“Evacuating?”
Garrett smiled grimly. “They won’t give up the mine. Not when the Loyalists are nearby and will take the mine if they leave. That’s why we were put on display last night.”
“The Loyalists will pull back to Acapulco and take cover on the highest ground they can find.” The instinct to head for the hills at the approach of a sea storm was ingrained in Vistarians from generations of practice.
“Ibarra will stay put, right here,” Garrett said. “I got a look at his face last night. I could see it in his eyes. He’s quite crazy. There is no humanity left in him. He’s mad but disciplined. If he’s been told to hold the mine, he’ll hold onto it with everything he’s got no matter what comes his way, no matter how extreme his actions. He’ll justify anything as following orders. That’s probably why Serrano put him in charge. The Insurrectos can’t afford to lose the mine.”
Carmen shivered. She didn’t doubt Garrett’s analysis. “When the hurricane arrives, he will realize his mistake.”
“That might be when we can make a move,” Garrett said. “Sleep,” he told her. “I’m going to keep listening. If anything interesting happens, I’ll wake you.”
Carmen shook her head, her chin rubbing against his shoulder. “No, I’ll stay awake with you. I can’t sleep now.”
Five minutes later, as she listened to Garrett’s heart beat under her ear, she realized sleep was stealing over her again. She marveled at the change. When she had been hiding in the palace, up in the rafters where the Insurrectos couldn’t find her, she had spent three days so terrified she would be discovered and so distraught over her inability to help Minnie, who had been captured by Zalaya, that she hadn’t been able to sleep at all. She had grown up in the palace, yet with Insurrectos living in it, the building had become a foreign land to her. That had been a minor thing compared to this.
Garrett made the difference. Because he was here, she could sleep in complete confidence that nothing would get past his guard. Garrett…whom she loved. How strange the way the world worked. What would it throw at her next?
* * * * *
The west side cliffs of Las Piedras Grandes were considered the most dangerous cliffs in all of Vistaria. They were called, poetically, Salto de los Amantes. Many lovers had thrown themselves over their steep sides, to tumble to the exposed rocks and wild waves that smashed up against the base of them. Others had made promises, standing on the edge, gripping each other’s hands. Gulls and other seabirds rode the soaring thermals above them. Tourists would come each summer to toss coins into the wind and make a wish.
No one had ever thought of climbing the cliffs. They were inaccessible thanks to the thundering waves and unclimbable, rising one hundred and sixty-three feet to the sharp edge at the top.
An hour after dawn, Duardo took a good grip with his left hand and rested against the rope, letting his right arm relax. He looked down at the sea surging below his feet. He was twenty yards above the water and was no longer being sprayed with every wave that rolled up against the wall. The only things holding him was his left hand gripping a small, jagged rock, his boot thrust into the crease that Emile had found and the rope around his waist, held taut against the piton Emile had driven into the rock.
Emile was ten feet higher, hammering at the rock to widen a vent to drive in a piton. He was a private. He was also a world-class mountain climber and had tackled Everest only a year ago. Duardo spent a few nights a month playing poker with his men, so he could get to know them better when they were off duty and had their guard down. Three weeks ago, Emile had tried to explain to him how the cold and thin air made Everest such a challenge, so Duardo had known at least one man in his unit could tackle these cliffs.
There were five other men strung out behind Duardo. Each of them was watching the man ahead of him, placing his hands and feet exactly as the first man had and moving precisely like the first man. All of them except Emile were complete novices at climbing, including Duardo. Emile had been confident he could get them to the top as long as they did exactly what he did.
Emile looked back over his shoulder and down at Duardo. “Sir?” he asked. His voice was all but snatched away by the wind. It was picking up speed.
“I’ve got it,” Duardo assured him and flexed the fingers of his right hand. He was glad he had improved his fitness and cardiovascular conditioning in the last few weeks at the big house. If he had been in the physical shape now he had been in when posing as Zalaya, he couldn’t have done this.
