Rogue Op II

by Roger Weston

  Not only was he stuck here, but he was bleeding. A piece of shrapnel had created a flesh wound in his lower hamstring. Chuck pulled his bandanna out and tied a tourniquet around his leg.

  The dust had mostly settled now, and Chuck was numb with amazement as he took a closer look at the crypt where he was now trapped. It was a large stone room with stone walls and the windows that opened to the clouds. The room was bigger than a three-car garage. It had been chiseled out of the cliff with stunning attention to detail. The floor was level and as smooth as marble. A thousand stone faces had been carved out of the walls and into the ceiling. Chuck felt like he was in the hall of the dead, and a feeling of evil aroused his sixth sense. This Chuck did not understand because the faces were just stone and nothing else.

  Maybe the skulls were part of the problem. Next to where the altar had been, six eight-foot high shelves lined the walls and featured golden relics and at least a hundred more skulls.

  Chuck was amazed at the artifacts that filled the shelves. It was an unbelievable hoard.

  An eighteen inch gold figurine of a crouching man who was blowing on a conch shell was on one shelf.

  A square-headed ceramic flute player of distinctive quality and design filled another.

  An exquisite golden bird, studded with turquoise beads throughout the wing and tail portions as well as two turquoise eyes topped another. The gold bird was a brilliant piece of artwork and looked like a toucan to Chuck.

  Twin owls of copper and shell were incredibly striking in the same way that real owls are.

  Two larger-than-life golden heads of Inca kings were the work of master artisans.

  A golden pot was crafted with an incised deity face.

  A dozen golden figurines of Inca warriors stood guard by an Incan skull that had perfect teeth and stood out for the amazing headdress it wore. The headdress was made of dyed and layered feathers and rose eighteen inches high. One of the eyes was a black hole. The other was filled in with undiscernible material. Blue and red tassels from the headdress covered the ears and hung down as low as the chin.

  Chuck took a close look at a fanged, golden death mask.

  A life-size golden arm and fist, the knuckles marked with turquoise studs stood next to the mask.

  Chuck was transfixed by a striking gold artifact that was a foot wide and two feet high. A horrible-looking figure of a squat-legged man with a double-snaked crown, claws, and fierce eyes. Somehow it reminded him of General Lazar, but he knew it was not him. It was an Inca warrior.

  Other treasures captured his attention, A golden llama, a golden puma head among others.

  This was a king’s ransom; however, somehow Chuck doubted that he’d be able to buy his way out of this mess.

  He walked to the window and hung out into the clouds. What he saw made him sick.

  If he had lost his grip from this place, he would’ve fallen nine hundred to a thousand feet into the rocks far below. The good news was that there was a narrow ledge across the cliff face that eventually led to a ridge. He’d seen this ledge earlier, but the bad news was that the ledge was impassable for a man without safety ropes. In places, it was no more than a few inches wide. Only a man with a death wish would ever attempt to cross that ledge.

  Chuck pulled himself back up into the room.

  He was trapped. There was only one way out of this place, and it was back the way he came, but that way was totally cut off thanks to the cave in.

  Chuck knew that Lazar would not let him starve to death in here. He figured that the general would send an assault team down the cliff face above. They would rope down into the mausoleum and use tear gas or stun grenades to soften resistance. Then death would come swiftly like a cat in the night.

  Chuck guessed he had twenty minutes.

  He looked around again, but there was little to give him hope. The gold was useless to him. The skulls lining all the shelves foretold his own grim fate. He scanned the shelves slowly.

  Some of the skulls still had hair. It was a gruesome sight.

  “You think you can scare me?” Chuck said. “Good luck.”

  How long could he hold out here? he wondered. He could last without food for quite a while, but his water would run out long before then.

  On the other hand, if Lazar had trained mountaineers and rock climbers, they might show up very soon.

  “I’m watching you on video, Brandt.”

  Chuck spun around. He saw Lazar’s face on a wall-mounted television screen.

