio came to life again. “All units, this is Valor One. We’ve got a large force approaching the beach in several boats—approximately twenty men. Looks like an assault force of some kind. We are in the line of fire and are going to be pinned down if we don’t pull back, over.”

  They both ducked as something whooshed over their heads and exploded into the hillside. “That was a LAW rocket! Where did that come from?” Rip asked.

  Doc looked at him and said exactly what Rip was thinking. “This is getting out of hand.”

  Then Sweeney came on the radio. “One, be advised. The forces that were engaging us have just stopped firing and pulled back. We’re going to try to make it back to the rally point, over.”

  Doc nodded. “Something big is happening over there.” He keyed his radio. “Sweeney, what’s the status on Hogan, over?”

  “Just a scratch. We’re coming your way.”

  Rip put a hand on Doc’s shoulder. “You stay here and wait for them. I’ll go help out Coop and Frank.”

  “Gotcha. See you back at the rally point. And keep the bandanna. You’re going to need some stitches on that cheek.”

  As Rip stumbled back down the washout, Doc called after him. “You want me to put some flex cuffs on this yo-yo?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Rip jogged back into the rally point five minutes later and found Fernanda lying on her stomach behind his rucksack. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Something sailed through the trees above me and cut down a palm frond.” She pointed to a large branch on the ground next to her. “I think they’re shooting at me!”

  Rip took a knee next to her, panting. “I doubt it, but you did the right thing by taking cover.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I got jumped by a big pirate dude.” He yanked the CamelBak tube from his rucksack and tried to take a drink, then remembered that Fernanda had drained it already. So he went digging for water in John’s pack next to his, ducking as heavier weapons fire cracked by above them.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Ugly guy, dark skin, big hands.”

  “Did he have a scar above his eye?”

  “Uh … yeah, I think so.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “That was Chombon!”

  He spit out the drinking tube. “Really? The pirate leader?”

  Fernanda scrambled over to him, taking the bloody bandanna from his hand. “Let me help you with that.”

  Rip winced and started to protest as she wet the bandanna and daubed the blood from a gash on his cheek. “Listen, Fernanda, I’ll—”

  “Did you kill him?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Doc’s got him flex-cuffed and … oh, here comes Coop and Baldwin.” He pointed across the clearing, where his fellow operators ran toward them in a low crouch.

  A moment later they made it to the tree line where Rip and Fernanda waited. Both were breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

 
; “Where’s everyone?” Coop asked.

  “Doc is on his way with Sweeney and Hogan.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “You know as much as I do. Doc stayed behind to help with Buzz.”

  Coop looked grim. “What happened to you?”

  “He got in a fight with Chombon, the pirate leader!” Fernanda spoke up.

  “What?”

  Rip spat blood on the ground. “I was on my way to help Sweeney, and this tipo jumps out of the bushes on top of me. It was like an ultimate fighting cage match.”

  Just then, Doc and Sweeney came back in with Hogan bringing up the rear, limping a bit. The tall Texan was grimacing in pain, but Rip couldn’t see any blood.

  He groaned as he took a knee in the circle. “Them turkeys put a hole in my lucky pair of trousers.”

  Doc shrugged off his aid bag. “Where? Do you need a bandage?”

  “Aw, Doc, leave me alone. I’m okay.” Hogan grimaced. “It just grazed the inside of my thigh, felt like a hornet got me. It was a little too high for my likin’ though, if you know what I mean.”

  Doc peered at the rip in Buzz’s pants leg. “Yow.”

  “What’d you do with Chombon, Doc?” Rip asked.

  “The ugly guy? We flex-cuffed him but had to leave him. The ground fire was getting pretty intense there, and I don’t think we could have carried him. But you must have knocked him a good one, he’s still out.”

  Rip grunted. “Good.”

  Sweeney looked at Coop. “So what’s the plan, boss?”

  The tall team sergeant listened for a moment. More shouts and explosions drifted from the direction of the camp. “I think we’re safe here for now. Let’s stay out of it for the time being and see what happens. Oh, and Sweeney, you’d better let command know what’s up.”

  “What are you going to do with the bottle I found?” Fernanda asked.

  Coop scratched his stubbly chin. “We need to transport it back to have it analyzed. Our people will see if they can get any clues as to where it’s being made. The shape of that bottle is fairly unique, so they might be able to trace it that way.”

  Frank spoke up. “I would suggest that we try and find a way to cool the bottle some before we move it too far. Phoenix said that it may become less stable when it’s not refrigerated.”

  “How are we gonna do that? I plumb forgot my beer cooler,” Sweeney said.

  “How about the creek?” Fernanda asked. “It’s probably twenty degrees cooler than the air temperature.”

  “Good idea,” Doc said. “But it might be even better if I wrap it up in my poncho liner with a couple of cold packs.”

  “Do it.” Coop pointed to Sweeney. “Bobby, get on the horn quick.”

  “Roger that, boss.” Sweeney went to make the call.

  The sounds of a firefight continued, interspersed with concussions from grenades and a few shouts.

  Coop turned to the rest of the group. “Okay, look. I’m not sure why, but there’s a major skirmish going on over there right now. I have a feeling that if the rest of the ITEB was there, it may have been destroyed.”

  Fernanda sat up. “You’ve got to go save Carlos and Zack!”

  Coop held up a hand. “That’s part of the plan, Fernanda. But I don’t know if this is a turf war we’ve stumbled into or what. We can’t just walk into the middle of it. So we’ll have to lay low and wait until help arrives. Maybe we can get in just before the airlift comes.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Rip asked.

  “Helicopter,” Doc said from behind him.

  “What?”

  Doc was kneeling next to Hogan with an ear cocked to the sky. “I hear a helicopter.”

