Piranha Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  Morgan allowed himself a broad grin. His simple plan had worked. The road was effectively blocked by the lead truck. Changing those tires would be a long, tough job. He could harass the workers with gunfire and keep them there all day.

  Herrera ran from somewhere down the line, yanked the front truck’s cab door open and dragged its driver out. After a heated discussion in Spanish, Herrera jumped up into the cab. One glance at the windshield confirmed that they were under fire. He put a finger on the hole, checking its size.

  “Can you get him?” Felicity asked close to Morgan’s ear.

  “I’m sure going to try.”

  Herrera climbed down, scanning the edge of the cliff. A bullet ricocheted off the truck an inch from his eye and he dropped, rolling with astonishing speed through the dust. Back on his feet he ran an evasive course to the middle of the convoy. A hundred meters away, Morgan cursed under his breath.

  “Not used to seeing you miss,” Felicity said.

  “There are limits,” Morgan said. “Even this mild breeze is enough to drift these light bullets four or five inches at this distance.” He patted Felicity on her arm and they crawled back from the edge, then moved twenty-five meters away to set up another ambush point.

  On the road, Herrera reached Bastidas’ Land Rover, knocking dust off himself. His leader sat, clutching a riding crop. Frustration creased his face.

  “What is this delay?”

  “We are under attack,” Herrera said. “A small caliber rifle. One man. The lead truck has two flat tires. The road is blocked.”

  “Where’s it coming from?” Bastidas could barely contain himself. His fists shook without his even being aware of it.

  “The gun is between fifty and a hundred meters away,” Herrera said. “It is too quiet to pinpoint the direction by sound. I saw no muzzle flash when I was fired on. He will be difficult to find.”

  “You say one man?”

  “Stark,” Herrera said. “It can be no other.”

  “Stark is dead!”

  “This could be no one else,” Herrera insisted.

  “Then let’s bring them together.” The riding crop cut the air with a loud whoosh, but Herrera did not notice.

  At the head of the convoy, a four man team worked to change the front truck’s left flat. Sweaty hands hauled on a giant lug wrench. Two men stood close to them waving AK-47’s at nothing in particular. They were stern looking men with long hair and alert faces.

  A sound like corn popping began as Morgan emptied a magazine. The workers dived and scattered. The guards hit the ground, spraying the rim of the cliff. Morgan reached his next planned firing point before the noise died down. He had fired ten times. Truck number two, a ten ton, now had a flat on the left rear. One submarine crewman held a painful hole in his arm. Another cursed about being shot in the leg. No one looked as if they felt like changing a tire right now.

  “Look.” Felicity pointed while Morgan settled into firing position again. Over the rifle’s iron sights, he saw Barton being dragged down the road. He was barely on his feet, shuffling along with his hands cuffed behind his back. Bastidas stayed close behind him, guiding him by his arms. The pair stopped at the third truck. Barton’s head lolled. Bastidas’ cape flowed around behind him. A white arm came up, pressing a big automatic to Barton’s head.

  “Come out now,” Bastidas shouted. “Come out or I’ll spray his brain all over this road.”

  “If only he’d make a break for it,” Morgan said under his breath.

  “Look at his movements,” Felicity said. “He’s sluggish, dazed. They must have drugged him.”

  “Come forward, Mister Stark,” Bastidas said, yelling in his shaky voice. “I won’t mind killing him. He has already cost me much. We caught him trying to catch a ride to Panama City. He was almost ten miles from here. A truck full of my people bringing in last minute supplies found him, quite by accident. They had to chase him through the brush. Bastard killed two of my men with a knife, and hurt two others rather badly.”

  “Good for you,” Morgan said, then to Felicity, “Any ideas?”

  She patted his shoulder. “I’ve always got ideas.”

  The silence lasted for two minutes. Bastidas began to wonder if Morgan would let Barton die. After all, he hardly knew the man. With a shrug he thumbed back his forty-five’s hammer. He wanted them all to die on the submarine, it would be more poetic, but if they would not cooperate it would be all right to be rid of this Anglo now.

