Legend: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Dr. Pollock, isn’t it?” Jenks asked as he slid his side window open and tossed the remains of his cigar into the river.

  Virginia was in Levi’s and a black mock turtleneck shirt. “Yes, how are you, Chief?”

  “Me, I’m fine, what can I help you with?” he asked, his eyes roaming over her chest and then quickly back to her eyes. “You come a-slummin’, or what?”

  “Well, I was up in the galley, waiting for coffee, and I thought I would come up front and see the ogre himself. Judge for myself and see if you’re the gruff bastard everyone says you are,” she said, raising her left eyebrow as she removed her glasses.

  “Well, am I?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I did hear you yelling at that poor marine from all the way in the galley. You seem to think you’re mean and tough, but I don’t know; I haven’t formed an opinion just yet.”

  He looked the tall woman over even more closely than before, or for what etiquette called for. One eye twitched as he tried to figure out what she was about.

  “Would it make a difference if I kicked your ass?” he suddenly blurted.

  “Perhaps it would,” she answered, “but how about taking a break and buying me a cup of coffee instead. Then we can discuss the side of you no one sees.” She stood up and left the cockpit.

  Jenks followed her with his eyes and then leaned over to look as she went through the glass hatch and into the navigation compartment. He started to reach for a fresh cigar, then thought better of it and stood and followed. He stopped long enough to look at himself in the large window next to the navigation table as he entered section two, and decided a trip into the head wouldn’t be a bad idea. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelled as if he had just come off leave in Shanghai. He didn’t know it, but Virginia Pollock had a thing for lost causes, and the master chief was definitely one of those.

  At the break of dawn, with the antenna array up and operating, and the radar dish turning to Jenks’s satisfaction, Jack attempted to check in with the Event Group Complex. They had an opening in the tree canopy of only sixty feet or so, and thus he hoped Boris and Natasha had made the move that had been planned. Pete Golding responded as clearly as if he were talking from the riverbank. Jack reported that they had penetrated the falls and had found the tributary just as the map had indicated. Then Pete handed the conversation off to Niles.

  “Jack, we should have visual of you in the next hour or so, via Boris and Natasha. When you find yourselves in thick canopy country, we’ll use space-based radar to keep track of Teacher, using her heat signature,” Niles said.

  “Okay. We’re just now getting under way; nothing earthshaking to report as of yet.”

  “Jack, we have two problems. One, the president will not, I repeat, will not permit Ryan and the Delta on the ground in Brazil; it’s political and he just won’t make that call.”

  “Well, hopefully we can handle anything Farbeaux can throw our way.”

  “That’s problem number two; you have company headed your way besides the Frenchman.”

  “The boat and barge, we know about those. They’re probably him,” Jack countered.

  “No, Jack. Boris and Natasha has picked up an armed group of about fifty men on foot, just entering the area of the falls. And I’ve more good news— your trailing boat and barge are nowhere to be found; I suspect they may have followed you into the tributary.”

  “Have you alerted Ryan to our backup? Operation Spoiled Sport will replace Conquistador?” Jack asked.

  “Done, he’s on full alert for plan two. The Delta team will act as security while Proteus is on the ground in Panama, but that’s not a sure thing, Jack; they’re having trouble getting the system online. Remember, the whole program is experimental and the whole damned platform could possibly explode over half of South America, so you be careful. Any rough stuff, get your team out of there, into the jungle if you have to. Are your orders clear enough, Major?”

  “Got it; go get some sleep, Niles,” Jack said and clicked off the satellite communication link. He patted Tommy Stiles on the back. “Thanks, it was clear as a bell.”

  “Is everything all right?” Sarah asked.

  He winked. “Yeah, just cautionary. Inform everyone that from here on out we’ll be going to fifty percent alert status, half on, half off.”

