Two Graves

by Douglas Preston

  The colonel, however, was taking no chances. He had set up a diversionary feint at the road gate, which would occur—he checked his watch—in exactly two minutes. There might be a large body of armed troops garrisoned in the town, ready for action at a moment’s notice. One couldn’t make assumptions.

  His men, in full camouflage, waited in absolute silence. He had divided them into three batalhões of ten men each: Red, Blue, and Green, with one man from each squad assigned to the feinting maneuver.

  The seconds ticked by. And then he heard it: automatic gunfire, punctuated with the louder, deeper explosions of grenades. The diversion had begun.

  He raised his arm in a gesture of readiness as he listened intently to the diversion. There was return fire, but not as much as he expected, and it sounded scattered and disorganized. These Nazis, with their militarism and alleged martial brilliance, appeared to be flat-out unprepared.

  Nevertheless, the colonel considered the possibility that they themselves could be made victim of a false display of weakness, lured by overconfidence into a deadly ambush.

  The minutes ticked by as the diversion grew in sound, with additional explosions and gunfire issuing from his men, hidden in the forest outside the main gate. The response continued to sound anemic.

  He adjusted his radio headset; watched the seconds tick down on his watch; and then abruptly lowered his arm. Instantly his men broke into movement, rushing forward. They burst from the brush at the edge of the clearing and began spreading out into three squads. The outbuildings of the town lay a hundred yards before them, across a muddy road and some garden plots: cheerful buildings with painted wooden shutters, flower boxes, and pitched roofs. His men crossed the road, trampled a vegetable patch. Two girls picking tomatoes dropped their baskets with a shriek and ran.

  Souza’s batalhões, now divided, streamed into the closest streets, the colonel leading the Blue unit and Thiago the Red. The key was a blitzkrieg tactic, racing down the streets with lightning speed and avoiding the kind of bunching that would favor a catastrophic grenade or RPG attack. They had to reach the harbor before any organized resistance could develop—a firefight in these narrow lanes was the last thing he wanted.

  The colonel led his unit onward, the few pedestrians they encountered either freezing with surprise or fleeing in terror. As they drove deeper into the town, however, some unorganized gunfire began from house windows, rooftops, and side streets.

  “Suppressing fire at will!” the colonel yelled into his headset.

  His men began returning fire, shooting down the streets and up at the rooftops, and the scattered fire dropped away.

  As they approached the central square and town hall, a more serious resistance developed. A band of young men, hastily armed but not in uniform, came piling into the square, taking position behind some horse-drawn carts. As Souza’s three squads emerged into the open area of the plaza, gunfire erupted in front of them and from the intersecting streets.

  “Red squad, maintain suppressing fire,” the colonel ordered. “Blue, Green, keep moving!”

  Thiago’s Red batalhão took cover and unleashed a savage volley: a portable .50-caliber machine gun that swept the plaza with a murderous barrage, backed up by half a dozen well-placed RPGs. It had the desired effect, scattering and terrorizing the resistance; as soon as the square was clear the Red unit charged across it, following the other two squads into the narrow streets on the far side. Here the streets began sloping down toward the waterfront, and Souza could see vessels tied up along the stone and wooden quays.

  He had already selected the two target boats during his binocular reconnaissance from the rim of the crater: a large, steel-hulled motorized barge and a sleek passenger transport vessel. But the incoming gunfire was starting again, not just from the rooftops but also from the harbor, enfilading the long streets leading down to the water. Suddenly a second group of men poured out of a side street along the quay, firing as they came.

  “Counterattack!” the colonel cried, but already Thiago’s machine gunner had let loose with the .50-caliber, dropping at least half a dozen of their attackers and routing the rest. A grenade went off close by, then another, blowing out a building façade and showering them with glass and masonry.

  “Keep going!” the colonel cried, but the men needed no urging; the vanguard of the three squads peppered the streets ahead with small-arms fire and RPGs, the .50-caliber gunner bringing up the rear.

