Authors: Gary Ponzo
“I can’t,” the pilot said, clearly flustered. “I go any slower, I’ll stall.”
“Then get those flaps down,” Nick ordered. The pilot seemed to hesitate, maybe unsure how much his passengers knew about aviation.
Kalinikov pushed the tip of his gun into the pilot’s temple, forcing his head to tilt down to his shoulder. The pilot reached for something on the control panel.
The flaps began to extend from the wing and the plane slowed, lowering the speed of which it might stall.
Nick felt something on his head and realized Lieutenant Olson was strapping on a helmet.
“What are you doing?” Nick asked.
“You need this more than me,” the helmetless SEAL said.
The lake was coming up fast. Just seventy yards away. There was no time to argue.
“Thanks,” Nick said.
They lined up clutching their duffle bags with one arm as they approached the lake.
Matt was crouched low, his free hand on the grab bar above the open door. He had to lean forward into the wind to stay upright, then took a second to lean back and shout into Nick’s ear, “Tuck and roll.”
Matt was ex-Special Forces. He must’ve realized Nick was the only team member without special military training.
Nick gave him a thumbs-up, even though he thought he might throw up at any moment.
Kalinikov was next to the pilot with a gun to the man’s head. Nick could see him giving instructions, but the open door made it impossible to hear what he was saying.
The trees below them disappeared. Kalinikov turned to Matt and yelled, “Go!”
Matt didn’t hesitate. He instantly jumped.
A moment later, Nick clutched his duffle bag tight, then leapt from the plane. The collision of air pressure, wind and speed caused Nick to twist onto his back before landing. It was only a ten-foot drop, but the water hit him like a sidewalk. As he skidded the along the surface, he was tumbled sideways and his legs were pulled apart like a turkey wishbone. One was over his head, the other somewhere behind him. His body was thrown around like an out of control baseball card falling from a skyscraper. The impact had knocked his breath away and then shoved him underwater. He had no sense of which way was up.
Nick’s momentum finally slowed enough for him to open his eyes, but he saw nothing. Just darkness. His arms instinctively began stroking forward, but where was forward? No oxygen. Was he going up or down? He couldn’t stay underwater much longer. His entire body was numb, or in shock. Was he missing any limbs? He’d suddenly lost the ability to reason. As if any logical thoughts were pushed away by the collision.
His mind was just as twisted as his body. He wondered what Thomas was doing at that moment. Just as the darkness was about to take him away for good, he felt a tug on his shoulder. Then an entire arm came around his chest and he began to move involuntarily. He desperately needed air.
After an agonizing few seconds, his head plunged through the surface and he spit out a lungful of water, coughing, choking. But breathing.
He was on his back, looking up, someone pulling him as he floated on his rescuer’s hip. He began to regain his senses and somehow knew it was Matt taking hold of him. While the plane was about to touch down on the surface of the lake, Nick could see four heads in the water swimming in his direction.
Then, a familiar whistling sound cracked the virgin morning sky. From his periphery he could see movement. His eyes remained focused on the plane as a rocket propelled grenade dove into the side of the aircraft and exploded into a ball of fire. The heat from the thunderous blast ran along the lake’s surface and flashed into his face.
Nick could smell his own eyebrows burning.
Chapter 24
It was almost 7:00 AM in Baltimore and Stevie Gilpin was monitoring the drone over the Amazon lake where Nick’s team was being dropped off. The Zephyr operated in the stratosphere so it wasn’t able to see the greatest details on the ground, but it could detect gunfire and other abnormal activity.
Behind him stood Walt Jackson, while Faust and Dutton and Riggs caught a few minutes sleep on their couches and chairs.
“Here,” Stevie pointed to the monitor as a small plane came into the picture.
Walt took a sip of coffee and squeezed Stevie’s shoulder. “Keep that drone out of sight. I don’t want to attract any attention.”
“I go any higher, I could get a moon sample,” Stevie said, maneuvering the drone from his keyboard like a video game.
The sun hadn’t yet reached Walt’s window, but the eastern sky was brightening. Even though they were a couple of thousand miles away, the rescue team was in the exact same time zone.
They watched the plane make a pass over the lake without landing. Walt didn’t like the maneuver even if it was a logical tactic. He bent over Stevie’s shoulder and examined the shoreline.