The five men below him had all been chosen for their similar physical condition. He had also questioned them on their ability to handle heights. He had weeded out those who would choke during such a high-risk challenge, leaving him with a seven man team, including Emile and him.
Flores had been outraged when Duardo laid out the plan. “No! I will not consider it! You would put every man in this army at risk. You would put them all in the way of a hurricane, when we should be returning to safe ground.”
They were standing on the heaving deck of the launch Flores was using as his command post and it was just past two a.m. The sea was inky black, rolling away into the black night sky. There had been barely any moon and no wind.
Nick stood between Flores and Duardo, the third man in their conversation. Nick had only spoken once or twice because this was a military operation.
“Risks must be taken in war,” Duardo replied. “I’ve considered the odds. They’re not as bad as they seem. There’s an experienced climber in my unit. And there are precautions we can take that will minimize the risks.”
Flores shook his head before Duardo had finished, then he chopped his hand sideways. “I will not consider it,” he said flatly. “It is utter madness.”
Nick stirred and cleared his throat. “It is my decision, General.”
Flores grew still. Then he straightened to attention. “It is your order we do this, sir?”
“It is,” Nick said mildly. “Use volunteers for the higher risk elements we’ve talked about, but no one gets to stay home for this. We will need everyone.”
Flores considered Nick. “Fuck me stupid!” he breathed. Then he smiled, showing crooked teeth. “I still say it is madness. Perhaps that is what we need, yes?” He clapped Duardo on the shoulder. “I will take the men in overland. You, the mad one, you can take the cliffs.”
“Thank you, sir,” Duardo said, although it had been his intention to do that, anyway. He climbed down into the cabin to retrieve the roster of personnel. He could pick his team from anyone suitable.
Nick stepped into the cabin behind him. “I’ll come with you, if you’ll have me.”
Duardo straightened up, the file in his hand. “You can’t.” Then he tacked on belatedly, “Sir.”
“I can’t?” Nick raised a brow. It was a mild reaction, although Duardo knew he had gone on alert.
“Sir, Flores was right, this is as high risk as it gets. Only, that’s my job. Now you’ve told him the decision is out of his hands, the General will throw himself into executing the plan, too. You can’t be a part of it. You’re the temporary president and the spokesman for every Loyalist here. You have to go back to the big house and get everyone there to shelter. You have to talk to the United States and keep that dialog going. I can’t do that and the General can’t. It has to be you.”
Nick stared at him, then rubbed the back of his neck. “You have a point,” he said reluctantly. Duardo relaxed.
Then Nick smiled. “I thought you might play the family card. Tell me that Calli would castrate you if you let me come along.”
Duardo grinned. “I was going to try that next.” He waved toward the door. “This is the fastest boat we have in the fleet. Flores and I will move to the next fastest and you can use this to get back to the house. If you leave in the next five minutes, you’ll be there by three.”
Nick nodded and held out his hand. “It’s going to be a long night for all of us. I want to be able to take your hand again, come the dawn.
”
Duardo shook it and held Nick’s gaze. “I’ll do my best.” He paused. “Minnie….” he began.
“I’ll know what to say, if it comes to that,” Nick said quietly.
“Thank you.”
Nick surprised him by pulling him into a hug. “Take care,” he said roughly, then turned and leapt up the stairs to the main deck.
The next three hours were a blur of frantic preparation and detailed briefings. Equipment was the biggest challenge, although Emile was sanguine. “Any steel wedge will do for pitons. We can split the heads and bend them to take rope. It’s rough, but it’s effective. Hell, we used ice pitons once or twice in a crunch, on Kilimanjaro. If it can be driven into a crevasse and will hold tight, it will do.”
Someone discovered a bag of fishnet repair needles. The little runabout taxiing between boats brought them over to the dory Duardo and Emile were using to pull the team together. Duardo looked over Emile’s shoulder as the private turned one of the six-inch long metal needles over and over in his hand. One end was a blunt point. The other was a large eye, about an inch wide.