  They came out along the broad quay, open from all sides. There was another scattering of fire, and one of the colonel’s men grunted and staggered, but this defense was again answered with an overwhelming display of fire from the three squads, deafening in power, the RPGs plucking up targets and sending them sky-high with thunderous roars.

  “Board the vessels!” Souza ordered.

  The esquadrões boarded the two vessels according to their prearranged plan, cutting the hawsers from the bollards. The colonel’s two nautical specialists took up positions in the pilothouses and started the engines as the rest of the men assumed defensive positions along the deck. In less than two minutes the boats had moved away from the docks and were heading into the lake, picking up speed, the squads maintaining a vicious suppressing fire aimed at the shore.

  “Casualty report!” the colonel barked.

  It came in quickly. The company’s medic was treating two casualties, small-arms fire, neither one serious. Both men were still more or less in commission.

  The colonel watched the shoreline recede with a huge feeling of relief. The operation had gone exactly to plan. If he had come in with a hundred men, they might still be caught up in the streets, with more wounded, more stragglers, and the inevitable idiot taking a wrong turn somewhere, getting lost, and having to be retrieved. They would have required more boats, more logistics, more opportunities for failure.

  The sporadic fire from on shore died away as the boats began to move out of range, the heavy barge leading, his men now firing highly accurate rounds, keeping their opponents from regrouping and setting out in vessels in pursuit. The colonel took out a silk handkerchief, removed his helmet, and carefully mopped his face. Phase one was complete, with minimal casualties. With a certain reluctance he turned his attention forward, toward the dark island looming out of the water. He could make out no people, no movement. And as he examined the fortress rising above the black lava cinder cone, his sense of victory faltered somewhat. To his experienced eye it looked impregnable. Everything depended on the gringo. He did not like being dependent on the success of one person, no matter how capable—especially a person that he barely knew.

  As he looked around, he found his men also regarding the fortress, their eyes dark and serious. They, too, were thinking his thoughts. The boats were now halfway across the lake, the island growing ever larger, the moment of truth coming closer.

  He checked his watch. Again, everything depended on speed and surprise. The approaching boats were visible from the fortress, and no doubt the defenders on the island knew all about the attack in town. They had lost the element of surprise, which he of course knew would happen.

  As he considered the situation, he began to reexamine their strategy. The idea of taking extra time to go around the island to assault the fortress from the cove behind was making less and less sense to him. What was it the British admiral, Lord Nelson, once said? “Five minutes make the difference between victory and defeat.” And even more a propósito: “Never mind the maneuvers; go straight at ’em.” The circling of the island would eat up not five but ten or more minutes, and present them with an uncertain shoreline and landing position. But directly ahead lay a beautifully open, empty, and undefended set of docks.

  Yet again, he checked his watch. It was time for Pendergast’s signal—past time. But there was nothing. And now uneasiness began to take hold of the colonel. It had been a mistake to rely on the man; a bad mistake. If they landed on the island before the signal, they had no hope of penetrating the fortress. It wou
ld be an exercise in futility. And returning to the town was no longer an option.

  The signal was now five minutes late. And the island loomed ever closer. They were just coming into range of rifle fire. Souza spoke into his headset. “Halt the vessels! Come to a full stop!”

  No one questioned the order, although he knew they were all wondering o que diabos agora. The barge slowed and stopped, with a quick backing of the engines; the transport, too, rumbled in reverse. The lake was calm, the sky clear. The town behind them smoked with a scattering of fires and dust kicked up from the brief battle. The island ahead remained dark and silent.

  As they stood idle in the water, the sense of unease, of the possibility of impending defeat, seemed to spread across the barge. All eyes were on the colonel. He betrayed nothing of his own thoughts, nothing of his doubts. He kept his face studiously neutral, his gaze locked on the island. The boats drifted.

