by Hep Aldridge
As I peeked over the top of my rope fort, rope fort…that’s funny… Focus, damn it, Colt, your mind is wandering again, and you don’t have time for that. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I looked over the pile of ropes protecting me. There was something I hadn’t noticed earlier. Another guy was lying further down the dock. Guess I had done more damage than I thought. Jesus, I was tired, thirsty as hell, and my whole left leg was going numb. Salty sweat burned my eyes, making it even harder to focus. It’s obvious I’m outnumbered and out-gunned, so I wonder why these guys haven’t rushed my position. No doubt, looking directly into the sun made it difficult for them to see me as I hid behind my “rope fort.” That would make them more cautious. Hmm… if they have those cool mirrored Reflecto sunglasses that all the Spanish speaking bad guys wear in the movies… That little voice in my head said to stop with the bullshit, Colt, and focus! I now realized my mind was wandering all over the place, and my situation was on the verge of becoming deadly.
I take another peek and see two or three of my attackers moving toward me. They were using barrels on the dock, crates, draped fishing nets, whatever they could for cover. Two more came out to follow the others firing in my direction. Well, if this is going to turn into the OK Corral, I had better start with a full clip! As I fired my last four rounds and reloaded, I thought, last clip, Son of a bitch! Looking over my rope barrier again I saw more armed guys running on the dock heading my way, double damn! Sure didn’t look good for the visiting team as gunfire erupted. Accuracy suddenly became very important and I knew I had to make all my shots count. Hiding behind barrels full of something is not necessarily a bad idea in a gunfight; however, hiding behind empty barrels from a guy with a .45 caliber Glock 21, not so much. Two more of the attackers found that out the hard way as my slugs blew right through the barrels and find their target. That slowed the rest of them a little, but they still looked like ants swarming on the dock.
A new voice, someone with real authority, shouted orders, and all these guys moved forward at once, firing as they ran now with little regard for cover. Two more went down, and that slowed their forward progress. I was still outnumbered and losing real estate fast as the bad guys approached. They were maybe 20 yards away when I saw them slow and point in my direction. That’s when I heard the noise, a kind of hum, strange in a familiar way. It kept getting louder, and I realized it was coming from behind me. I quickly turned and, for a minute, was blinded by the sun low in the sky before I saw a black blob silhouetted by its orange glow growing larger and larger, moving in my direction. The voices became more animated and the gunfire started up again. I turned and returned fire and realized that not all these guys were firing at me. Some were firing over my head, in the direction of the black blob I had seen. The hum was loud now, and I turned to see the black silhouette had turned into a black and grey helicopter that looked to be something like a Huey UH 1 that could have been in Star Wars. It was crabbing sideways toward the dock, its side doors open. There was something strange about its shape and sound, but I didn’t have time to ponder the question as more gunfire erupted. As it got closer, I saw two people in the open doorway, and then the unmistakable drone of a six-barreled mini gun assaulted my ears. It ripped the dock to shreds just beyond me, right in the middle of my assailants. It’s a fact that 3,000 to 5,000 rounds per minute of 7.62mm ammo can ruin your day in a heartbeat… that is if you’re on the receiving end. The guys who were charging me soon that found out the hard way. When the Huey got to the end of the dock, it went into a hover 20 feet from my position and one foot off the dock’s deck. The big guy who jumped out and came running my way looked vaguely familiar, and by the time he got to me, the mini gun had done its work. Some of the barrels behind me must have held fuel as they exploded with their black smoke billowing skyward. All hostile gunfire had stopped.
As the new arrival stood over me, he said in his best Boris Badenov, from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon show, Russian accent, "You call for taxi, Da?" I could only grin as I recognized Dimitri and his damn sense of humor.
“You took long enough,” I said. “I hope the meter hasn’t been running this whole time.” He dropped to one knee and checked the bandage on my leg, tying it tighter, much to my annoyance. “Dimitri your bedside manner sucks.” He only grinned and grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. I felt the world around me swirl and started to fall as he quickly changed his grip. The next thing I knew, he had me in a fireman’s carry and we were headed for the open doors of the chopper. That was impressive. At 6’5’’ and 300 lbs. I’m no ten-pound sack of potatoes you toss in a grocery cart, but I might as well have been, as easily as Dimitri threw me over his shoulder.