“It’s almost perfect,” Emile declared. “If we split the eye at the side here and bend the metal up slightly, it will make a hook. The climbing rope can be slipped into it.”
Duardo whistled sharply and his aide snapped off a salute. “Sir?”
“The sergeant who made the tent poles, the one who repairs the stairs to the big house,” Duardo said.
“Macias, sir?”
“Did he bring his tools with him?” Duardo asked.
“I will find out, sir.”
“Bring Macias and his tools here. We need these pitons made pronto.”
“Yes. sir!”
Fifty minutes before dawn, the team assembled and the equipment was parceled out, along with Emile’s detailed instructions, with many repetitions of the advice to do everything the man above did.
They used an inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor to circle the island and come to the cliffs from the sea. From the little dinghy, the cliffs looked huge. So did the waves. The inflatable sides and lightness of the boat would help cushion the impact with the rocks.
The private steering the engine moved them closer, watching the waves behind him. “Now!” he called, as the waves subsided after the big seventh one. He revved the engine and the boat leapt forward, right up to the base of the cliffs.
The whole team was already roped together. As the dinghy nudged up against the cliffs themselves, Emile stepped over the gunwale and thrust a boot into a crevasse Duardo hadn’t seen until that moment.
The rope leading from Emile to Duardo held the boat steady. Duardo waited until Emile climbed out of the way and waved to him, then Duardo hauled on the rope, bringing himself and the boat closer to the flat wall of the cliffs. As soon as he was close enough, he thrust out a hand and a foot and grabbed the same piece of rock Emile had. He transferred his weight and found himself hugging the cliffs, the sea surging around his boots.
He reached up for the handhold Emile had used and climbed. Behind him, the team repeated what he had done, until they were all clinging to the cliffs. The boat drifted away, pulled by the backwash of the waves, then the motor fired up and the dinghy turned and headed back for the fleet. They were on their own.
Duardo lifted his chin and studied Emile’s movements, blanking out any thoughts about the rocks below, the unforgiving sea and how far above them the top was.
The next three hours were a test of mind, sinew, nerves and muscle. As the day grew, the wind picked up force and speed. It whipped at them from the side, trying to peel them from the cliff, tearing at their exposed flesh and making their eyes water, blurring their sight. The high screaming one-note song the wind made blanketed thoughts.
Shortly before the two hour mark, Adjuno, the sergeant just behind Duardo, slipped and fell. He was brought to a halt, dangling in mid-air, held up by the rope, which yanked heavily at Duardo’s torso.
Duardo gripped the rock, gritting his jaw, as he took Adjuno’s full weight, for there was no piton between them. Rickardo, behind Adjuno, reached out to help Adjuno swing back toward the rocks and find grips once more. After what felt like a year, the weight on the rope lessened and Duardo looked down. “Sergeant?”
“Fine!” Adjuno screamed back, his voice hoarse. He climbed again.
They went on, Adjuno’s near-miss stirring their adrenaline and making them even more cautious. Duardo copied Emile’s movement even more carefully, testing each hand and foot hold before moving on. The pack on his back, which was a conservative thirty pounds, pulled him outward. The lactic acid build-up in his hamstrings, quads, biceps and triceps was murderous, turning his limbs into heavy iron appendages that didn’t want to work properly.
The rope connecting him to Emile tugged. He looked up. Emile laid on the edge of the cliff, looking down at him. Duardo was six feet below the top.
“Take care!” Emile called. “The edge is powdery.”
The warning was well-judged. Finding himself so close to the top gave Duardo a spurt of adrenaline and spiked his pulse. It was too easy to grow careless in the last lap. Forcing himself to move slowly, he climbed up to the edge. He put his hand over the top…only to have the earth crumble under his grip and shower him with sediment and pebbles. He turned his face away and waited.
