by Chuck Holton
He gave a mirthless laugh. “And I you!”
“Are you all right?”
He said nothing for a moment, then looked up. “May I come in?”
She led him by the hand into the kitchen and put a pot of water on to boil. “Have a seat at the table there. My sleep schedule is still a mess. I don’t know if it’s day or night half the time.”
She sat across from him and was again overcome by emotion. Half laughing, half crying, she pulled a wad of tissues from a nearby box and tried to restore some semblance of humanity to her face. “I’m sorry. I still can’t believe you’re here. How did you get off the island?”
Alex’s eyes bore a tortured, faraway look. “I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The Mudman, Fernanda. I saw him.”
“What?” More confused than surprised, she suddenly caught her breath. The pirates. “El hombre de Lodo.”
Alex nodded and swallowed as if his mouth were full of cotton. “It was the most terrifying moment of my entire life,” he croaked.
“The Mudman is real?”
Alex spoke automatically, as if he was reliving the nightmare in his head. “It was shortly after you three were captured. I was lying on the ground under a dense thicket, trying to decide if I should go after you or go for help. I’d been there for—I don’t know how long, it could have been hours. Then all of a sudden, a man’s bare feet passed directly in front of me without any sound. I froze. A second later I could see all of him. He was naked but for a loincloth and covered in mud. His hair was long and matted, as was his beard. He took a few more steps, then stopped.”
He said nothing for a moment, and his eyes darted around the room, as if talking about it would bring the apparition back.
“I knew immediately who it was. I’ve heard the legends. The Mudman kills anyone he finds in the jungle alone.”
“What happened?”
“Fernanda, he stopped and looked directly at me. Our eyes met. Then he turned and disappeared into the jungle. I never heard a thing.”
“Hijo de la mañana,” Fernanda breathed. “What did you do?”
“I ran. From that moment until I stumbled into the ranger station yesterday, I was haunted by that image. I knew he was stalking me. It was a miracle that I found the satellite phone after two days of searching. Then I set out for the ANAM station. Every night when the darkness forced me to stop, I would lie there just waiting for him to cut my throat. I think if I had stayed in that jungle for one more hour, I would have gone insane.”
He grabbed her hand so suddenly it made her jump. “I did some serious thinking about my life over the last week. I’ve had lots of successes, but there’s something missing. It’s like there’s this hole in my life. I guess I just realized that my profession isn’t enough. Money isn’t enough. Recognition either. If I had died out there on Coiba, all that the world would have had to remember me by would be a few butterflies and an obituary.”
Something moved in Fernanda’s soul. You know what he needs. Tell him.
The intensity was back in his eyes. He clutched her hands tightly with his. “Fernanda. I want you to marry me.”
If he hadn’t been holding her hands, she would have fallen out of the chair. Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“Listen, I know it’s sudden, but I also know that you are what I need. I want to share my life with someone, have children, leave a legacy. Fernanda, you are the one. I love you.”
She gulped. “Alex, I … it’s just …”
He got up and moved around to her side of the table. Kneeling next to her chair, his eyes pleaded with hers. “Fernanda, it was the thought of you that kept me going. You gave me something to live for. I need you in my life!”
Tell him.
The kettle was boiling. She looked at him for a long moment, trying to regain her mental footing. “Let me get that.”
He moved aside as she stood and went to the stove. With her back to him, she prayed silently. Lord, help me!
When she turned off the stove, the kettle’s whistle wound down like an air raid siren. She took a deep breath and was about to turn around when Alex’s hands gently encircled her waist as he pulled her close. “You will make a good wife, Fernanda,” he breathed into her ear.
She turned to face him, suddenly uncomfortable at how close his face was to hers. “Alex,” she couldn’t look him in the eye, “I can’t fill the hole in your heart.”
He pulled back slightly. “What do you mean, darling? Of course you can.”
She shook her head. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now. But your emptiness comes from having nothing in your life that is bigger than yourself.”
He sighed. “What?”
Why is this so hard to say? “It’s … God, Alex. You need God.” It came out as a whisper. She looked up at his raw, unshaven face. He blinked.
“You’re joking, right?”
“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”
He let go of her and sat down abruptly, staring at her with an incredulous grin like she had just told him she was secretly in love with Barney the dinosaur. “I never imagined you saying such a thing.”
That stung. Had her faith really been so hidden? “I’m sorry I didn’t say so sooner.”
He got up from the chair and paced like he did when he was giving a lecture. “I came here, Fernanda, to pour out my heart to you, to profess my love for you.” He stopped and glared at her. “And you use my vulnerability to foist your religion on me? I mean, if you feel you need it, that’s fine for you. But what I’m talking about has nothing to do with whatever collection of myths you choose to believe. I’m giving you a chance to be my life partner! Imagine the research we could do together, what it would do for your own standing in the scientific community. This is the chance of a lifetime for you! Don’t let your religion cloud your thinking. You’re smarter than that. You’re beautiful and sexy and tough—don’t give up your shot at the life you’ve always wanted.”