  Carl, Sarah, and Danielle gathered close to study the computer-generated version of the Padilla map on the navigation table. Carl slid his finger along the shoreline of the tributary. Then he punched in the current coordinates on a small keypad, and the small blip that indicated Teacher’s position showed itself in red, underneath the deep tree canopy.

  “According to the map, Padilla’s Sincaro village was only about three klicks up the river. That would place the lagoon and valley not that far away.”

  “We can’t even report our location since the sky disappeared,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, I’ve never seen trees like these. How can they grow so much that they block out the entire sky?”

  “Water, constant rain. They fight each other for the right to sunlight, making it a battle for supremacy,” Danielle stated, “each one vying for the sun by reaching out over its neighbor, thus creating a giant umbrella effect that will allow nothing through.”

  The engines of Teacher were like the sad drone of a constant lullaby. Most of the team had sacked out as they entered the darkness of the rain forest, knowing sleep could be hard to come by in a few hours. Jenks was at the helm with Virginia. She was actually getting a kick out of his permitting her to use the toggle controls of the cockpit, as she had been amazed at how responsive the big boat was. As she copiloted the vessel, she laughed at almost everything Jenks had to say. The master chief had never smiled so much as during the time he was spending with Virginia.

  Carl was still leaning over the navigation table with Sarah and Danielle when he heard the master chief and scientist erupt with laughter; he never knew Virginia had such a deep and reactive laugh. He stood up and looked at the two women at the table.

  “Does anyone else find that disturbing?” he asked.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Ambrose had received his marching orders. He didn’t like it and knew the secretary was escalating the situation before he knew for a fact that there was even a need to. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers he had memorized.

  “Yes.”

  “General, how are you, my friend?”

  The man in Brazil sat up straighter in his chair. He swallowed as he tried to find his voice.

  “I am …I am well, señor.”

  “Good. Are you prepared on your end to do what is necessary?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Good. You may send your ground element onto the river to follow my countrymen now. If the area in question is found, you may set them loose. There will be no foreign element allowed out of your country, General, is that clear?”

  “Sí …uh… yes, I understand.”

  “Are ten boats enough, General?”

  “They are the best assault force in the private sector, señor. They will do their jobs.”

  “Good, good. Your reward will be handsome as we promised, both monetarily and politically. Your air force is ready in case?”

  “This is an element I would rather not use—”

  “It will only be used if something unforeseen arises; don’t worry, my friend.”

  The connection was cut and the general was left holding the phone, aghast that he had gotten himself into this very dangerous game of treason.

  BLACK WATER TRIBUTARY TEN MILES ASTERN OF TEACHER

  Mendez had bided his time. He was a patient man when it came to killing. That was where his former partners in the drug trade had failed on a monumental scale. Targets and places of assassination were to be chosen with expert precision and never, ever was the decision to be made hastily. Mendez and his operatives knew when the iron was hot enough to strike. Why place the blame of murder upon yoursel
f, when you can make people believe the illusion of someone else’s doing the dirty work?

  In the darkness he could see the Frenchman in the wheelhouse talking with that fool of a captain. Santos was an annoyance that he would soon tire of, along with Farbeaux. He lit a cigar. The flare of the match momentarily illuminated his features as he caught Rosolo’s eye. Mendez nodded and then turned away toward the stern of the boat.

  Captain Rosolo made sure Farbeaux was still occupied by Santos, then he followed his boss to the gunwale at the far end of the boat. Once there, he removed a small cylinder from his coat pocket and found the trigger. He held the device up and out away from the Rio Madonna and aimed it through a small break in the overhead canopy where stars could be seen. To the rear, they could clearly make out the trailing barge as it silently cut the river into two white slices. Rosolo turned and gestured to one of his men just below the wheel-house. The man held up a portable radio and switched it to the Madonna’s frequency. Then he pushed the squelch button, with the volume turned all the way up. Inside the wheelhouse, they heard the radio come to life with the most godawful squeal imaginable. At the same time, Rosolo pulled the string at the end of the tube and the bright flash of a flare shot out and through the small opening in the tree canopy. The light breeze quickly pulled the telltale smoke away from the boat and into the surrounding jungle, just as Farbeaux made an appearance on the bridge wing to admonish the man below for making so much noise with his radio. Rosolo smiled as the Frenchman didn’t even look their way. He stepped back into the now silent bridge.

