The Powers That Be r5-1

by Cliff Ryder

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be on the other side, trying to take out as many as I can.

  The exploding truck should draw most of their attention. The key will be to try to make them think they are under attack from an equal or larger force.” He handed her the pouch filled with four magazines, which she slung around her shoulder, and the Makarov in its holster and belt, which she strapped around her waist. “Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be ready to go.”

  Jonas knelt at the external side gas tank, took the cap off and wedged a grenade firmly into the hole, making sure the pin faced away from the truck body. He tied a long piece of cord to the pin and got into the cab. “Walk a few paces behind the truck until we get about fifty yards from the clearing, and keep an eye on me. When I jump out, you head into the jungle. Go right—I’ll go left. Shoot and move until you’re out of ammunition, then fall back to the clearing where we found the truck. If anything goes wrong, fall back to the clearing and hide. Wait ten minutes, and if I don’t return or you see soldiers coming, get out of here.”

  Marisa took it all in with short, sharp nods, her wide blue eyes fixed on his. Jonas ran through the plan one more time, and couldn’t come up with any other refinements. “Just remember, shoot and move and keep low at all times. Good luck.”

  He was about to climb into the cab when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Karl.”

  Grimacing at the fake name, Jonas turned around. “Yes?”

  “You be careful, okay?” She hesitated, then leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly on the mouth.

  She tasted like sweat and hibiscus, and it was a sensation he didn’t want to end.

  “We’d better go. Stay behind the truck and watch for my signal.” Jonas didn’t know what else to say, so he turned back to the cab and climbed painfully inside. Once there, he placed his sniper rifle between the seat and the door and tied the cord to his wrist, making sure it snaked between the door and the cab frame. He measured the distance between the gas pedal and the seat, then tied the haft of the bayonet to its scabbard so that the blade protruded from one end, making a rough weapon about eighteen inches long. He set that on the seat beside him, then braced himself for a good deal of pain as he put his injured leg on the clutch.

  Gritting his teeth, he started the truck, hearing the rough rumble of the engine as it sparked into life. He depressed the clutch with his left foot, trying to ignore the white flare of pain in his ankle. With a minimum of fumbling, he got his right leg on the gas pedal and jammed the gearshift into first, then eased off the clutch and got the lumbering truck moving, hauling on the wheel to steer it out onto the trail.

  Panting with the effort, Jonas checked that Marisa was following him as they started up the path. He could barely see her in the dim red glow of the taillights, but she was following a few yards behind the truck, the AK-47 rifle large in her hands. Jonas steeled himself, then pushed the clutch down again, biting back a growl of pain as he shifted into second.

  The radio on the seat next to him crackled into life, a puzzled voice asking in Spanish what he was doing. Jonas pushed harder on the gas pedal, the truck shuddering as it accelerated to twenty miles per hour. He didn’t turn on the headlights, but drove blind, letting the truck find its way down the rutted path.

  The tone of the voice on the radio grew more strident, demanding that whoever was in the truck respond immediately.

  Jonas could see the clearing, a dark, empty space in the tree line. He switched on the truck’s lights to blind the men who would be looking down the path, making sure to look away from the glare so as not to blind himself. He goosed the gas pedal, then jammed the modified bayonet between the pedal and the seat to keep the truck moving forward.

  Opening the door, he grabbed his rifle and stepped out onto the running board, using the door as a shield. Pulling the pin with his teeth, he hurled a grenade in front of the truck, then jumped, trying to use his good foot to at least break his fall so he could tuck and roll away.

  Jonas landed hard, but his uninjured foot took the impact, and he rolled away on the ground, tucking his rifle across his chest as he went. He felt the tug of the cord on his wrist, then it went slack, and he hoped that just the pin and not the entire grenade had come free. He came out of the truck in a prone position and kept rolling over and over, his rifle aligned vertically with his body. All the while a small voice in his mind counted down the seconds from five to one.