  “Wait.” Bastidas looked up to see Morgan sliding down the dirt embankment twenty meters to his left. He walked slowly across the road with his hands raised and his head low. As he stepped toward Bastidas, Herrera came from between the second and third trucks.

  “Where’s the gun?” Herrera asked. Reaching slowly to his holster, Morgan slid his pistol out with two fingers. Herrera accepted it.

  “Forty-four caliber?” Herrera said. “This isn’t what you were shooting with.”

  As if on cue, bullets started bouncing off the truck behind them. Bastidas waved his gun at the cliff in panic. Morgan dived. He slapped the gun from Bastidas’ hand and grabbed Barton’s arm. With bullets pinging everywhere, he looped around the front of the truck and raced into the strip of jungle on the ocean side of the road.

  Felicity had not hit anything, but then she wasn’t really trying to. By filling the air with bullets she gave Morgan a chance to grab poor Chuck and disappear. But the magazine ran dry too soon. Frantic, she shoved bullets into her rifle’s stock, reloading the magazine while she watched Bastidas rally his men.

  “Don’t chase them,” he screamed, now on the side of the trucks away from Felicity. “I saw where they went. Use your grenades. There. And there.”

  “Grenades?” Morgan looked around at Barton’s dazed face. “I didn’t know they had grenades.” Felicity’s plan depended on a chase. They figured Bastidas, already short sixteen or so crewmen, might let them go rather than risk further losses in the woods.

  The jungle erupted to Morgan’s left. He shoved Barton down and found himself staring into what looked like a cave. Actually some past storm had nearly uprooted a huge tree. The space under the massive roots was small but dark enough for two men to hide in. He shoved his semiconscious charge into the dark moldy space.

  Then a deafening roar surrounded him and the earth flipped him like a child in the surf. Morgan felt as if he was tumbling in a dryer filled with rocks and when he landed, he landed hard.

  Above the road, Felicity sat back on her heels. “Grenades?” she said aloud. “I didn’t know they had grenades.” For a moment she froze. Should she keep shooting? Maybe cut their numbers further? No, even if she didn’t, Morgan might well get away. If so, she should be moving to their meeting place.

  When she realized someone was behind her, it was too late. She spun but Herrera pounced like a hungry cat on a blinded mouse. She fired past his ear and his right arm shot forward, the heel of his palm slamming into her chest. Felicity flew backward over the edge. Her knees and elbows scrapped across the ground as she made a desperate attempt to regain her balance, but when she landed, she landed hard.

  -33-

  When Morgan’s eyes fluttered open, Felicity was shaking his shoulders hard enough to rock his entire body. He raised himself off the cot very slowly, rested on his elbows and said, “This is getting old.”

  “Getting worried, I was,” Felicity said. “You’ve been out quite a while, and that’s a hell of a goose egg you’ve got on your head.”

  “I’ll live. Nice digs. I take it we’re on board.” He felt a steady subliminal hum, the sub audio vibrations which were part of submarine life. The room was small, low and gray. Two cots shared the space with two wall lockers and two small desks, each with its own chair. A ventilation duct threw warm air across the already stuffy room.

  “A stateroom,” Felicity said, crossing her arms. “I’m guessing that thanks to you and Chuck they’ve got some extra space.”

  “Where is C
huck?”

  “They never found him,” Felicity said, pacing the short path between the beds. “There was no time to waste, so they grabbed us up and split.”

  “So there’s still a chance.” As Morgan spoke, the door latch turned. He sat straighter, slapping his empty holster in frustration. Herrera slid into the room, relaxed but alert. Bastidas came in behind him, gun first. He motioned Morgan and Felicity to the bunks.

  “I just wanted to tell you the time.”

  “It’s two minutes past one in the morning, Panama time, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Felicity said. “I always know what time it is.”

  “I meant your remaining time,” Bastidas said, unruffled. “You have seven hours left.”