  The dark hair, the strong, broad forehead, and the eyes of steel. There was no doubt that this was the general.

  “What have you done?” Lazar said. “You’ve damaged my skulls. Those cannot be replaced—ever.”

  “Neither can the people you had killed in the Amazon.”

  “They were nobody. Those skulls are Inca royalty.”

  “They are dead. You need to start respecting people that are alive—people without power.”

  “How dare you marginalize greatness. Do you even know that the room you now stand in is symbolic of power?”

  “Your strength is your weakness, Lazar.”

  “Weakness! Did you really think you could just walk in here and sabotage my organization the way you did with RUMAN a few years back in the wilds of the Northwest?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about that, did you? I know everything. You underestimate me because you think I was ruined in Russia. But the truth is that they conspired against me because they feared me. You should have feared me more, Brandt. I am Pilsudski, who returned from military captivity in Germany and rose to power in Poland. I am Stalin, who was respected and feared in prison and rose again to terrorize Russia. I am Trotsky, who returned from exile in Siberia and tried to lead an international revolution. I am more than Trotsky. I am more than all of them. I am Lazar who will succeed where Trotsky failed. What Tupa Inca did to Peru, I will do to the entire world. I will terrorize, dominate, and reign. One day I will reign in hell itself.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Shut up and listen! You dare to come against me, Brandt, you little man, you toy soldier. I am the V in Victory. You have the audacity to try to come against Ivan Lazar—General of generals. You are a fool. I am the bold in boldness. I am the power in power. To come against me is to fail—as you have twice failed—first in Costa Brava where you were shot, then in the Amazon where you carried buckets of shame and humiliation. Rebellion is futile and doomed to failure. Presidents take orders from me. Dictators do my will. You’re hanging on by a thread, Brandt. Your sad hour is coming. Very soon. Even the air itself will turn against you.”

  “It is your days that are numbered, General.” Chuck was bluffing at this point, but he had nothing to lose.

  “Is that right? You really believe that you can take me down, Brandt? Maybe you think you are another Juan Lavalle who deposed and executed Manuel Dorrego, of Buenos Aires. Is that what you think, you little man, you petty tyrant—you who lack vision and capacity? Did you really think you could succeed in taking down the great General Lazar?

  “No,” Lazar went on. “You are more like Mussolini. You failed, you fail, and you will fail—just as sure as the tides rise and the tides recede. You are Cylon who tried to lead a coup in Greece. He failed. You are Aldo Rico, whose coup in Argentina was a failure. You are Souper who schemed against Chilean President Allende—and who failed.

  “You are a fool, a trouble-maker. He who tries to rise against General Lazar is like a piece of driftwood that is swept away by a tidal wave. I will shake the nations like dice in my hands, but you will be nowhere to be found.”

  “I’m right here and I’m not going away.”

  “You should not be there in the mausoleum. You don’t appreciate true greatness. You have no idea the magnitude of that location or your crime against history.”

  “Help me understand.”

  “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Brandt? Why do you think the
mausoleum is there to begin with? It’s symbolic of Inca Power. It was built after the Incas conquered the Chachapoyas. On the winter solstice, at exactly 7:00 a.m., the sun and the mountain across the ravine converge to make a shadow of a condor.”

  “A shadow?”

  “Yes, a massive shadow on the cliff, a shadow of a condor. At seven, the condor’s beak touches the window as if it is bowing its head in honor of the great Incas.”

  “Why the condor?”

  “The Incas believe the Andean condor is the guardian spirit of the dead. They are the greatest and largest of the flying birds.”

  “The condor is a scavenger, Lazar, just like you.”

  Lazar hesitated a moment, as if he was giving that a thought, then said. “You are more correct than you know, Brandt. I will feed on the carcass of a dying America. The last Incas predicted my coming hundreds of years ago. An Inca priest had a vision and prophesied that a great warrior would escape the captivity of his enemies and lead the Inca people to a greater destiny.”

