by Jack Du Brul
The faces confronting him were grim and set. Everyone knew and accepted the risks. The French wanted a chance to avenge the comrades felled by Liu Yousheng and Hatcherly Consolidated. Roddy was defending his very home, hoping to keep it from slipping back into the kind of tyranny not seen since Noriega’s day. Lauren had a sworn duty to defend the United States and never in her career had her mission been clearer. If they failed, America would face a Cold War-style nuclear confrontation with an adversary possessing a frightening strategic advantage.
What about Harry? Mercer wondered. Why did he want to be a part of this? Like so many of his generation, Harry hadn’t waited for the draft. He’d signed up to do his part during World War II and rightly placed himself among those called the Greatest Generation. It could be that he thought this fight was worth the same kind of sacrifice. Or maybe, Mercer chuckled to himself, the stubborn fool had never backed away from anything in his life and was too set in his ways to stop now.
And his own reason for accepting the risks? Mercer knew it was a combination of them all—with one more addition. He made no distinction between the carbon dioxide gas that had wiped out Gary’s camp and the squad of soldiers Liu had dispatched to the river to kill them. To him the Chinese were as responsible for those deaths as the geologic anomaly. Mercer looked at Miguel. For no reason other than greed and ambition, this innocent had been orphaned by Liu Yousheng. It was a burden the boy would carry for the rest of his life.
Mercer had always been haunted by the idea that the terrorists who murdered his parents had probably been congratulated for their barbarity. In a thousand dreams he’d seen them celebrating the ambush that had cost him everything and gained them nothing. It made him hate the killers all the more, a deep and primal emotion that he’d carry to his grave. He wasn’t sure if punishing Liu would give Miguel any comfort as he grew into adulthood, but Mercer understood too well how the boy’s soul could be corroded if the Chinese mastermind succeeded.
“I think we’re set,” Lauren said when the briefing was over. “When I talked to my father this morning he said the commandos made their flight okay. They managed to bring extra communications gear so we can all stay in contact during the assault.”
“What about your missile cruiser?” Foch asked.
“The destroyer USS McCampbell is already within Tomahawk range and will be able to bring her VGAS cannon to bear in another two hours. They will keep the ship out of Panama’s territorial waters but will be overflying an experimental spotter drone based on the Predator aircraft.”
“If Liu has moved SAM batteries here to protect his nuclear rockets, your drone won’t last five minutes,” Rene Bruneseau interjected.
Lauren gave him a smug look. “The spotter drone has the radar cross-section of a hummingbird. No worries.”
One of the Legion soldiers leaned forward. Named Rabidoux, he was the dark-complected son of an Algerian mother and a French father. He more than any of them had been stunned that Rene was a fellow Muslim. “I have been on NATO exercises with the American Green Berets. We won’t need the destroyer, its gun or missiles. I think we won’t even need us.”
Mercer nodded to him. “Hope you’re right.” He looked at the Timex Harry had lent him. “It’s seven o’clock now. I know it won’t take us that long to get into position, but I suggest we get going.”
All the weapons had been bundled in cheap nylon bags so they aroused little interest on the way to the elevator. While the majority of the group continued to the lobby, Miguel insisted that Mercer and Roddy escort him back to the Herraras’ room.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” he asked. He’d already asked that same question a dozen times.
“You have to stay here to take care of my children,” Roddy answered. “When I am gone, they look up to you.”
“But you might need me,” the boy insisted with a touch of petulance, then continued his appeal in Spanish.
Mercer admired Roddy’s patience with Miguel. Working past his own apprehension and fears, he was able to speak in reassuring tones. Mercer didn’t know the words but could follow the conversation, recognizing the exact moment of capitulation by the tears that formed in Miguel’s eyes. Roddy spoke to him some more, and like a magician managed to turn the tears into a weak smile and then a small giggle.
Not a magician, Mercer realized. A parent.
Miguel hugged both men and made Mercer promise to look out for Mr. Harry.