Now it was Fernanda’s turn to blink. She could see him clearly now for the first time. He wasn’t proposing marriage as much as he was a merger. Suddenly she understood that to him, she wasn’t a treasure to be guarded; she was a trophy to be hunted. And being in this man’s crosshairs was not a comfortable feeling.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know exactly what I want right now, Alex. I need to think.”
He smiled again, like the wise professor explaining a complexity of science to a first-year undergraduate. “You think too much, dear. Let me hold you, and you’ll know it’s right.” He spread his arms and moved to embrace her.
She put a hand out to stop him with as much grace as she could muster, which wasn’t much. “Not now, Alex.” She went to the front door and opened it.
He followed her, his demeanor much softer but not quite contrite. She put her back to the wall to allow him to pass. Instead, he stopped in front of her and stroked her cheek.
“Come, come now. Let me stay with you tonight, my love. I’ve been alone too long.” He dropped his hands to her waist, letting them slide sensuously down to her hips. “I promise, you won’t regret loving me.”
“That’s not love, Alex. That’s sex.”
She punctuated her statement by shoving him out the door. Once it was closed, she put her back against it and cried.
US Embassy, Panama City. 1815 hours
MOST OF TASK FORCE Valor was asleep in the briefing room on the second floor of the embassy when Major Williams burst through the door, carrying an armload of folders.
“All right, we got something!” he exclaimed, though Rip noticed the man wince slightly as he dropped the paperwork on the table.
“How’s your back?”
Williams gave Rip a wink. “Not as painful as working with some of the folks around here.” Sardonic chuckles arose from the group. “Anyway, Rip, the information your little friend brought us has yielded a few items of interest that we’re going to check out.” He
opened a folder and produced a stack of satellite photos and passed them around the room.
“What’re we looking at?” Coop asked.
“It’s called Battery Davis.” The major motioned for the men to be seated. “It’s on what used to be Fort Sherman. There are seven batteries there in all, but this one is of interest.”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t know what a battery is?” Sweeney drawled.
“Yes,” Frank said under his breath, to the snickers of the rest of the team. Sweeney punched him in the arm.
“Okay, here’s a little history lesson.” The major ignored their antics. “As I understand it, sometime prior to World War I, the United States began constructing coastal defenses to guard the entrances to the canal. As time went on, these grew into an elaborate series of bunkers and coastal defense guns. They were utilized as such until after World War II when the government decided to decommission them. Fort Sherman, since it sits at the entrance to the Caribbean side of the canal, had several of these bunkers.”
“Are we talking like fortified concrete fighting positions here, or what?” Sweeney said.
Williams shook his head. “More than that. These batteries were underground complexes, some of which could quarter hundreds of men at a time and were completely self-sufficient. There were radar towers, artillery batteries, and underground medical facilities, among other things.”
Coop snapped his fingers. “We did a training mission on one of those when I was here for Jungle Warfare school in ’99.”
Williams nodded. “Right. The military continued to use many of these batteries in various capacities until we pulled out in 2000. Then the Panamanian government abandoned several of them and sold a couple others to various research agencies.”
“So what does all this have to do with ITEB?” Frank asked.
“First things first.” The major got out his reading glasses and pointed to a clearing in the center of the photo. “This area is apparently one of the bunkers that was abandoned, which means it should be empty now.”
“Let me guess; it’s not,” Coop said.
“Satellite imagery shows activity around the site over the last six months.”
“And that’s where Fernanda’s uncle has been going?” Rip asked.
“We don’t know that for sure. Other than Fernanda’s information, we don’t have any idea where he’s been. But in the process of checking, we did find something interesting: Uncle Edgar is the founder of a Panamanian pharmaceutical company called Panagen.”
“I thought he ran the coffee company,” Rip said.
“Apparently he took that over when his brother died. But he still owns Panagen. And when we had some analysts take a look at that company’s output over the last year, a few things didn’t add up. First of all, they haven’t taken any new drugs to trial in over two years.”
“Doesn’t sound too profitable,” John said.
“Right. But that could partially be explained by the fact that Edgar has been too busy running the coffee business lately. But here’s where it gets really suspicious. Our guys at Langley looked up Panagen’s purchasing records. They turned up information in one case from an unexpected source.”
“What’s that?” Sweeney asked.
“Apparently, the US government held some pretty large yard sales in 1998 and 1999 in anticipation of pulling out of the country. Everything from vehicles to hospital bedpans—hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of stuff from US bases went on the auction block. Panagen made substantial purchases of scientific and medical equipment from these auctions and picked up some pretty high-tech lab equipment at fire-sale prices.”
“Sounds like good business management,” Frank said.
“Sure it was. And here’s where the report went over my head,” Williams grinned. “But I’ll give you the English version, as best I can understand it.” He took a deep breath. “Iso-Triethyl Borane is a liquid that explodes on contact with oxygen. Right?”
“Pyrophoric,” Frank said.
“Whatever. So this chemical gets used by computer chip makers, and guess who else: pharmaceutical companies. But it’s never transported or used in its explosive state. That is, it’s normally diluted with another chemical that keeps it from being explosive. You follow?”
Rip nodded. So far, so good. Sweeney didn’t look so sure.