  And then: a puff of smoke, followed by a gout of flame. A few seconds later, the sound arrived, a thunderous roar rolling across the water. A large section of the fortress’s outer curtain wall came rumbling down from the bottom up, as if in slow motion, the stone blocks collapsing and tumbling down the slope, followed by the cave-in of reinforced concrete from above. A huge plume of dust rose up, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the fort.

  Pendergast’s signal. It wasn’t what the colonel had expected—it was even better. And, it seemed, it had provided their route of entry.

  “Full speed ahead!” the colonel cried into his headset. “Head for the docks!”

  A shout went up from the men, a rousing cheer that matched the sudden roar of the diesel engines and the forward surge of the two vessels, heading straight for the undefended docks. As the boats closed in, the colonel cried: “Estão prontos! Ataque!”

  71

  FISCHER PUT DOWN THE RADIO AND ROSE AS ALBAN entered his office. He felt, as usual, a flush of pride as he faced the young man squarely, extending his hand. It was hard to believe that Alban was only fifteen years old. He looked twenty at least, six foot three inches tall, with finely chiseled features, sharp cheekbones, brilliant eyes shining beneath a noble brow, cropped blond hair, Michelangelo lips, white teeth—the face of a god. But most impressive of all was the air he projected: confidence without arrogance, charisma without show, manliness without bluster. One could only imagine what he would be like by the time he reached twenty-one.

  Except that now, Fischer felt a small, nagging difficulty.

  “You wanted to see me, Herr Fischer?” Alban asked.

  “Yes. I’ve learned that your father escaped from custody, killing Berger and a slew of guards in the process. And now it appears he’s detonated some sort of improvised bomb, blown a hole in our defenses.”

  As he spoke, he watched Alban’s face carefully for any display of incorrect emotion, but could find none.

  “How did it happen?” Alban asked.

  “How is not important, except that this is what results when a fool like Berger encounters a man like your father. Your father, Alban, is a truly formidable man. A pity he isn’t on our side.” When the boy remained silent, Fischer added, “And now a flotilla of armed Brazilian soldiers are about to land on the island.”

  “I will fight,” said Alban immediately. “I’ll defend the—”

  Fischer made a small gesture of silence with his hand, instantly obeyed. “It’s nothing our special brigade can’t handle. In fact, it’s already being handled. No, I’ve asked you here for another reason. I have a task for you. A special task.”

  Alban’s face displayed attention, alertness. The one thing about Alban: it was hard to read his real feelings. Of course, that opacity was an essential part of his training, but still it made Fischer uneasy.

  “The beta test is over. It was successful. But I must admit I was surprised that you did not wish to stay and witness your father’s death. That shows… perhaps not weakness, but a lack of interest in the—shall we say—finer things? Precisely the values we have tried to inculcate in you, that we have raised you to appreciate. I say lack of interest because I would hate to think that—after all our careful work—any, shall we say, unmanly feelings played a role in your decision to leave the room. Had you been there, that fool Berger wouldn’t have botched his right of vengeance so thoroughly.”

  “I apologize. I would have thought that, with all those soldiers in addition to Berger, nothing could have gone wrong.”

  “Something did go wrong—and all the soldiers are dead.” Fischer paused to withdraw a cigarette from the silver box on his desk and light it. Alban remained respectfully at attention, his hands behind his back, waiting. Glancing at him again, Fischer couldn’t help himself: he felt a surge of almost fatherly feeling for this fine young man. Which made the possibility of weakness all the more intolerable.

  “And so now, Alban, your final task is this: I want you to track down your father and kill him. Just so there is no doubt—none—of what you can accomplish.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alban, without hesitation.

  “It seems your father’s explosive device has opened a hole in the defensive wall in old sector five, outside the pathology labs. So we know where he was just a few minutes ago. His ultimate aim is no doubt to find and rescue your twin. Finding and killing Herr Pendergast shouldn’t be a difficult assignment, given your special abilities.”

  “I’m ready. I won’t fail you.”

  “Good.” He inhaled deeply, exhaled. “Report back to me when you are successful.”