“You should know by now,” Mercer teased, “that with Harry on our side it’s the other guys who have to look out.” He pantomimed how Harry had shown Miguel the sword secreted in his walking stick. “He’s bloodthirstier than old Captain Morgan when he sacked Panama City.”
Roddy whispered to Mercer, “Then shouldn’t he drink his namesake’s rum?”
“Poetic license,” Mercer retorted. “Besides, I don’t know if Jack Daniel was bloodthirsty.”
Mercer retreated down the hallway to give Roddy and Carmen some privacy to say good-bye. Even if her husband wasn’t going to be in danger, she worried for him, for them all really.
A pounding rain had erupted in the few minutes it took to get to the parking lot. It stung Mercer’s face as he looked up to judge how long the foul weather would be with them. The sky was an arc of bruised gray clouds that obscured the tops of the tallest buildings. It appeared that the storm would last for hours.
Roddy had borrowed his brother-in-law’s pickup truck to drive the Legionnaires and the weapons to the Balboa Yacht Club. Victor had just finished the night shift at Hatcherly’s container port, and he and Roddy spoke quietly while the arms were loaded into the truck’s enclosed bed. It would be a tight fit for the soldiers in back, but they only had to drive fifteen miles or so. Lauren was already behind the wheel of the idling van.
Mercer climbed into the pickup’s cab to get out of the rain. Harry sat next to him and was squeezed in when Roddy jumped behind the wheel once Victor marched off for a bus stop.
“Victor says that last night Hatcherly moved a ship out of its dry dock. It had been there for weeks, although he’s sure no work was ever done to it. The freighter that took its place is about four hundred feet long. He thinks it’s a refrigerator ship but didn’t see the name.”
“Sounds like the Korvald.”
Roddy nodded, rainwater dripping from his nose. “I think it must be. The dry dock is fully enclosed, allowing the Chinese to unload their rockets without being detected.”
“That’s probably how they brought in the missile-launcher trucks.”
“Makes sense,” Roddy agreed.
“Once we hook up with the Special Forces we can alert the USS McCampbell. Taking out the Korvald sounds like something the navy should handle.”
Roddy started the truck and maneuvered so Mercer’s window came abreast of Lauren’s. “You all set?” Mercer called to her.
She rolled down her window a couple of inches. “This is gonna be a milk run.” She grinned. “We should be at the Balboa Yacht Club around ten. It all depends on customs at the airport.”
“And we’ll have the boat ready to go. See you when we see you.”
Lauren blew him a kiss and put the van in gear. Roddy waited until she had pulled into the early-morning traffic before turning around in the parking lot and leaving the hotel in the opposite direction.
Twenty minutes after reaching the Gamboa Highway they pulled into the Balboa Yacht Club, a grandiose title for a rather run-down establishment located immediately below the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the parking lot they could see a PANAMAX container ship in one lane of the lock and a cruise liner about to enter the other.
As Roddy had predicted there were no other vehicles at the club. It was a Tuesday morning and the weather only helped keep sailors away. Rain hitting the tin roof of the two-story clubhouse sounded like hail. There were a dozen sailboats in the marina and an equal number of powerboats tied to the wooden jetties. Like most small boatyards, there were watercraft resting on wooden
trestles and a battered crane to hoist them into or out of the water. A lone gasoline pump stood like a sentinel on one of the piers.
Beyond the marina lay the mile-long Miraflores Lake. Like forgotten castles on a mist-shrouded moor, several cargo ships floated eerily on the water, their running lights barely cutting into the storm and the smoke from their funnels blending with the murky clouds. A single horn blast echoed across the artificial lake.
The three men sat in the quiet truck for a second until Harry broke the spell the haunting scene had cast over them. “What a shitty day.”
Mercer threw open his door at the same time Foch and Rene emerged from the rear of the pickup. His men swarmed out after him with the bags of weapons. Only Harry and Roddy had rain jackets with them, but the storm didn’t faze the soldiers. If anything they knew the weather would help the American commandos when they staged their assault.