Frank raised his hand. “What’s the chemical that it’s combined with?”
Williams consulted his notes. “You would ask that, Baldwin. Lessee … here it is. Hexane.”
Frank shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“Me neither. But see, while it’s mixed with hexane, ITEB won’t explode. It only becomes poly … pylo …”
“Pyrophoric,” Frank said, grinning.
“Yeah, that. Anyway, it’ll only blow up if the hexane is removed. To do that, it’s mixed with some sort of powder or something.”
Frank was reading ahead in the report. “A nanopolymer.”
Williams put his report down and took off his glasses. “You want to do this, Frank?”
“No sir. Sorry. Please continue.”
The glasses went back on, and after clearing his throat, the major continued. “It’s mixed with a nanopolymer—” he glared at Baldwin—“which absorbs the hexane molecules and leaves the pure ITEB, ready for bottling.”
“Wouldn’t this have to be done in a vacuum?” Coop fingered his copy of the report.
Rip could tell Frank wanted to answer the question but was biting his lip instead, consternation creeping across his face.
Williams shook his head. “Not a vacuum; it just has to be done in an environment where there isn’t any oxygen. So they use some other gas, like nitrogen.”
“Oh,” Coop said, as he went back to the report. “So they would have to mix the liquid into this nanopolymer, which absorbs the hexane and is then filtered out, leaving pure ITEB.”
The major’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. You’ve been paying attention.”
Coop dropped the report on the table. “Yes, but you still haven’t explained how we know that Panagen is our culprit.”
The stocky commander sighed and removed his reading glasses, setting them on the table. “Have you ever seen one of those photographs of, say, Abe Lincoln, that is made up of thousands of other tiny photographs?”
Rip spoke up. “You mean like a collage that when you look at it from far away makes a picture of something else?”
“Exactly. Well, if you look at the individual pictures, you’d never see old Abe. But taken together, the sum of the parts, you can see him clearly.”
“I get you,” Rip said, nodding. “The bunker, the equipment, the knowledge of the attack, all that adds up to our man, Edgar, being the maker.”
“That’s right,” Williams said. “Oh, and one more thing: Panagen has been purchasing a fair amount of this nanopolymer in the last year.”
“Why didn’t these high-speed CIA yahoos just check to see if they’ve been buying ITEB too?” Sweeney asked.
“That was the first thing they checked. But that’s the strange thing. None. Why would they be buying the stuff if they aren’t buying anything to use it with? The answer is: They’re getting their boom juice somewhere off the record.”
Rip was tapping his pen on the desk, eager to get on with the mission. “So where are they getting their ITEB?”
The major pinned him with his gaze. “That, my boy, is what you all are going to find out.”
“When?”
Williams stood with difficulty and picked up his glasses off the table. “You’re going in tonight.”
0240 hours
The two-and-a-half ton Daewoo cargo truck sat idling in the mud outside the battery, belching diesel exhaust that burned the eyes and throat. The man supervising the loading of the last of the ITEB was irritated at how long it was taking.
He was Edgar Oswardo Lerida, but not for much longer. He’d chosen his new name, and as soon as the product was transferred to the ship
he’d made arrangements to meet off the coast at sunrise, he and his boat would be headed for Colombia, then on to Argentina and a new life.
Distant thunder signaled the approach of yet another rainstorm, and its rumbling competed with the guttural howls of a troupe of monkeys somewhere in the jungle nearby.
The bottles were safely packaged in foam-lined cases that gave no indication as to their contents, so he had to keep reminding the three longshoremen from Colón to be careful. As far as Oswardo was concerned, supervising the howler monkeys would have been less trouble.
After much coercion, the last case was finally strapped down inside the covered bed of the truck. Oswardo stood on the running board and pulled himself up even with the driver.
“Bueno. ¿Estamos listo?” the man asked.
“Sí. Everything is loaded. When you reach the road, turn right and keep driving until you reach El Fuerte. When you reach the fort, take the road that bears to the right. It ends at the beach, and a boat will be waiting there. But I want you to wait until I arrive before moving or unloading the boxes.”
“Why don’t you just ship them out of the port in Colón?” the driver asked.
“The less you know, the better it will be for you!” Oswardo snapped. “Do as I say, and you and your men will be paid in cash once the boat is loaded. And remember, you are to speak of this to no one. ¿Comprendes?”
“Sí, señor,” the driver said, obviously not wanting to do anything to upset his employer.
“Very well. Ándale. I will be along shortly.”
The driver popped the clutch, causing the behemoth to shudder and lurch off down the muddy track leading to the road.
Oswardo winced and glowered after it. Idiota. Even though he’d found the chemical makeup of the compound to be more stable than the textbook said it should be, it still became more volatile when it wasn’t refrigerated. And he lived in fear that too hard a jolt would crack one of the bottles. If that happened, it would be all over.
The loss of the shipment on Coiba still stung, being that he’d been offered such an incredible sum for his remaining product. As for the truck driver, Oswardo didn’t dare tell the man just how valuable his cargo was, lest the man and his companions decide to make off with it.