  A sudden dull, muffled sound of gunfire penetrated the room, punctuated by the larger explosions of grenades and mortars. Fischer could see puzzlement enter Alban’s eyes. “Don’t concern yourself with that,” he said. “They’re only foolish locals. They will all soon be dead.”

  72

  ESTÃO PRONTOS!” THE COLONEL CRIED AGAIN AS THE barge closed in on the dock, his men lining up along the port rail, weapons at the ready. The transport boat came sliding in behind, both engines roaring into reverse, the prop wash boiling out.

  The boats contacted the fenders along the dock simultaneously, a perfect landing.

  “Jump!”

  The men charged out, leaping almost as one to the wooden planking, the second row readying themselves…

  … A moment later, as soon as the docks were crowded with men, an enormous, shuddering explosion went off underneath. Fingers of fire thrust through the wooden planking, which heaved up and atomized instantly, engulfing the men. The colonel was blasted physically backward into the water. The side of the barge lifted up under the explosion, the metal-clad railing taking the brunt of the blast.

  The shock of the water brought the colonel back to consciousness, his ears ringing, hair singed, uniform ripped. It all seemed so strange to him at first, returning as if from a long journey—and then he found himself in a boiling, watery mass of struggling men, the barge listing heavily to one side, the dock burning furiously, men screaming, body parts and blood everywhere.

  Regaining his wits, he looked around and saw that the transport ship had been hit simultaneously. It, too, was listing heavily to one side, surrounded by dead and injured men.

  The docks had been mined. Booby-trapped. And they had driven right into it.

  He gasped, struggling in the water, but even as he tried to collect his wits, to think of a plan of action, he could hear automatic weapons fire from the shore and see gouts of water popping up all around. A deafening roar went off nearby, sending up a fresh plume of spray, and then another, with the rattle of gunfire continuing. The second stage of a devastating ambush.

  Just beyond the docks, along the shore to the right, he saw some large boulders—potential cover. If they could only reach them…

  “Men!” he screamed as he thrashed. “Men! Keep your weapons and dive! Dive! Move east toward the rocks! Stay underwater!”

  He repeated the cry and then dove himself, swimming long and hard. This was an exercise they had undertaken in his BOPE
days: an underwater swim with weapons.

  He had to come up once, and then again, gulping air and plunging back down—each time to a peppering of fire. With his eyes open he could see the zipping of rounds through the water, leaving traceries of bubbles—but bullets, he knew, lost most of their deadly momentum after only twelve to fourteen inches of water.

  Swimming hard, his lungs almost bursting, he peered up and ahead through the green water. He could make out the murky outline of boulders: the underwater portion of the shoreline cover he was aiming for. He surfaced in the right spot, under the boulders, sheltered from the murderous fire pouring down from the direction of the fortress. Incredibly enough, other men—half a dozen at least, including Thiago, graças a deus—were surfacing around him, hauling themselves out. Rounds were striking the tops of the rocks, showering them with chips, but they were protected—for the moment.

  A large explosion in the water just offshore reminded the colonel that the enemy had mortars and grenades, too, which would soon find them.

  He pushed thoughts of the utter disaster out of his head. He had men; they still had fight; all was not lost.

  Crouching behind the boulders, half in and half out of the water, he cried: “Regroup! Regroup!” He could see more soldiers in the water, swimming their way, some wounded, struggling. A few went down and did not come up again; others were crying out for help. There was nothing he could do except watch them get cut down and mortared, the ambushing troops finding their range.

  Gasping, dazed by the sudden reversal in fortune, the colonel looked around. Six men and himself, crouching pathetically behind the rocks. They were terrified, paralyzed. He had to do something, take control, show leadership. He peered through a narrow crack in the rocks, took stock. The ambushers were firing from behind a volcanic ridge above the docks. To his right was a slide of black rocks; if they could cross the open ground and get behind those rocks, they would have cover moving laterally up the slope and around the curve of the island.