by Doug Beason
“And the vice president would be a dead man.” The adjective Vice was faintly stressed. “But that’s not the reason I’m calling.”
“Shoot.”
“We’re tracking Steele.”
“Have you located Adleman?”
“No, sir. He’s probably inside the plantation house we’ve located, along with Pompano’s daughter. It will be getting dark here in less than two hours. My guess is that Steele is going to wait until dark, then try to sneak up to the house.”
“Do you think they can do it?”
“I don’t know. But this Pompano is good. He’s had years of experience getting through the jungle. It’s his territory. On the other hand, I’m worried about his allegiance.”
“What about Steele?”
Simone leaned forward against the chair. He watched the ghostly image of Bruce slipping through the jungle. The lieutenant’s body stood out in the infrared, hotter than the surrounding rain-soaked foliage, even though no features could be discerned. “He’s right at his peak—we couldn’t have sent him to Jungle Survival School at any better time.”
“Good. Good. The only thing that worries me is getting them out. Dropping a line from a helicopter seems awfully risky.”
“We’re using the Black Hawk to drop a Fulton Recovery System. Once the balloon is up, the vice president can be taken out of there in seconds, hopefully surprising the bad guys before they can use their HPM weapon. Bruce and Pompano will hide in the jungle. We’re already feeding targeting information into a flight of F-15Es. The Strike Eagles will give Steele the cover he needs.”
Newman was silent for a long time. “I don’t want to second-guess you, Pete—”
“You’re not, general. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve had all the Black Hawks and Jolly Greens deployed out to Subic. We’re loading another cadre of Navy SEALs on board—the nearest thing we’ve got to an assault force here. At the first sign of trouble, we’re dropping the SEALs into that clearing. But if we do that, we’ve got to take out that HPM weapon first.”
“You’ll risk killing the vice president.”
“We believe they’ll kill the girl first, then use Adleman as a bargaining chip. If we’re quick enough, we will succeed.”
Newman remained silent for a moment. “I don’t like any of this, not one bit, Pete. It’s too quick, and the odds are in their favor.”
“General, there’s a young man out there in the rain risking his life for the vice president, and another man risking his life for his daughter, and that’s our best bet. I don’t like any of the things we’re doing, but it’s better than rolling over and playing dead.”
“Pete … thanks. And keep me informed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Simone hung up and turned back to the screen. The image of Bruce Steele wavered in and out of view. On an adjacent screen, figures showed thirty-four Air Force helicopters at Subic. Eight of them were loaded with the remainder of the SEALs who were not already in the jungle.
The other helicopters were ready to be used as backups and to fly support personnel into the area. The one Black Hawk set aside for delivering the Fulton Recovery System was already in the air. As much as it went against his grain, there was nothing more he could do except to wait.
Bruce glanced at his watch. Water covered the clock’s face, but the numbers 1733 blinked up at him. Another hour until sunset.
Pompano moved ahead of him, pushing thick jungle growth out of the way. They had slowed their pace. Bruce tried to pick out any signs of human life—threads from a shirt caught in the branches, broken leaves, or broken branches that were shoulder high.
Pompano was certain that they would soon reach the clearing. He slowed to almost a crawl and seemed even more careful where he stepped. He reminded Bruce, in the way he handled himself, of Abuj.
Suddenly Bruce froze. Pompano had stopped. Bruce strained to hear, but couldn’t make out anything except the incessant dripping of water as it cascaded down the leaves.
Pompano barely turned his head to look at Bruce. He didn’t speak, but Bruce could tell what he was thinking, just by his eyes.
Yolanda.
Pompano crept forward. One foot up, then slowly down to the ground, applying weight, testing to ensure that no stray sticks were underneath his foot, ready to snap in an unnatural sound.
Bruce imitated the old man and forgot about the time. He was almost afraid to breathe, for fear that the very sound of the air coming out of his nostrils would alert the Huks.