  “Well done, my friend.” Mendez puffed on his overly large cigar as the pop of the flare sounded three hundred feet above the canopy.

  Five hundred feet above the trees and thick jungle, the lead pilot of a flight of two Aérospatiale Gazelle attack helicopters, once owned by the French army, circled. The bright flash of the red flare arched out of the forest below and the two pilots knew they had a mission. They were mercenaries hired by Mendez, and their specialty was airborne murder.

  The pilot in the lead Gazelle had forgone the hiring of a weapons officer for this well-paying opportunity, out of greed. The two pilots would share their reward with no one. After all, they were only going after a slow-moving river craft. They could handle the attack themselves.

  He called his wingman and gave his instructions. He reached out and turned on his FLIR radar. The forward-looking infrared system activated and showed the coolness of the jungle and trees below. Then as they crossed the winding and unseen tributary below, the target they were seeking came into full view. It was marked clearly through the canopy of trees as a long, very bright ambient red color as it churned away slowly below. The fools would never know what hit them. He pulled the safety cover from his trigger mounted on the control stick, and selected his guns. He had elected not to bring the missiles he had stored in Colombia because he felt it would be a waste; they would have trouble penetrating the trees below. But twenty-millimeter rounds wouldn’t have that problem, as they would smash their way through any protecting wood surrounding their target.

  The lead pilot smiled as he brought his Gazelle to full power and made his turn for the dark jungle below. His unsuspecting target didn’t know it yet, but they were about to be destroyed by a lightning strike from heaven.

  USS TEACHER

  Jack stood up from the navigation table. A familiar noise had entered his train of thought and then vanished. He glanced over at Carl, who was staring at the cup of coffee that sat near the table’s edge. A minute tremor was making the dark coffee inside shimmer in the dim lighting of the cabin. Jack reached out for the intercom.

  “Chief, have you turned any systems on in the last thirty seconds?”

  “It’s late, Major, not the time to be using equipment we don’t need.” Jenks clicked off.

  “Kill the engines,” Jack said as he looked at Carl and then Sarah.

  Suddenly the boat went dead quiet. As they listened with faces cast in varying colors from the navigation screens on the table, Jack tilted his head. He heard it immediately. He reached for the intercom again.

  “Chief, restart the engines and wait for my word; we may have company.”

  “Goddammit, we’re not a warship, Major; I told you that.”

  “Chief, shut up and be ready.”

  “What do you think, Jack? Brazilian?” Sarah asked.

  Sarah finally heard the soft whine of engines from outside. She was amazed the two officers had noticed it above the sleep-inducing drone of Teacher.

  “No, Brazil uses the Kiowas and old Hughies we sold them.” Jack closed his eyes and leaned on the table, listening more intently. “These are Gazelles. French-built attack helicopters.”

  “Goddamn, are you sure?” Carl asked as he went over to the wall-mounted phone.

  “I heard enough of the little bastards in Africa and Afghanistan to last a lifetime.”

  “Will, go to the arms locker and get a fire team on deck,” Carl said into the phone.

  He hung up the receiver just as forty twenty-millimeter rounds smashed into Teacher. Jack pulled Sarah to the floor as the red-hot bullets punctured the thin composite hull and passed through to the water below. Jack didn’t bother to use the intercom this time as he shouted out toward the cockpit, “Get your ass moving, Chief!”

  The order was redundant as Jenks had already slammed Teacher’s throttles to her stops. The large boat sluiced into the center of the tributary and then started evasive zigzagging. He knew exactly what was happening, and the way to beat some of the fire from above.