It was then I realized I had dropped both my gun and the briefcase, and I exclaimed, “Stop, we have to go back.”
He said, “Don’t worry. Sparky will get your gun and the briefcase,” and continued to the bird. He lowered me into the door, and I was pulled inside by a third person I had not seen earlier and propped against a seat.
I looked up and recognized the concerned face of Dr. Ryan Greene. Dimitri followed me in with Sparky right behind him, briefcase and my gun in hand, his MP 90 slung across his chest. A face suddenly appeared looking back at us from the pilot’s seat.
“You boys about ready to get the hell out of Dodge? Don’t think we want to be around here if these guys have friends and they decide to join the party.” The black Stetson with officer’s gold braid and 7th Cavalry emblems, aviator sunglasses, and a cigar butt sticking out from under a bushy mustache made for a rather interesting image. With a thumb’s up from Dimitri, the hum increased, and I could feel us gaining altitude and moving out to sea. The almost non-existent turbine and rotor noise added to the surreal nature of the vista unfolding below. The dock receded in the distance; through the black smoke of the burning fuel barrels I could see that it had been cut in half by the massive firepower of the mini-gun. Barrels and bodies were floating in the surrounding water. My God… it looked like a scene from “Apocalypse Now,” and all I could think was, “There’s no replacement for superior firepower.”
As we moved further out to sea, the mini-gun in the doorway turned barrels up and slid smoothly into a compartment in the fuselage. When the door closed, you would never know the compartment was there, let alone the destructive power hiding behind it. It was just another one of Col. Duncan Fitzsimmons’, (U.S. Army ret.), many modifications to his favorite bird, the Raven.
Dimitri looked at me and shook his head. Even though he had been born and raised in the U.S. and spoke perfect English, the “Boris” accent spoke again. He thought that Boris thing was funny… “Good thing you trigger Arc Angel, or we would never have found you."
"Arc Angel?” I questioned.
"Da,” he said as he tapped the pocket of my vest that held the electronic device with the blinking red light. "Our handy-dandy, super-duper, worldwide personal GPS locators that Sparky make for us. What… you don’t remember that? Green light… Come pick me up, I need ride; Red light… Come pick me up, bring Cavalry; you had red light, see? So, we Come, make big boom, and pull your ass out of jam again."
My answer was an unintelligible mumble, and he grinned.
In his normal voice, he said, “You are one lucky SOB, Colt,” and as he turned away grinning, he said, “You can thank Sparky later."
Joe Sebastiani, or Sparks as we affectionately called him… he hated being called Sparky, which only egged Dimitri on, was our electronics wizard. After stowing his MP 90, he sat down next to me and pulled out our med kit. He helped Doc Greene cut off the make-shift bandage on my leg and the pant leg covering the wound.
"Hey," I said, “don’t cut that pant leg; this is a perfectly good, almost brand-new pair of jeans." As if that were his cue, Doc Greene jabbed me in the arm with a needle and told me to shut up, go to sleep, and let them work. Within a few seconds, Doc’s commands sounded like the best idea I had heard all day. As his magical elixir coursed through my
body, I felt the pain in my leg receding and my mind, drifting into a relaxed state of nothingness. My last thought was, "I’ll bet that shit’s illegal," and then nothing.
I awakened with a start to a cool breeze blowing across my face and the chirping of birds in the distance. I was in a bed with clean, crisp sheets in a room with a large open window that that gave me a view of lush green jungle trees. The tall trees with vines and other plants diffused the sunlight coming in, and the rich smell of flowers and other growing things assailed my senses. The room was Spartan but clean and the slight antiseptic smell gave it that rural hospital feel. A far cry from my last memories of being hauled into the chopper and whisked out of a shit storm by my comrades in arms, I thought. I turned toward the door as I heard a voice say, “Hey, he’s awake.” At that, a grinning Dr. Ryan Greene, Joe Sebastiani and Dimitri Sokolov entered the room and came over to the bed.