  Jonas came to a stop and covered his head with his arms.

  The two grenades exploded almost simultaneously, along with a much louder report as the truck’s gas tank followed suit. The heat and shock wave washed over him, and metal parts hit the ground around Jonas, but none landed on him.

  Bringing the rifle to his eye, he looked to the right of the inferno, scanning for targets.

  The truck had made it into the middle of the clearing before erupting into a huge, greasy ball of flames that illuminated the surrounding jungle, casting dark shadows of the running men in the flickering flames. At least one soldier had been caught in the initial blast, and he screamed and capered madly as flames sizzled on his back and legs. Others shouted orders and questions, trying to make sense out of what had just happened. Jonas dropped his sights onto a shouting man’s chest, drew in a breath, held it and squeezed the trigger, not needing to compensate for wind or anything else at that range. As soon as the bullet left the barrel, he moved, rolling to the left again as the man jerked in shock, then fell forward to the ground.

  He heard the distinct popping of an AK-47 firing on his right, then a scream from the clearing. More shouts, tinged with the high tone of impending panic, echoed across the open space. Jonas came to a stop a few yards away from his first position and brought his rifle up again. His eyes had mostly adjusted to the light, and he saw a dark form move from one side of the old sugar mill to the other. He put three rounds through the building, spaced about a degree apart, and was rewarded with a shout of pain from inside.

  The rest of the Cubans were firing, but from what Jonas could see, they had no idea where the incoming shots were originating. Automatic fire filled the clearing, perforating leaves and shattering branches everywhere. He put two 3-round bursts into an area where two muzzle-flashes appeared intermittently, and saw one stop, but couldn’t tell if he had hit the soldier, or if he was just reloading.

  Jonas didn’t know how well trained the soldiers were, but he knew eventually someone was going to regain control and order the men to circle around both sides of the clearing to flank their attackers. He needed to make sure the rest of the forces couldn’t get that organized. Rising onto his knees, he pulled the pin and threw another grenade to the left of the sugar mill, trying to bounce it into the nearby jungle. The ordnance made it most of the way before erupting, but his movement must have caught someone’s eye, because Jonas immediately took fire from across the clearing. He hit the ground as 7.62 mm bullets chewed through the foliage around him.

  He pushed back into the jungle, then rolled right again, taking cover behind a banana tree, its trunk scored from bullets. Jonas realized someone must have taken command of the unit, since the indiscriminate shooting had stopped. He moved to the other side of the tree, but couldn’t see anything past the broken palm fronds and shattered trunks. Suddenly, he heard something that chilled his blood.

  Off to his right, the undeniable scream of a woman echoed through the jungle.

  A LIGHT IN THE DISTANCE flared through the binoculars, and Jonas lowered them, blinking away the spots dancing across his vision. He raised them again and looked just to the right of the light. A boat was coming at him, fast.

  Jonas grabbed his cell phone and hit the number that would contact every member of his team. “All right, everyone, our target vehicle is approaching at seven o’clock.

  Deck team, be ready to secure the vehicle when it comes in, and escort the group to the upper aft saloon. No one is to make any kind of overt move unless you confirm h
ostile intent. Karen, report to the aft deck.”

  He closed the cell phone and kept the glasses trained on the cigarette boat as it cruised around the Deep Water once, then pulled up to the aft platform. There were four men inside, and three immediately climbed aboard the yacht, leaving one to watch the cockpit.

  Jonas walked inside the salon and put the binoculars away under the bar, then walked over to the Stinger missile case, which had been repacked and closed. Next to it was the smaller metal case containing the gripstock. Jonas sat in a chair and waited for the men to appear.

  A minute later, one of the crew opened the door and said,

  “This way, gentlemen.”

  Theodore trooped in, carrying a small aluminum briefcase. He was followed by two men Jonas didn’t immediately recognize, one a dark-skinned African, and the other a Cuban who, when he stepped into the light, made Jonas’s breath catch in his throat.