  Around them they heard the screams of the doctors and professors as they were jolted awake by the sheer noise and terror of the large rounds hitting Teacher. The military personnel were trying their best to get them behind equipment and under tables as another assault slammed into them. The red tracer rounds passed through the thin hull easily and smashed equipment as it did so. The noise was absolutely horrifying.

  “You stay here!” Jack yelled at Sarah. “Come on, Carl, we can’t take much more of this.”

  Both men gained their feet and ran to the winding staircase in the next section, ducking when more steel-jacketed rounds slammed into them. The red phosphorus tracers ignited fires in the boat’s interior as they went though the hull like a kid punching holes in a soda can. The sound of breaking glass and exploding fire extinguishers sounded throughout the boat as Jenks swerved from riverbank to riverbank.

  Mendenhall, Sanchez, and even Professor Ellenshaw were already on deck. The professor, standing on the rubberized flooring, was reaching up to supply magazine after magazine for the two M-16s being used by the two security men as they fired blindly up into the trees toward the sound of the turbines passing overhead.

  “Situation, Will?” Jack screamed as he tossed to Carl one of the M-16s Mendenhall had stacked on the deck. The lieutenant commander didn’t waste time; he pulled the charging handle and opened up at one of the low-flying assault choppers. His own tracers stitched the sky and disappeared into the tree branches above them.

  “I think there are two, can’t be sure. Our return defensive fire ain’t getting through the trees. We’re going to get our asses kicked!” Mendenhall said as he inserted another magazine while more of the tracers slammed through the trees. They hit water at first and then the awful noise of rounds hitting the hull of Teacher sounded, as one of the science labs took heavy damage. He looked down as Ellenshaw, white hair flying in panic, reached up with another full magazine. “Goddammit, stay down, Professor, until I ask for one!” Mendenhall shouted as he used his foot to push the crazy bastard back onto the deck.

  Jack heard the scream as one of the Gazelles came low. He pointed just ahead of where the chopper should be, and Carl, Mendenhall, and Sanchez opened up. Bright white-hot tracers arched up into the canopy, and with dawning horror Jack saw over 90 percent of the light 5.56-millimeter rounds ricochet off branches and tree trunks, not able to slam their way through to the sky and the attackin
g ships above them.

  Damn!” he said. More tracer fire erupted around them as both Gazelles opened fire. The scene felt like something out of a science-fiction movie as lines of twenty-millimeter rounds resembling laser weapons struck the water and boat around them. The choppers were stitching the area with death and destruction even while they were, themselves, impervious to their return fire.

  Below, the master chief knew he didn’t have the time he needed to find adequate cover for his slow-moving target duck that was lined up as if in a carnival’s shooting gallery. He howled in frustration as more thumps sounded throughout his boat.

  “By God, that’s just about enough of this!” he yelled as he reached out, took Virginia’s slim hand, and thrust her fingers around the throttle and rudder control located on her chairs armrest. “Take the wheel, doll; keep zigzagging as much as possible; just don’t slam the old girl into the riverbank. Keep her moving no matter what.” He left his seat and, before exiting the cockpit, leaned over and kissed Virginia on the cheek. “Be right back, dollface, it’s fucking time for the cavalry to show up.”

  Virginia didn’t hear a word Jenks had said. Her eyes were wide and she was too busy shaking, which in the long run increased their survivability, as Teacher rocked from side to side when she shook the temperamental controls. She even failed to realize the master chief had pecked her on the cheek.

  Abovedecks the security team knew they were fighting a losing battle. It was obvious to Jack and Carl that the shooters orbiting above the tree canopy had a FLIR system and were using the boat’s own heat signature to track them through the trees.

  “I’d give my right nut for a Stinger right about now,” Carl said as he emptied a twenty-round magazine into the overhead branches, hoping at least three or four rounds could pop their way through.