Step, move, test. It was a pattern he recreated a thousand times. Step, move, test.
With this slow cadence, Bruce’s ankle began to throb. He imagined it swelling, engorged with blood. Soon he would no longer be able to stand the pain.…
Pompano stopped.
Bruce squinted past the old man. Just ahead, Bruce could barely make out light—not shining at them, but rather diffusing though the heavy canopy of green. It had to be the clearing.
Bruce glanced at his wrist. 1801. A half hour until dark.
A half hour to rest, to run over the plan, to mentally steel himself for what was to come. A half hour to pray that he wouldn’t trip up; a half hour to pool the energy he needed for the rescue.
Or the last half hour he had left to live.
Cervante frowned. It wasn’t the shrieks of the girl that disturbed him. The men were just having their fun, spending time enjoying her.
No, it wasn’t her cries, or even the sobs. Cervante had decided to wait, to be one of the last to have her.
What disturbed Cervante was something subtler. Something just out of range of his hearing. A low rumble.
He stepped outside. By the side of the house, just visible around the corner, was the back of the truck holding the high-power microwave weapon. The smells of dinner wafted out from the back of the house. The walls muffled Yolanda’s voice. He wondered if he were hearing things. It resembled a giant gathering of … mosquitoes … buzzing somewhere out in the jungle.
The mosquitoes would come when the rain stopped, but he knew that they were not flying now.
Cervante pushed back inside. The corner room held all the electronic equipment. He picked up a microphone. “Any activity?”
A voice came back seconds later. “No traffic.”
Cervante frowned. He walked over to the bank of detectors set up by Pompano. Each detector had a long line running from it. He put his ear to each speaker, but heard nothing other than the damned rain, falling from the clouds.
Still not satisfied, he stepped from the side office and went back into the front room. The girl’s cries were already growing weaker. What would they be like in another seven or eight hours?
A young Huk stumbled from the back, pulling up his pants and grinning stupidly. Cervante waved an arm toward the door. “Get the high-power microwave weapon ready.”
“Are the Americans coming?” The man’s voice was instantly alert.
Cervante listened for a moment.
Nothing.
Still …
“Probably not. But it will be good practice for you to prepare the device.” When the man did not immediately leave, Cervante growled, “Quickly!”
Colonel Ben Lutler watched over the shoulder of one of the Electronic Warfare Officers in the back of the MC-130. Black cloth was thrown back on top of the array of instruments. When the MC-130 was not operational, the cloth ensured that no unauthorized people would be able to look at the sophisticated electronics.
The EWO intently watched his screen. Sensors were trained on the house in the middle of the clearing; all he saw was a bright blob, no detail possible with the amount of heat coming from inside.
People walking away from the house came gradually into view once they were ten or so yards away. The farther they got from the house, the better the infrared sensors worked—but the clouds still masked the detail.
Lutler straightened and started for the cockpit; the EWO was so wrapped up in his surveillance, he didn’t even notice
Lutler leave.
As he approached the cockpit, Lutler knew the sun would soon set, enabling even more infrared detail to be picked out. But he also knew that whatever was inside the house would remain hidden, like a jealous mother guarding her young.
Bruce stretched his legs. His ankle was growing more painful.
He tried to ignore it, and swung his M-16 around to prop his leg up. Fumbling with his holster, he pulled out his service revolver and stared at the silencer attached to the barrel. A faint smell of gun oil drifted through the drizzle. If he was going to use anything, he’d use this first. He’d save the M-16 for later—after all hell broke loose.
Pop!
Bruce froze.
The sound came again. Faint. It was as if … someone had moved just inside of the clearing, walking lightly on the grass.
Bruce held his breath.
Pompano opened his eyes. He stared at Bruce and kept still. The sound grew louder.
Something thrashed in the leaves. A branch rustled where it was moved, brushed back.…
Bruce grasped his revolver, moving it slowly up … up until it pointed at head level. The gun shook. He tried to keep it steady, but rain, sweat, and blurry vision kept him from seeing straight.