Emile picked up his hand, guided it to a sharp rock and curled his fingers over it. Duardo hauled himself over the edge and rolled away from it. The pack halted his roll, leaving him on his side.
“Help the others,” he told Emile. He gave himself a mere twenty seconds to recover, then got stiffly to his feet. It was incredibly good to stand and walk.
He picked up the rope that connected him to Adjuno and took up the slack, reeling in the inches as Adjuno got closer to the top. Then Emile reached over and guided him over the edge.
Twenty minutes later, all seven of them lay or stood on the cliff edge. Duardo let them rest for a few minutes while he studied the sky. The bright day had disappeared while they climbed. Overhead, the cloud was thick and gray and moving fast. The air he pulled into his lungs was warm. Even if he had not studied every forecast for the area he could find, the scaly clouds and the air pressure would have told him a bad storm was coming.
He glanced at his watch. “Ten-forty-three,” he pronounced. “We move out at ten-fifty-five, gentlemen. We have to make the compound by eleven-forty.”
The compound was seven kilometers away. If they kept up a steady jog, which was do-able on the flat wind-swept ground ahead of them, they would make it with time to spare for reconnaissance before heading in. All of his team were among the fittest men he knew. He had confidence they would make it now. The worst of the physical challenges was behind them.
He studied once more the rate the cloud was moving and his gut tightened.
Perhaps the worst was still to come, after all.
Chapter Thirteen
Josh climbed out of the little Cessna and stretched mightily. It had been a cramped three-hour flight down to Acapulco. His shirt, the one he had thrown on as he’d left the house in the small hours of the morning, stuck to his back. The front of it had set-in wrinkles that came from sitting too long.
He looked around. This section of the airport was reserved for small, private planes. The hangars were an ants’ nest of prop planes, small jets and the golf carts personnel used to move around the tarmac.
The sky was a dismal dun color. The wind pushed at Josh, coming from a south-westerly position. Most of the frantic activity on the tarmac was because of the coming storm. All these planes were too small and too light to be left out unprotected. Even tied down, they were vulnerable. The planes were being towed into the hangers, where they would cram like sardines until the storm was over.
Nick strode across the tarmac, in the black cargo pants and camouflage shirt he wore when he participated in army exercises and maneuvers. Even in this odd light his red hair was distinctive. A Loyalist no
n-com walked with him, carrying a heavy canvas bag over one shoulder and wearing green fatigues.
Did the combat clothes mean Nick had been mixed up in something? Was the offensive already underway? Josh had spent three hours trying to figure out what the panic could be, when the coming storm would bring everything and everyone to a grinding halt.
Nick surprised Josh by giving him a hard hug. “Thank you,” he said. “This will make a huge difference. They’re inside?”
“In the cabin with me. You’re right, they don’t take up much room, packed down.” He jerked his thumb back toward the interior of the plane. The door was still ajar and rocking backward and forward with the wind surges.
Nick nodded. “I have another favor to ask.”
“You’re going to be buying me drinks for a century at this rate,” Josh told him. “What now?”
“I need to borrow the plane.”
“And fly it to where?” Josh asked. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a hurricane heading in our direction.”
“You looked up the reports then.” Nick pointed toward the west. “That-a-way,” he said.
“Into the storm?”
Nick shook his head. “If we go now, we’ll be back before the storm hits. Your Cessna is the only way I can get the goggles where they need to be in time.”
He patently wasn’t going to explain himself beyond that cryptic remark. Yet he had said on the phone this morning it was urgent and he had repeated himself just now when he said this would make a difference.
“I’ll send the pilot into Acapulco to hunker down for the duration,” Josh said. “Your fixed-wing license is current, right?”
Nick rolled his eyes at him, then waved the non-com toward the plane. “Go do your stuff, Pedro.”
“Sir.” Pedro stepped around them and climbed into the plane, hauling his heavy bag in with him.
“After you,” Nick said. “I’ll let you break the bad news to the pilot.”
Freedom Fighters Page 17