  Sweeney pulled the radio headset away from his ear. “This guy Marcel is about to blow a gasket. He says that the Panamanian special police are on their way with two Hueys. When he didn’t hear from us, he assumed the worst and sent in the cavalry.”

  Rip could hear the choppers now too. “Well, what do you know. Marcel might have done something right for once.”

  “But you can bet we’re going to hear about this later,” John said grimly.

  Just then two olive-green helicopters thundered over their heads and banked sharply toward the camp. Rip could see the blue and red Panamanian flag painted on their sides, distorted by the heat signature from their engine exhaust. Green-helmeted door gunners leaned out the open side doors and their belt-fed machine guns spat flame at the camp below.

  “They’re lighting them up!” Rip said.

  Coop stood, a scowl on his face as he shaded his eyes against the sun. “Idiots! They’re going to hit the ITEB, or worse—the hostages! Sweeney, see if you can contact them and tell them to cease fire!”

  “On it, boss.”

  Coop took off his cap and squinted toward the choppers. “I wish we could see what’s going on.”

  “Hey, we can!” Frank dove for his rucksack and rummaged around inside, coming out with a shiny metallic bullet the size of his fist. “The HUNTIR. You remember me trying it out on the range? I brought two of them.”

  “Sweet. Put that thing up in the air!” Coop said.

  Frank quickly set up the small battery-powered LCD screen that would receive the video feed. Then he loaded the HUNTIR round into the barrel of his M203 grenade launcher and clicked it shut.

  Frank stepped out into the tall grass and pointed his rifle at the sky. “Here goes nothing!” He pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud whoomp, and Frank ran back to the receiver. Everyone crowded around the monitor and saw nothing but a blue screen.

  “I don’t think it worked, bro,” Rip said, as he peered up at the sky.

  “That figures,” Sweeney commented from his post near the radio.

  “Just give it a second,” Frank said. Then the screen went to gray static, and a surprisingly clear image appeared. Everyone cheered and slapped Frank on the back. The image was upside down, though, so he turned the screen over.

  Rip could see the light green overgrown expanse of banana and coconut trees, ending at the darker green, much taller triple-canopy forest that began at the foot of the mountain. The image swung back and forth as the camera gently oscillated under its small parachute, but he could clearly make out plumes of smoke rising from the camp.

  The camera must have been rotating under canopy, because the image panned around to show the field where the team was. They were closer to the camp than he’d thought. Then the image rotated to show the bay and four open boats, which had been driven right onto the beach.

  “It looks like they’re leaving. See there!” Frank pointed to one of the boats, and Rip could barely make out the figures of several men trying to push it offshore.

  “Here comes one of the helicopters!” Fernanda ran out into the field and waved excitedly at the helo.

  “No!” Rip bolted toward Fernanda, hitting her with a flying tackle just as the door gunner in the helicopter opened fire, chewing up the ground with a stream of fire from his machine gun, right where Fernanda had been standing.

  The helicopter went around for another pass, and Rip half carried, half dragged Fernanda back into the tree line.

  She was shaking all over. “You … you saved my life.”

  Rip’s intense eyes flashed up at the helicopter as he helped her up. “Hey, don’t sweat it. Maybe you’ll return the favor someday.”

  Sweeney was shouting profanities into the radio as they both collapsed under cover.

  “Sweeney, tell them to cease fire.”

  “I am telling them!”

  “Everybody down!” Coop commanded. They all hit the dirt as the chopper flew by again, raking the tree line with tracer bullets. They thwacked through the undergrowth above their heads. The LCD screen Hogan held exploded in a shower of fragments.

  “Aaagghh! I’m hit!” the big Texan cried.

  Coop turned to Buzz. “What? Again?”

  “Pop smoke!” Sweeney screamed. “Red smoke! Now!”

&nb
sp; Frank fumbled with his harness and pulled the pin on a soda can–sized canister, then tossed it overhand out into the tall grass. Seconds later there was a pop, and then a plume of red smoke wafted up with a hiss.

  The helicopter banked and circled away from them, then resumed firing on the camp.

  Doc was already working over Hogan. “Hey, we got a bleeder here. Frank! Give me a hand!”

  Buzz was lying on his back. “Aw, Doc, I’ll be all right.”

  Doc’s face was serious as he handed Hogan a canteen. “Shut up and drink water, Buzz.”

  Sweeney looked up from the radio. “They say that three enemy speedboats are fleeing toward the mainland. The rest have either run into the jungle or been killed.”

  “Ask them if they have someone who can intercept the boat,” Coop said.

  “I did. The eco-police from the north end of the island are on their way right now.” Sweeney listened to his headpiece for a few seconds. “They’re going to do one more turn around the camp looking for stragglers, then come get us.”

  “Tell them I want one of those birds on the ground, right here, right now!” Veins stood out on Coop’s face as he knelt next to Hogan, whose leg was now covered in blood. “Hogan needs a medevac. And that trigger-happy door gunner will be lucky if I don’t beat him to a pulp.”

  “What about Zack and Carlos, John?”

  Sweeney cursed. “Don’t start, lady.”

  Fernanda responded with a torrent of Spanish. Rip had never heard anyone so eloquently describe Sweeney’s upbringing.

  Coop stepped in. “At ease, Bobby. Listen, Fernanda. Your friends are a priority; I promise.” He took off his cap and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. “We’ll make sure the Panamanian special police look for them, but right now we’ve got to get Buzz out of here. If they or the ITEB is here, I’m sure these guys will find it.”

  Rip doubted that either was still much of a possibility, but he didn’t want to say it. Fernanda nodded, but Rip could tell by her face that she was thinking the same thing.