Roddy led them around the clubhouse and across the lawn to the marina. Wind whistled through the rigging on the sailboats and waves slapped against their hulls. The boat he had borrowed was a thirty footer with a tuna tower that rose fifteen feet and a cabin accessible through a sliding glass door. He leapt onto the craft and jammed the key into the lock. The men piled into the cabin, water dripping from their clothes onto the faded indoor/outdoor carpet. The soldiers were more intent on the weapons than the fact they were all soaked to the skin.
“They okay?” Mercer asked.
“Oui,” Rabidoux said and handed over one of the .45-caliber pistols.
Mercer checked the action once, then popped the magazine so he could replace the round he’d chambered. With two more hours to wait, there was no need to charge the weapons yet. Roddy had gone forward and returned with a handful of towels. He passed them around and turned to start the gas stove to make coffee.
“Anyone bring a deck of cards?” Harry asked from the settee. He played idly with the spring mechanism on his cane.
At ten minutes past nine, Lauren called from the airport to tell Mercer that the jet from Miami had just arrived. No sooner had Mercer cut the cell connection than Roddy’s phone rang again. It was Victor. From the hotel, he had taken a bus to the viewing area at the Miraflores Lock to wait for the Mario diCastorelli. Mercer handed over the phone and listened as Roddy spoke in Spanish with his brother-in-law.
“The ship is already in the upper of the two western locks,” Roddy reported after hanging up. The western lock was on the opposite side of the canal from the marina. “The doors just closed behind it and they are beginning to flood the chamber.”
“It takes an hour to cross the lake, right?” Mercer asked.
Roddy nodded. “A little longer with the rain.”
“Man, this is going to be tight.” Mercer and Foch exchanged a look. “What do you think?”
“I think that if the Green Berets don’t arrive in forty-five minutes we should do this ourselves.”
Mercer looked out into the storm. He could just see the darker shadow of a cargo ship approaching the locks. “I agree.” He dialed Lauren. “It’s me. Victor just called. Our friend is already at the Miraflores Lock.”
“Passengers are beginning to come through now. No sign of the guys in the green hats yet.”
“We might not be able to wait for them,” Mercer told her.
“I hear you, but I don’t like it.”
“Neither do we.”
“As soon as we’re on the road, I’ll call.”
“Roger. And Lauren, be careful.”
“You too.”
Her call came fifteen minutes later. “We’re coming. Should be with you in twenty minutes. The storm’s keeping traffic down to a dull snarl.”
“Good. Hey, let me talk with the commanding officer.”
“This is Jim Patke.” The voice was mild, not the nail-eating fire-spitter Mercer expected. “You’re Mercer?”
“Yeah. Listen, I just wanted to go over some details about the assault.”
“Forget it. The plan you discussed with General Vanik isn’t going to happen. Delta Force and SEALs go for those kinds of attacks. Not us. I’ve seen pictures of the lock area. What you’re going to do is take us by boat to the other side of the canal. We’ll make our way onto the retaining wall and jump to the target while it’s in the chamber.”
“Doesn’t give much time to secure the ship,” Mercer said.
“Won’t know ’til we get there since no one has intel on the target’s complement.” Patke’s voice was filled with bitter complaint.
Mercer could understand the commando’s frustration. He was leading his team against an unknown force without any time to properly plan or train for the attack. For all Patke knew there were a hundred Chinese soldiers on the Mario diCastorelli. “I hear you,” Mercer replied at last. “If you think you’ll need it, there are seven of us ready to help.” He counted Lauren in his tally but not Roddy or Harry. Roddy’s orders were to drive the boat for the Special Forces and remain out of the way until events had been played out. Mercer could not risk the family man.
“No way,” Patke answered. “It’ll be hairy enough without having to worry about civilians.”
There was no point explaining that the Foreign Legion veterans weren’t civilians or that he himself had probably seen more combat than Patke or any of his men. Besides which Mercer had already determined a fallback position he wanted to use while the Green Berets took over the bomb ship. Roddy had mentioned it when they’d arrived at the marina.