“You see anything?” Walt asked.
Stevie simply shook his head.
The plane banked around and began its second pass. It was hard to tell if the aircraft was five feet or fifty feet above the water. Walt’s heart pounded in his chest. He watched the screen as if examining a magic trick for the third time and was searching for the palmed card.
As the plane passed the midway point in the lake, it exploded into a dark cloud of smoke and flames.
“Shit!” Stevie screamed.
Faust, Dutton and Riggs were up, scrambling to their feet.
“What happened?” Dutton asked.
Walt was oblivious to the commotion around him. People shouted and cursed as they came behind the desk and witnessed the silent destruction displayed on the computer monitor. Something ignited in the back of Walt’s brain and rushed through his blood stream like an acid burning his soul from the inside out.
The next few minutes passed without a sound. Finally Riggs went to the back of the room. Walt was faintly aware of Riggs calling Delta Force in Brazil as he was about to heave into the waste basket. Walt was on his knees ready to spill whatever contents his stomach contained when his phone chirped with the sound of an incoming text message. He picked up the phone from his desk and pushed a button and saw the message from Nick Bracco:
We’re in. Garber had us ambushed, but we were ready. Everyone fine. Send drone to Bogota for president’s trip. No more contact until we’ve completed mission. Signal is dead.
Walt opened his mouth while his stomach convulsed for a couple of seconds, but nothing came out. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up and handed the text message to Riggs who was still shouting into his phone.
Riggs hesitated while he read Nick’s words. Even the Marine couldn’t stop himself from dropping back onto a chair and laying both phones in his lap while taking a couple of deep breaths.
“Hold off,” Riggs finally said into his phone. “Do not deploy Team Twelve yet.” There was a pause. “Yes, have them turn back.”
Dutton and Stevie were still glued to the screen, when Riggs found Faust leaning back against the wall behind Walt’s desk, a shocked expression on his face.
Riggs approached the assistant CIA director with a scowl and an outstretched index finger. “You didn’t follow our instructions, did you? You thought your men were above reproach. Now you may have cost lives.”
Faust couldn’t make eye contact with Riggs. He looked out the window and tried to form words. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Get out,” Riggs shouted. “Find an excuse for leaving the agency. You want to spend more time with the family. You want a career change. Whatever. Just have your phone, tablet and company cards left in your office by the end of the day.”
Faust was catatonic. He leaned against the wall as if he needed it to remain upright.
“Now!” Riggs demanded.
Faust finally looked at Riggs and made an imperceptible nod. He walked from the room and closed the door behind him.
Walt wasn’t sure if the secretary of defense had the authority to fire a CIA executive, but that was hardly pertinent. Once President Merrick heard of the incident, Faust would be gone anyway. Riggs was merely expediting the process.
In the vacuum that followed Faust’s exit, Dutton told Stevie to get the drone over to Bogota.
“Nick’s right,” Dutton told the rest of the room. “Once they’re in that rainforest, they’ll be inaccessible to aerial contact anyway. Let’s focus on what we can control: the president’s visit.”
The tactic was reasonable. Place our assets where they could bring the most value. It was a smart decision. Yet somehow Walt couldn’t help think about the consequences. There were six men in enemy territory without backup and unquestionably outnumbered.
If someone was taking bets on who would survive that battle, their team would be a heavy underdog. And Walt didn’t like sending his agents into those odds.
“You okay?” Dutton asked Walt.
“I feel like we’ve just sent our kids off to college without giving them money, clothes or the proper education.”
Dutton thought about that. “Yeah, but these aren’t our kids. They’re the finest agents on the planet. There isn’t a situation in the world they couldn’t handle.”
Walt desperately wanted to believe his boss, but his eyes kept glancing over at the image on computer screen. Smoke still billowed from the carnage. How could he just shift his attention anywhere but the Amazon jungle and its dangers?
“What have we done?” Walt murmured. “What in the world did we just do?”
* * *
Pablo Moreno was feeding the exotic fish in his giant fish tank which covered the entire wall adjacent to his desk. He didn’t know what types of fish they were, just that they were all different shapes and colors. To him it was a form of moving artwork. It gave real color to his office.