  He slowly rose to his feet, trying to disguise his shock at seeing Major Damason Valdes—Room 59’s contact inside the Cuban military—next to the men planning to invade Cuba.

  Marcus was bored. Totally, unbelievably bored.

  For five hours he had been keeping the Valdes home under surveillance, waiting for the major to arrive, or for his wife to leave, or for anyone to do anything. The side street, lined with rows of quietly crumbling two- and three-story homes, many of them subdivided into several small apartments, had been about as busy as an average U.S. city block. Children played, scattering when the police came around on their patrols, then reforming into loose groups to run, laugh and scream in the early evening. Parents had either come home and shooed their kids inside, or called them from the doorway to dinner, the street filling with delicious smells of cooking food, making Marcus’s stomach rumble. He had grabbed a hasty meal at the cantina before the debacle at the hotel, but hadn’t had anything since except a dry, tasteless protein bar and some water.

  Of course, I had to freshen up after my intelligence gathering, too, Marcus thought, running a hand over his newly shorn scalp. After ditching the car, he had found a bodega and had grabbed a pair of scissors, disposable razor and shaving cream, and spent twenty minutes shaving his head bare, then wrapping a do-rag around it. That, a pair of cargo shorts and a gaudy, red, green and blue guayabera shirt had completed his quick disguise.

  At first it had been difficult to watch the house without being noticed. Enough people passed through the street that he was sure sooner or later someone would remember a young man no one in the neighborhood had ever seen before loitering in front of an army major’s house. The fact that both sides of the street were filled with homes also made his task more difficult, as he couldn’t find a cantina and while away the hours with a drink and a sharp eye. So he had changed up his routine every half hour. Moving around, altering his appearance—sometimes he was the bald, shirtless guy, other times he was the sunglasses-wearing, do-ragged man—and taking up different positions on the street, even parking himself right in front of the major’s house for fifteen minutes, so he didn’t appear to be targeting one particular home. And he always disappeared whenever the police came down the street.

  With nightfall, the street had quieted, and Marcus had located a decrepit house that was either abandoned or the residents weren’t coming home. He sat on the front stoop, nursing a bottle of sickly sweet, neon-yellow papaya drink, chasing it with swallows of water to remove the taste from his mouth.

  Lowering the bottle, Marcus checked his watch and saw it was about time to check in. He looked around to make sure no one was watching him, then flipped open his phone and dialed the number for Room 59. When the automated switchboard answered, which usually took care of wrong numbers and crank callers, he punched in the day’s code to speak to Kate directly.

  “Alpha? Where are you?”

  “I’m outside the subject’s house, and have been for the past five hours. There has been no movement, and I have not spotted—”

  “No, you haven’t, because Beta is looking at him at this very moment about thirty miles off the Florida coast. It seems he’s linked up with our bad guys. If Jonas confirms that he’s part of their operation, he is to be terminated at the first opportunity.”

  Marcus took a moment to digest the news just as he saw a woman with two young kids in tow, stopping at the very house he was watching. He slipped on his sunglasses and recorded the trio. “Primary, the subject’s wife and children have come home. What you do want me to do?”

  “Withdraw from your current location and find a fast oceangoing boat. We may need you to rendezvous with Beta at sea. Will be in touch as soon as we have more information.”

  “Understood. Alpha out.” Marcus turned off the sunglasses recorder and slipped them into his shirt pocket, then strolled down the street, heading for the tourist section of the harbor and the powerful speedboats docked there.

  Covering his brief lapse in concentration, Jonas slipped his left hand into his pocket and immediately focused on the one person he was supposed to know. “Theodore, this is a pleasant surprise. So good to see you again.”

  “Mr. Castilo suggested that I oversee the actual transaction, as it were,” the bodyguard said.

  “By all means, please, come, sit. Would you and your friends like any refreshments before we get down to business?”