“Okay,” Mercer said. “We’ll be waiting.” He clicked off the cell phone.
Bruneseau cleared his throat. “Well?”
“They’re going to take the ship in the lock. Roddy will take them to the other side of the canal in the boat. I think the rest of us should move to where the pilot boats are stored on the upper end of the lock chamber.” There was a small marina used exclusively by the Canal Authority a half mile up the road from the Balboa Yacht Club. It was this boatyard where the launch that had chased Mercer from the Pedro Miguel Lock came from after Lauren’s ill-fated dive. If necessary Mercer and his team could commandeer one of the thirty-foot pilot boats and stage their own last-ditch attack on the Mario diCastorelli.
“We’ll leave now,” Foch announced. “Monsieur Herrara, are you certain that they won’t question us if we park the truck near that marina?”
“Just as long as you park in the lot reserved for tourists who watch ships going through the lock. There’s a chain-link fence separating it from the employee lot. The pickup can smash through it no problem.”
Harry slid open the door and stepped into the salon. His coat was shiny with rain, and when he pulled off his hood, water cascaded to the floor. He’d been up on the flying bridge keeping watch for the Mario diCastorelli. “I think I saw her.” He set down a pair of binoculars and dried his hands on his pants so he could pull a cigarette from its crumpled pack. “I also saw a couple other freighters behind her and a ship with a huge white superstructure just coming out of the Miraflores Locks. Must be a PANAMAX cruise ship.”
Roddy consulted the manifest he’d gotten from Essie Vega. “The freighters will be the Robert T. Change, the Englander Rose and the Sultana. The cruise ship is the Rylander Sea.”
Harry seemed to lose focus for a moment when he heard the names. He said nothing, just silently smoked his Chesterfield.
Roddy added, “The Rylander Sea carries about five thousand passengers and crew. Transit cruises are some of the most popular so she’ll be full. Also, she’s considered to be a luxury ship with cabin prices about twice most other liners. Her passengers are going to be elderly since they have the money and the time to take a twenty-five-day cruise from Alaska to Puerto Rico.”
Mercer’s brow furrowed as he absorbed this information. “Unless the Green Berets need you to wait at the lock, I want you to go across the lake and be prepared to warn that ship off if it looks like we won’t stop the explosion.”
“With any luck I’ll know the pilot.”
> Foch got to his feet. “We should leave.”
“Take the truck. I’ll join you when Lauren arrives,” Mercer said.
“D’accord.”
“Harry, I think you should stay with Roddy.”
“I’m sure you do,” the octogenarian replied. “And I would, except for one small problem. None of you know how to handle a ship the size of the diCastorelli. If Patke or you run into trouble, you’re going to need me. I’ve got twenty-some years of experience on freighters, many of them as master. I’m the only one here who can maneuver her if the Chinese attach that submersible to her hull and try to crash her in the Gaillard Cut.”
Mercer watched Harry’s blue eyes, struggling with his feelings of loyalty and duty. “Can you walk me through the procedures over the radio?” he asked.
“No. I need to be on her to feel how she responds.” They continued to study each other. “Hey, don’t think I wouldn’t rather be on my bar stool at Tiny’s,” Harry added.
Mercer finally broke eye contact and glanced at Foch. His meaning was clear.
“Do not worry, my friend,” the Legionnaire said in French. “My debt to you for saving my life will be protecting his at all cost.”
“All right. Lauren and I will be with you in a few minutes.”
The men tucked their weapons back in their bags and climbed over the gunwale for the dock. Bruneseau led them and Foch stayed at Harry’s side. Harry didn’t bother using his walking stick and as far as Mercer could tell his gait was even. His prosthesis wasn’t bothering him because he was in the grip of the same adrenaline surge coursing through Mercer’s veins.
Ten minutes later, multiple pairs of feet leapt to the deck of the fishing boat. Lauren opened the door and twisted rain from her hair when she stepped inside. Behind her were the six Green Berets. Mercer stood to shake Patke’s hand. “Philip Mercer.”