  “Escape captivity? You mean, like you escaped from the insane asylum in Russia?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you think Inca priests would foresee a Russian coming here and reviving the lost glory of the Inca people? They didn’t even know about Russia.”

  “The Inca priest was a sage who dwelled in a cave and revealed the prophecy of his people. His spirit was not limited by time or place. He had a vision of the future. That vision is now coming to pass.”

  A rumbling sound caused Chuck to jump backwards in fear. He felt a slight vibration in the stone floor. He stared at the cave-in.

  They were moving dirt! They were using a cat or a backhoe to get to him.

  Chuck suddenly had a lot less time to ponder his death. He passed his M16 from one hand to the other.

  “Brandt, you are going to regret ever going up against me. You are going to be sorry that you didn’t respect greatness.”

  “Are you sure? You’re a self-impressed coward. You’re dreaming if you think I’ll give up.”

  “Very soon, you’ll be dead and gone. Enjoy your last few minutes.”

  “That’s hard to do while you flap your lips over the speakers. What are you doing awake in the daytime, anyway? I thought you only came out of your hole at night.”

  Chuck heard a thumping sound, then a fury-filled voice rattled the speakers: “After I kill you, the ants will clean your skull of all flesh in forty-eight hours. Then I will use your skull for a cup holder. I will have your skin stretched over a picture frame to make a canvas. An artist will use it to paint my profile.”

  The speaker went dead, and from the rumble, it appeared that the backhoe was making good progress. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

  Chuck hurried over to the open-air window, and his fingers clung to the stone window sill.

  He leaned out over the cliff and gasped. He looked at the ledge, which was a foot-wide under the window and ran along the vertical cliff. Mostly he looked at where it narrowed to maybe five inches. It went on like that for ten feet. The drop-off was well over a thousand feet.

  “Oh, no.” Chuck said as his knees began to shake.

  CHAPTER 18

  Perched on a stool in his security headquarters, General Lazar stared at the video monitor. He was watching every move that Chuck Brandt made in the cliff-side mausoleum. He knew he was looking at a dead man, but he was worried that Brandt would do more damage to his relics. Lazar checked his watch constantly. With any luck, the backhoe would have the vault open within minutes.

  Lazar called Salvador frequently for updates on how much longer it would take for the backhoe operator to move all the dirt to open the tunnel.

  While he waited, the General looked around his security headquarters with pride. He admired the curved stone walls and counters covered in technology. A few seconds later, he glanced at the monitor once again and was transfixed by what he saw on the video screen. Brandt was absolutely nuts. He was trying to escape by means of the thin ledge that ran along the cliff. Lazar had spent countless hours in the vault, and he’d studied that ledge. He’d pondered whether or not a man could cross it without ropes. His conclusion was that a thin man would have a one in a million chance of pulling it off.

  He picked up the VHF mike and said, “Come in, Kazan Two. This is Lazar.”

  “This is Kazan Two. I read you. Go ahead General.” The pilot spoke in a gravelly voice.

  “Kazan Two, this is General Lazar. Are my commandos still there?”

  “Yes, General. They are about to leave.”

  “Stop them. Brandt is attempting to cross the narrow ledge on the cliff. I need you in the air now! Have one of my shooters take care of him.”

  “Copy that, General. Did you say he’s on the ledge?”

  “Affirmative, Kazan Two. He’s just stepped out there from the carved windows.”

  “That’s good news, General. He’ll never make it.”

  “No, he won’t, because you’re going to take my shooters up there in the helicopter. After your mission is complete, land north of Viracocha near the Octagon. That’s an order.”

  “Affirmative, general. I’ll swing up and have your shooters pick him off the cliff. He’ll be a sitting duck out there.”

  “Do it. Just pick up his body afterwards and deliver the bag to me.”

  “Confirmed, General. It won’t be pretty after an 1100-foot fall into the rocks. This will be almost too easy.”

  “Get it done. Body shots only. I want to preserve his skull.”

  “Confirmed, General. We’ll be there in three minutes. Say good-bye to your problem.”