Dimitri, in his offhanded jovial way, back in “Boris” mode, was first to speak, “So, you back with us, Sleeping Beauty?”
I only grinned and said, “Yeah, thanks to you guys I’m back. How long have I been out?" I asked.
Doc Greene filled me in, “Thirty-six hours, the doctor here said you needed to rest after they got that slug out of your leg and stitched you up. Plus, you were dehydrated and had lost a lot of blood. So, until they got you stabilized and some fluids back in you, he kicked us out.” My memories flooded back as my head cleared, and I realized it was because of them that I was still alive and in one piece.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“It’s a small clinic outside of town. Fitz set it up; he said it was safe and discreet,” Doc Greene replied. My next concern was if we had gotten involved with local authorities. Doc said no, we had gotten out of there before any arrived and, according to the news reports, the incident was being attributed to rival drug cartels involved in a nasty turf war. There was no mention of a helicopter being in the area.
“We got lucky,” I replied.
“No shit,” Joe said with a smile.
So much for the accuracy of the local media… and another bullet dodged (literally) I thought with a small grin. As I relaxed a little more, I realized we definitely had lady luck on our side. Despite the pain in my leg, an ironic grin locked itself in place. If it hadn’t already been done many times in the past, the last 72 hours were confirmation I had chosen my team and the name of my company well when I dubbed it Risky Business... Ltd.!
“Where’s Fitz?” I asked. Joe told me he was at the airfield, putting the Raven back in its nest and getting Tweety Bird ready for our imminent departure. Tweety Bird was Fitz’s pet name for his highly modified C-130 J Hercules. We used it to transport the Raven, ourselves, and other equipment on long hauls.
As my memory continued to come back, I immediately asked about the briefcase, and Joe assured me it was fine and already stowed on board the aircraft, unopened, along with my Glock. I felt another layer of tension peel away, and with a sigh, relaxed a little more. I started remembering the details behind my concern for its safety. We had flown to Salinas, Ecuador in the 130, and landed at a small, little used airport on the outskirts of the city. Fitz knew about it and its operational capabilities. When I asked where he got the info, he said buddies of his had used it before and vouched for its security and anonymity. Friends from one of the many “Alphabet Soup” organizations he had been doing contract work for, I guessed.
It was run by an American ex-pat. Passport control, customs, and refueling were taken care of with a stack of hundred-dollar bills, no papers needed, or questions asked. They provided us with a secure hangar large enough for the 130 and the Raven. Damn, one stop shopping at its finest!
After Tweety was tucked away, I had been taken to the outskirts of a little coastal village south of Punta Carnero Beach in the Raven. We had armed ourselves before we left the 130, not knowing what to expect. The guys dropped me off to meet with Fr. Eduardo Gonzalez, a Jesuit priest that had contacted us concerning our search for the Golden Library. He said he had information and, according to him, it was tied directly to our current investigation. This could be a major clue in the unbelievable mystery we found ourselves involved in… I hoped!
Friar Gonzales had semi-retired to a small parish on the coast after spending over 45 years in the mountains of Ecuador on the eastern slopes of the Andes. He had been working and living amongst the Shuar Indians, the indigenous tribe that has inhabited that area for many hundreds of years. That’s where the briefcase came in. The priest had given it to me when we met at his home, telling me its contents were of the utmost importance and may help us in our search. He also stated that others had found out about its existence and would do anything to get their hands on it. Emphasizing the word, “anything,” Friar Gonzalez said I should be very careful leaving the village because he was sure he and his house were being watched. I assured him I would. I thanked him as I extended an envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills, five-thousand dollars in total.
He pushed my hand away, saying, “This is not for sale and was never mine to take payment for. I do not own this,” he said, tapping the case. “I have only been its caretaker as have the others before me. It is now in your hands, the new caretaker, may it serve you well.”