  Theodore turned and spoke in what Jonas thought was Swahili, then Spanish. Both men shook their heads. Theodore nodded to the African on the left. “This is Nyakio, and the gentleman next to him is Daniel. He’s the gentleman that Mr. Castilo spoke of earlier.”

  Jonas frowned. “Forgive my suspicion, but how am I to be sure that this man is who you claim he is? For all I know, you could have gotten him from anywhere in Latin America.”

  Theodore didn’t appear insulted, but nodded. “A very prudent question.” He turned to Damason and asked him in Spanish to produce identification. Damason asked if that was a smart thing to do, and Theodore assured him that it was safe. Hesitantly, Damason produced his military identification, which listed him as a major in the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces. He held it out for Jonas to see, but would not let him take it.

  “I hope this will do,” Theodore added.

  “It is acceptable.” Jonas nodded at the young man, who inclined his head in return. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, sir.” Impulsively, he reached out his hand. “Please, I would shake the hand of a man who has risked so much to be here.”

  Damason looked slightly uncomfortable at the idea, but he took Jonas’s outstretched hand and shook it, frowning as Jonas clapped his left hand over Damason’s and shook heartily. “The pleasure is mine. Please, do not mind me as you gentlemen conduct your affairs.”

  “Do not worry, this shouldn’t take long.” Jonas released him and turned back to Theodore. “Do your clients wish to see the merchandise for themselves?” He stepped aside to reveal the Stinger crate, smiling slightly as the other two men’s eyes widened in surprise. “I take it they are impressed?”

  “Oh, indeed.” Theodore set his briefcase down, unlocked it and opened it, revealing neat, banded stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. “Please, examine the money as you wish.”

  Jonas reached down past the first layer to take a packet out from underneath. He brought out a nondescript pen and clicked it, then drew the tip across the note. The ink looked bright yellow, indicating that the bill was genuine. The pen was manufactured by a research department of the Secret Service, and was ninety-nine percent accurate, much more so than the simple iodine pens used to test currency in convenience stores. The note also passed his touch and visual examinations, so unless it was one of the superbill forger-ies that had been in scattered circulation for the past decade, he was holding real American currency. And if his math was correct, Jonas estimated there was another one and a quar-termillion dollars in the case.

  “This is a good start, but you are a bit light. I see only the first half of the amount agreed upon,” he said.

  “Of course
, but we prefer not to carry such large amounts of currency around. We would like to take these cases with us as our down payment. A vessel will come by within the next hour, drop off the second half of your fee and pick up the rest of the cargo. Please be sure it is ready, as they will not wish to stay out here any longer than necessary,” Theodore said.

  Jonas wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement—but it would arouse suspicion and probably kill the deal if he were to dis-agree. A real arms dealer might even take the million-plus in the case and split, a tidy profit for a night’s work and only one Stinger. Something about the arrangement niggled at the back of Jonas’s mind, but he couldn’t tease the intuition into a full-blown thought. Instead, he played his part and smiled.

  “Naturally. Once I have the rest of the funds in hand, the transfer shouldn’t take more than ten to fifteen minutes.

  Would you like some assistance getting this one down to your boat?”

  “I think the three of us can handle it, but thank you,”

  Theodore said. He motioned to the two men, each of whom came over and picked up one end of the case.

  Jonas caught the flash of a frown on Damason’s face as he lifted his end of the crate, but it quickly disappeared.

  Theodore took the gripstock case, walked to the door, and opened it, letting the two men out ahead of him. Jonas followed, and watched as the trio maneuvered the bulky case down to the bottom rear deck. They hauled it aboard, and Theodore turned back to him before disembarking.

  “Thank you very much—these will be a great boon to us in our mission. Watch for a double set of lights on your port side, one white and one blue. That will be the ship to pick up the rest of the cargo, and they will have the other half of your payment.” He extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Heinemann.”