  “How come we’re alive now?” Morgan asked with infinite calm. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “You have caused me a great deal of inconvenience,” Bastidas said, pulling up a chair. “Because of you, I’ve had to accelerate my plans. But you have not caused me to fail, and I want you to experience my success first hand. I want you to be here when the mighty Piranha explodes in a nuclear fireball. You’ll be at ground zero when the Gatun lock disappears. You won’t feel the heat. You won’t hear the blast. You’ll never feel the fire storm, or the hurricane winds rushing back to fill the vacuum.”

  “We get the idea,” Morgan said. “We’ll miss it. What about you? Where you going to be?”

  “That’s right.” Felicity turned to Morgan. “You were out. You didn’t see them bring that little copter aboard. I figure this cobber and his close friends will be taking off before we reach the canal.”

  “Aerial reconnaissance,” Bastidas said with a chuckle. “The little bird only holds two. My friend here will bring the reactor to meltdown by remote control.”

  “Your crew suicidal?” Felicity asked.

  “No no, young lady, they are patriots,” Bastidas said, still laughing. Morgan tensed and Bastidas’ pistol jerked toward him. “They think we’re going through the canal to show off. Then we’ll sail around the cape and up to Cuba, to a hero’s welcome from Fidel.” He paused for reaction. Morgan and Felicity remained calm in the face of a fiery death. “Thousands of American tourists and ex-patriots will die,” he added.

  “And you’ll be sacrificing thousands of your Panamanian countrymen,” Felicity said.

  “The Navy will stop you,” Morgan said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “They don’t even know we’re at sea. Even if they did, we’re submerged. They couldn’t find us. No one can find us in the Piranha.”

  “Castro will put a price on your head,” Felicity said. “He has a very long memory.”

  “Oh, he’s bound to begrudge me his ten million dollars, but he won’t bother me. I have a very lucrative offer from some friends in the Middle East to share the plans for this vessel.” Felicity glanced at Morgan. “The capitalist world economy will collapse,” Bastidas almost shouted. Morgan leaned back on the cot. His teeth locked together, Bastidas suddenly snapped to his feet, spinning toward the door. At the threshold he turned, his teeth still clenched. “Enjoy eternity!” he spat out, and stormed away. Herrera followed without comment.

  “Well, we didn’t give him any satisfaction,” Morgan said after a short pause. “Whatever reaction he was looking for, I don’t think he got it.”

  “True, but that scum’s got to go. You’re going to have to top him, partner. Think you can get at him on this tub?”

  “Get at him?” Morgan asked, sitting up. “I doubt we can get out of this room. I saw a guard outside when Bastardo’ left.”

  Felicity could not help but chuckle. Morgan was always finding a humorous variant on someone’s name, especially an enemy. Still, the situation was not funny. “If you got to the navigation controls, could you turn this thing around?”

  “Maybe,” Morgan said, watching Felicity explore the room. “If we can get past Bastidas’ security, and Herrera, and if the controls are laid out fairly simply, I probably could.”

  “Well, okay,” Felicity said, stopping at the radiator. “Say, isn’t it always cold in the ocean? How do you suppose they heat this place?”

  “Probably hot air forced down a duct from the reactor area,” Morgan replied. “So, how do you plan to get us off the sub?”

  “If everything you just said happens, then maybe we can steal the copter,” Felicity answered. She knelt before the duct and reached into her hair band. She produced a piece of steel an inch square and thick as a dime. With it, she worked at the screws holding the screen on the air duct.

  “That’s a long string of if,” Morgan said, staring at the floor. Felicity froze and turned on him, the tension bursting out all at once.

  “What do you want to do? Sit in this little room and wait to be part of a bleeding fireball? We’ve got to try. How much security can there be with every available man operating the ship? We can’t just…” she took a big gulp and Morgan realized she had clamped her eyes shut to stifle tears, “Can’t just sit here.” Her fingers were splayed out, her hands held out in front of her. Morgan knelt, his knees almost touching hers, and took her hands in his.