Pop!
Silence.
Footsteps, and the person walked away. The noise was quickly lost in the symphony of sounds that surrounded them.
Bruce lowered the gun. The silencer made the gun feel heavy. He hadn’t noticed it at the time.
He felt drained, exhausted from the wait—and they hadn’t even started.
Bruce holstered the weapon, allowing the barrel to slide down into the stiff leather. His chest hurt—he realized that he had been holding his breath when the guard walked by. But he had survived. Survived the jungle, and now survived the first line of defense that surrounded their prize.
In the growing darkness, Pompano watched, unblinking. His cheek was raw, a scab not yet having formed by his temple. He spoke a single word: “Come.”
“Over there.” Captain Bob Gould pointed across the cockpit. Head saw a paved parking lot next to an old store.
The store looked deserted. Head craned his neck, surveying the area. No towers, telephone or power lines. “How far are we from the drop-off point?”
“Ten miles.”
“Let’s go for it.”
As he brought the Black Hawk around, Gould got on the radio and informed the Thirteenth Air Force of their position.
The sun’s last rays ignited the clouds below, turning them into giant fields of pink cotton candy. Catman watched the spectacle with only half a mind. Most of his attention was focused on the giant KC-10 Extender flying thirty feet in front of him. The aerial refueling boom was pumping fifteen hundred gallons of JP-4 into the F-15. For the last six minutes, Catman’s fighter had been gulping down fuel.
“Break away, break away!” At the command from the boom operator, Catman banked down and off to the left. Catman clicked his mike.
“Lead, three. Break away, break—”
He was interrupted by Skipper’s voice. “Three, lead. Rejoin at orbit point. Assassin’s going in. I say again, Assassin’s going in.”
Catman drew his mouth tight as he pulled toward the rendezvous point.
***
Chapter 22
Friday, 22 June
Tarlac
As they moved through the clearing, Bruce kept in a crouch. His M-16 was strapped to his shoulder. He fanned his service revolver back and forth as he jogged, to cover the area before him.
Pompano moved faster in the clear than he did in the jungle. The house was about a quarter mile from the jungle, right smack in the center of the clearing. A quarter mile—how many times had Bruce run that distance? He would have run ten times that in a single football game.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce spotted someone moving. He kept the Huk in his peripheral vision: His night vision best discerned objects when viewed from the side.
Through the rain and darkness the person appeared to be moving away from them. Bruce swung his pistol around, back and forth, as he covered their path.
Pompano slowed. He held a hand down, then motioned quickly to the left. They peeled off from their straight-in approach and swung wide to come around to the side.
The building was long in the back and airy. The windows were open, but rain was kept from coming in by a large overhang that encircled the perimeter of the house. Strong smells of food cooking caught Bruce’s attention and made his stomach grumble.
Laughter mixed with faint shrill cries came from the house. Pompano slowed as he heard the noise. Yolanda! Bruce caught up to Pompano and silently urged him on. As he passed the old man Bruce could sense Pompano shaking, quivering with what had to be rage for his daughter’s safety.
They reached the corner of the house. No sound came out of the window in front of them. Bruce and Pompano stopped to catch their breath.
Bruce breathed through his nose, trying to keep the huffing inaudible. He gritted his teeth to keep the pain out of his mind.
No one heard them. Or at least, no one indicated that they did.
The house sat on concrete blocks. The space underneath the house was too cramped for anyone other than a child to crawl through. After a quick glance, Bruce backed up against the house, certain that no one was staked out underneath.
Pompano drew up to him. “Yolanda is being held at the other end of the house. Your vice president is probably in the bedroom at this end.”
Bruce nodded. He could still hear the screaming, the moans.
Pompano grasped the rifle barrel tightly. “I can not allow this to happen to her.”