I took the case and as I turned to leave, I laid the envelope on a small table by the door,
“A contribution for your parish then.”
I opened the door and heard him say,
“You know you are about to change the world as we know it.”
I turned and said, “Yeah, I kinda figured that,” and walked out the door. As it was closing, I heard his last words to me.
“Via con Dios, my son.”
“But this is not the place our story begins. I guess, for your sake, I need to start at the real beginning some three and a half years earlier. It all began in a bar, in a marina on Central Florida’s Space Coast. I mean what better place for an adventure to begin…?”
Chapter Two
The real beginning
Okay, so I’m going to become a treasure hunter, but I know I’m going to need help and advice. For a second opinion, I chose my good friend Dimitri to be the first person to bounce this whole idea off of and see what he had to say. I had decided to call the company “Risky Business.” Hey, diving was risky, and treasure hunting was risky, pretty appropriate name, I thought. Anyway, Dimitri was a logical choice; he loved the water and had lived on a trawler for several years. He was an experienced boat operator, a certified diver, and just a little crazy. Plus, he was one of my best friends. We had worked together for over a dozen years and had been on a couple of sketchy underwater adventures together in Mexico. I knew I could trust him with my life. These were attributes I found highly desirable for members of my new company.
After a few beers at one of our favorite bars, “Nautical Spirits,” I explained my idea to him and asked if he was interested. He didn’t hesitate, “Hell, yes,” he replied! Now, there were two of us.
In the following days, much discussion ensued regarding how to move forward with this endeavor. A week later, we held our next “official” meeting at the bar. We came up with a list of other individuals we would want to have involved. Knowing full well it would take at least four or five more people besides us to take this treasure hunting idea from just an idea to reality; we decided our recruits should be people we knew/had worked with, liked, and trusted. They needed to have skill sets and/or resources that would benefit the Company. So, basically, they should love being on the water, it would be nice if they were divers, liked hanging out in bars, and should be as crazy as we were. No problem!
After more discussion, we came up with The List: Joe Sebastiani lived on a 40’ sailboat in the marina where our “official” bar was located. He was a certified diver and had a double E Master’s degree. He was an electronics wizard with a specialization in acoustic research. He had done contract work for the DOD’s Acoustic Weapons division, decided he had had enough of t
hat world, bailed, and wound up here. Dr. Ryan Greene, a former paramedic, attended the Coast Guard Academy. He had gone through rescue swimmer and SAR (search and rescue) school and later earned a doctorate in linguistics. His area of specialization was ancient languages and dialects. He was multi-lingual, Spanish, Italian, French, German, Chinese, Russian, and a bunch of other esoteric and forgotten languages. He was still working at a university but could make himself available when needed. Nils Sorensen was a retired NASA engineer who started a Marine Surplus business prior to his retirement. That business had grown dramatically and kept him Comfortably in the black. He holds a captain’s license, master’s degree, and was a certified diver. Our list also included Tony Donaldson, self-employed computer hacker/genius, and certified diver. Bachelor’s degree in Math, started a master’s program but got bored and dropped out. However, not before hacking the university’s computer system and awarding himself an honorary doctorate in Computer Science. Tony and his wife lived on a deep-water canal 100 yards from the Banana River and a 15-minute boat ride from the locks at Port Canaveral. Finally, Dr. Lawrence Goodson, retired professor, advanced degrees in biology, microbiology, JD, a certified diver, and self-proclaimed ladies’ man.
So, there you have it, the initial draft line-up for “Risky Business.” Now, all we had to do was extend the invitation to be part of this hair-brained scheme. I contacted our draftees and invited them to a meeting at what Dimitri and I now called “The Corporate Bar.” After some scheduling adjustments, they all accepted… like we could keep these guys out of a bar. There was much discussion that night and lots of beer and tequila. I explained my idea and emphasized we would basically be looking for needles in a very large haystack. There were no guarantees of finding anything, and there would be risks involved, both physical and financial. The room was quiet for a couple of minutes and then a chorus of, “I’m in,” broke out! They had all accepted the offer to join the quest.