Two members of his security force team were pouring themselves coffee in the back of the room, making small talk about their wives’ cooking, while Moreno finished off his chore and sat behind his massive desk. He fired up his computer while one of his men placed a hot cup of coffee on the desk for Moreno.
“Any word from Manny?” Moreno asked.
“No.”
“Hmm.” Moreno sipped his coffee and swiveled around to gaze out at the morning sun peeking out over the Andes. On the street below his building, the garment district was in full session. Businessmen in suits were trailing the gaunt women in short dresses as a sport. Their legs stretching out in each step as an ad for the next line of underwear, or for their next back door relationship into the industry. The model with the best pair of legs had the upper hand in both cases.
Moreno was logging onto his computer, when his phone beeped and a women’s voice said, “Mr. Moreno?”
Moreno pushed his speakerphone button. “Yes.”
“There’s a man down here asking to see Uncle Freedo.”
The secretive code name had both of Moreno’s guards looking up at the security monitor with him. The 52-inch wall-mounted screen displayed an image of a man wearing jeans, a tee shirt and brown leather jacket. He was looking directly up at the tiny camera with a purple toothpick in the corner of his mouth and a slight grin acknowledging his examination.
“What does he want?”
“He says he wants to offer you protection.”
“Protection? Protection from what?”
“He says it’s confidential and he would only need three minutes to explain.”
Moreno saw his two men waiting for his reaction. It didn’t seem wise for him to decline such a provocative request, but he also didn’t want to seem tentative to his men. He glanced at the time on the digital clock below the monitor.
“Okay,” Moreno said. “Send him up. Tell him he will have exactly three minutes.” Then he pushed off the speakerphone and motioned his guards to the door. “Make sure he is completely clean.”
A few minutes later, the man came walking in with a slight swagger Moreno had not seen in his office before. Just being in his presence usually caused short twitchy moves and a lot of nodding. This guy strolled around the office like he was considering whether or not to buy the place. He carried a container of coffee with a plastic lid, steam still oozing from the tiny opening.
“Nice office.” The man approached Moreno’s desk with his hand extended. “The name’s Tommy.”
Moreno stood to shake the man’s hand and gestured for him to sit in the chair across from his desk. “So you are American?”
The man sat back and crossed his legs. “Yeah, that’s right.” He held up the container. “I’ve gotta hand it to you Colombians, you sure know how to produce good coffee.”
The two security guards stood behind Tommy with their hands by their side and their eyes glued to the stranger.
“So.” Moreno was back in his seat. “You said something about protection. Tell me about this.”
“Well, I’ve got some bad news for you for you. You’ve got yourself a leaky boat.”
Moreno glanced up at the clock. “Okay, you’ve got another two minutes and forty seconds to explain that.”
“What I mean is . . .” Tommy twisted in his seat to look back at the two guards. “No offense or anything, but you might not want them hearing this.”
“Now you have two minutes and thirty seconds.”
Tommy shrugged. “Okay, so you’ve been messing around with President Santoro out in the Amazon. Him on his knees, kissing your hand like your Don Corleone.”
In the corner of his eye, Moreno could tell the surprise on his guards’ faces. “Go on.”
Tommy began counting his fingers with each piece of information. “I know you’ve been having secret talks with President Merrick. You have a terrible gambling habit and owe several bookies millions of dollars, although most of them are afraid to collect. You have a girlfriend in Bogota and one in Medellin. The one in Bogota knows about the one in Medellin but the one in Medellin is clueless. You paid to have the previous Colombian president killed because he wasn’t cooperating with you, which maybe explains the first part of my—”
“Stop!” Moreno demanded. He could feel the anger smoldering deep down inside of him, wanting to smack the guy with his dangling toothpick and his casual demeanor. “How do you know all of this?”
The guy’s grin widened. “You see, I’ve got friends in all the right places. And what I do is find someone in power who needs protection from some of their own men. Most of my clients are crime bosses, cartel leaders, even a few corrupt dictators. Remember how they found Saddam Hussein hiding in that hole. I offered him a great deal on protection, but he refused. Three weeks later, I got the call on his whereabouts, so I tipped off the American government. Poor bastard. He was too cheap for his own good.”