Bruce leaned over to Pompano. The motion caused him to yelp in pain. He nearly fell, but straightened himself against the house’s wooden siding. Bruce forced a whisper. “We’ll have to split up, try and break into the house at the same time. Can you take her to the south side of the clearing?”
Pompano nodded. A low rumble of thunder rolled through the clearing. Pompano pulled his revolver from the holster and nodded to the opposite end of the building. A sob came through the rain. “I cannot allow this to continue.” He crouched down and started out.
Bruce breathed deeply. He turned toward the house.
Pompano was already a quarter of the way to Yolanda.
The overhang sheltered Bruce from the rain. He limped to the nearest window. No one was around. He couldn’t see Pompano, and just prayed that the old man would succeed.
Bruce pushed up on his tiptoes. The effort almost bowled him over, but he managed a quick look inside the room.
A body was sprawled over a bed. It was tied to the bedposts, rope wrapped around the person’s arms and feet. It looked like the person had been hog-tied.
A guard sat back in a chair, across the room from the vice president. His head nodded, then jerked back up.
Bruce wet his lips. He crouched in the mud and patted his survival vest. He pulled out the small walkie-talkie and turned the gain and volume to low. He whispered directly into the small microphone, “Blackcave, Assassin,” then held the speaker to his ear.
Ten seconds passed. It seemed like ten hours to Bruce.
“Assassin, Blackcave. Go.”
“I’ve found Lonestar, but we’ve got trouble. Looks like we’re not going to make the jungle.”
“Assassin, can you talk?”
Bruce looked hurriedly around. “Negative.”
“Assassin, give us an assessment.”
“Blackcave, scrub the Fulton plan. Get a chopper at the south side of the clearing ASAP. We’re not, repeat not going to have time to get to the recovery packet. You’re going to have to pull the vice president out of here on a chopper—we’ll duck into the jungle and wait until Maddog covers us before pickup.”
A minute and a half passed. Bruce wondered if he should call up again, but a voice came over the speaker. Bruce held the instrument to his ear. “Give us the word, Assassin. The Black Ha
wk will be there two minutes after you holler.”
“Rog.”
He had started to collapse the walkie-talkie when he heard water sloshing.
Bruce fell back against the side of the house. A guard carrying a rifle, the barrel pointing down at the ground, rounded the corner of the house. He drew deeply on a cigarette, threw it out into the water, and turned toward Bruce.
“Fox One, Mother Hen. Your quarry is in sight, ready for pickup. Stand by for a two-minute bolt.” The MC-130’s message was short and curt.
Captain Richard Head clicked his mike twice. “Rog.” He turned to Gould, who had already started running through the checklist. “Let’s crank it.”
Clark AB
“General, they’ve made their move.”
Simone growled into the microphone. “I know.”
“Plan B: Do you want them to launch?” Simone thought it over. Helicopters filled with Navy SEALs waited to fly in for the assault. He didn’t want to send in anyone and risk Adleman’s life, not if Bruce could pull it off.
But he needed the option open.…
“Launch, but have them orbit five miles away. We’ll land them if they’re needed.”
Tarlac
Bruce lifted his pistol up instinctively. His fingers had squeezed off two rounds before he stopped. His hand kicked back with each shot.
The silencer surprised him. He had expected not to hear anything, but the muffled sound seemed to ricochet around the building and out into the clearing.
The man looked startled when hit; he fell back. Bruce waited for an instant, wondering if the man was faking it. He half expected the guard to get up and start firing, or at least yelling. He crouched by the window, anticipating some reaction from the guard inside.
Nothing happened.
It all seemed too easy.
Bruce turned to the window and put his hand up to the screen. The guard had started to snore. Bruce pushed, moving the protective mesh back into the room.
The Filipino suddenly opened his eyes. He spotted Bruce and scrambled for his rifle.…
Bruce whipped his pistol over the windowsill and slammed off three shots. The guard slumped back against the chair, then fell to the floor.