  “Scared? That’s okay. Me too.”

  Felicity shook her head and her voice softened. “We’re not going to get out of this alive, are we?” She raised her head, her moist eyes meeting his.

  “Don’t know, but if I got to die in this stupid sub, I’d sure like to kill Bastidas first. Let’s look at our chances again after we’re out of this stateroom.”

  Morgan’s on the wrong side of that door, Felicity told herself. He’s counting on me to open it. I can’t let him die in a locked room.

  With these thoughts, she drove herself on. The duct was tighter than she had expected. Based on the way her hips fit the space, she figured the duct had about a forty inch circumference. At each junction the metal joint pinched her nipples. The dust wasn’t thick but it coated the entire length of the air duct she could not avoid inhaling it.

  Worst of all was the closeness. After a lifetime of chimney climbing, closet sitting and trunk riding, Felicity thought herself immune to claustrophobia. This time, she figured knowing she was under the ocean heightened her feeling of being entombed.

  Progress was frustratingly slow. The forced air was hot but dry. A gentle whoosh was the only sound in that black void. Easing around a gentle curve, she saw light ahead. Her pulse quickened and she wished she could move faster.

  Soon she was turning on her left side, staring out a grating at the blank wall beyond. She worked her hands up and pushed out with everything she had. Her teeth clenched and she grunted with the effort.

  Nothing.

  Can’t anything be the easy way?

  The bolts holding the grate on were nearly half an inch too long, but too tight for Felicity to turn with her fingers. Wishing she knew another way, she pressed her face against the hot, dusty metal, locking her left molars around the threaded end of the top left bolt. The stainless steel had a sharp, almost acid taste. One sharp turn of her head got it started. Her neck started cramping as she twisted. Soon she could get a finger between the wall and the screen. She turned the screw until it came loose.

  Felicity had no trouble bending the screen. Felicity pushed the loose corner until it met its opposite. Then she squirmed out of the duct into a vacant passageway.

  She was crouching in the shadows in a gray on gray world. Pipes hung from the ceiling, and caged light bulbs hung along the walls. If she put her legs out straight her heels could touch the opposite wall. The one she leaned against pulsed warmly like a living thing.

  She relaxed, and felt Morgan’s calm not far away. Like a liquid shadow, she slid across the gray wall toward him. On her mental monitor, she called up the schematic of the ship she had seen. Given a couple of landmarks, she could pinpoint her location.

  Danger waited around the next corner. The nape of her neck told her so. Felicity glanced around the edge. A long haired Cuban sailor in uniform sat in a folding
chair in front of a stateroom door. He appeared to be dozing, his chair tipped back against the wall. An assault rifle leaned against the wall near him. If she moved quickly, Felicity could kick the chair out from under him, grab the gun, and make him open the door. No sweat. She just wished he wasn’t ten meters away.

  She had taken three steps forward when the sailor lost his balance, recovered, and sat straight up. His eyes met Felicity’s and he snatched up his gun.

  The most obvious thing for Felicity to do was run, so she continued toward him. She was committed now. To turn was sure suicide. As the rifle’s sights settled on her chest, she leaped.

  Her strong fingers wrapped around a hanging pipe. She pulled her knees up as a burst of fire cut the air where she had been. Her hands opened and she spun into a back flip. She was upside down in a ball, then her feet came down as her legs straightened. Her heels hit the man’s forehead on one side with her full weight. Felicity landed on her upper back and outstretched arms. The Cuban dropped as if all his bones had been removed.

  Felicity was on her feet before the echo of their falling bodies faded. She snatched the keys from the guard’s belt and turned to the steel door. Her hands fumbled at the lock for a moment, but she managed to turn it.

  “Good girl,” Morgan said as he rushed out past her. He slid on his knees to the guard and picked up his rifle. The guard was immobile so Morgan raised an eyelid and checked for a pulse. He was surprised to find the man was dead. His neck was broken.