  ***

  The Mi-17 helicopter rose over the Peruvian Andes under the power of her 1545 kW (2070 shp) Isotov TV3-117VM engines, custom built for hot and high conditions. She ground the airwaves for what seemed like just a few minutes, but time was on steroids and adrenaline.

  The raisin-faced pilot looked back at the two killers seated in the fuselage. The death team carried several assault rifles, reflecting their preferences. The pilot had seen the Romanian AIMS-74, the Polish 5.56mm wz.96 Beryl assault rifle with its 40mm under barrel grenade launcher among others. With two killers on board, both eager to pick off the legendary Chuck Brandt, it looked like the American was a dead man.

  “Target Chuck Brandt,” the pilot said. “Adios, Señor.”

  “You mean the bastard who destroyed the Amazon station?”

  “That’s right.”

  The pilot almost pitied Brandt, almost, but actually he was happy that he was going to see this. History was about to be made. He looked back at one of the assassins and said, “Get ready. You’re going to shoot Brandt off the cliff.”

  The man smiled and winked. “I’ll cut him down with my CQ-A assault rifle.” He smirked at his partner. “Aleksander, get over there and be ready to open the door when I say.”

  Aleksander frowned and shook his head, “Every dog has his day….and every dog dies a dirty death.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The cliff was high above the clouds, but Brandt didn’t hesitate. With one hand on his M-16 and the other free to help him keep his balance, Chuck stepped out of the rock window of the mausoleum onto the ledge of the cliff. He knew that if he fell, he would freefall hundreds of feet before he entered the clouds and then soon after would hit the side of the mountain. He began to sweat and began having flashbacks to his wife’s death. It was years ago, when they’d been rock climbing and she’d fallen to her death. He’d had a fear of cliffs and rock climbing ever since.

  The horrors of that moment had never left him, and in his mind, he saw that tragic replay every single day. The agony of losing her that way was the hardest, cruelest thing he’d ever experienced. She had loved him, supported him, and trusted him with her life. Losing her had started a battle with loneliness, guilt, and depression. He had saved so many lives. How could he not protect his angel? After her death, he’d gone to therapy to get help dealing with his grief.
The sessions had been a bad idea for a man like Chuck Brandt, and he’d ended them shortly thereafter. He’d never learned to deal with his fear of climbing. He knew he had the skills for it, but it was hard for him to use them effectively when he was experiencing constant flashbacks.

  Even now, with his back to the cliff, as he sidestepped along the ledge, Chuck was sweating like crazy. When the ledge narrowed to five inches, Chuck was creeping along the edge on nothing but his heels. The front of his feet dangled over thin air. The muscles in his ankles were like taut ropes. He took tiny sidesteps because each one of them left him balancing all his weight, for just a moment, on one heel. If his upper body were to tip forward slightly, he would helplessly freefall hundreds of feet to his death in the rocks far below.

  In his mind, he heard his wife’s scream and saw her falling away. Again. And again.

  “No!” He focused on the feeling of the cliff at his back.

  The fact that one of his legs was suffering from a fresh wound caused the leg to shake even more wildly. His entire body shook feverishly.

  He did not wipe the sweat from his forehead for fear he’d lose his balance. His ankles ached from strain.

  On one side step, Chuck started to tip forward. Quickly he shifted his weight and saved himself. He quivered and shook more and tried to keep his wife’s death out of his mind.

  He teetered and reeled. He felt a battle within him for his center of gravity. His balance shifted through his body like electric springs.

  His bad leg gave out from the strain, but somehow recovered as he oscillated over the void, one easy slip away from a thousand-foot fall.

  Step left. Step left.

  He heard some noise from far below, but he shut it out. He had to get across this cliff. It was too narrow. His toes were hanging off the ledge.

  Pain shot up his bad leg and touched the nerves of his spine like an electric shock. His knee bent slightly. His shoulder blade separated from the cliff. His empty hand made circular movements in the air.

  He regained his balance. Slowly, persevering through weakness and pain, through injury and fear—he crept along the narrow edge.