Crossing Savage (17 page)

The pain was building in Daren's knees. He had injured them playing rugby in a recreational league as an undergraduate student. Kneeling on the hard wood floor was not helping. The needles of pain were shooting up his legs. He tried shifting his weight from side to side, but it didn't help. Grimacing, he allowed himself to topple to his left.

Weasel lurched toward Daren and kicked him in the stomach. “Get up! On your knees!”

Daren had the wind knocked out of him by the kick—he was gasping for air and couldn't answer. Weasel yelled again, “Get back on your knees!”

“He can't! His knees are in bad shape—he can't kneel on hard surfaces,” said Harry.

“Never mind,” said Ramirez. “Soon enough it won't matter at all.”

Daren finally got his breathing back in rhythm. “I'll be fine,” he said between labored breaths.

Then Davis voiced a burning question that had been foremost on his mind since this ordeal began. “Who hired you, General? Why is it so important to kill these people? They're simply scholars conducting research. They aren't military people.”

“Precisely the point. As for your other questions, well… I'm not going to answer them. My mission is already behind schedule, and I am through wasting time.”

“You're a sick bastard, General. But I'll wager you already knew that.”

Ignoring Davis, Ramirez turned to Ortiz, who was near the fireplace and watching the hostages closely, machine gun pointed at the bound and terrified people. “Ortiz, I think one grenade should be sufficient, don't you?”

Chapter 13

September 26

Chernabura Island, West Side

“I am so sorry, son
. I should have listened to Commander Nicolaou. He tried to warn me many times, but I didn't take his warnings seriously.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself, Ian-San.” Professor Sato tried to console his long-time friend. “Remember that you also shared those warnings with me, and I too dismissed them.”

Karen was still weeping. She kept shaking her head… no, no. Silence fell over the room.

Ramirez surveyed the bound hostages. “Weasel, look inside the woodshed for a can of gasoline. I'd prefer a full one. If I recall correctly, Henri reported seeing several in there.”

Weasel slung his MP5 over his shoulder and left the great room. Turning to Ortiz, Ramirez said, “Grenade.”

Ortiz plucked a olive drab orb from his load harness and handed it to the general. Looking at the deadly sphere, Ramirez turned it slowly, admiring its form and function. “Marshal Davis. I think you know what this is?”

Davis remained silent. He knew what an M67 fragmentation grenade was and what it was capable of doing. Standard issue to U.S. and NATO military forces, it was an incredibly deadly instrument. Once the pin was removed and the spoon flicked off, the fuse ignited. When that happened, there was no turning back. In about three seconds the fuse would detonate the explosive charge inside the grenade's hollow-metal body, shattering the steel shell and propelling the fragments into everything nearby. The killing radius was about fifteen feet.

The great room was large, but it was not large enough. There would be no place to hide. When the grenade detonated, they would all die.

Weasel returned with a red plastic five-gallon gasoline can. It looked to be full from the way he was carrying it. He gently set the gas can on the floor near General Ramirez.

“There are three more cans, sir. Should I get more?”

“Hmm. Yes, one more I think. A gallon can would do nicely.” Weasel turned and left again.

Ramirez looked directly at Peter and then continued. “The grenade will kill all of you. Of that you can be sure. The gasoline… well, that will obscure the evidence. I hope none of you find cremation objectionable.” He chuckled at that.

Professor Savage shook his head slowly, overwrought with despair, admitting to himself his failure and their defeat. Bound and kneeling, he had lost all hope of survival. But that did not bother him nearly as much as the thought that he had also led his son and his colleagues—his friends—to their deaths. He closed his eyes as the first tear slowly ran down his cheek.

More than anything, he wished he could turn back time and make a different choice. Yet at the same time his intellect told him that such was absurdly impossible. Now he had to live the last few minutes of his life with the consequences of that fateful decision.

Ian Savage opened his eyes and raised his head. He looked at Ramirez with the face of a man who was ready to die. “Why don't you just put a bullet in each of us and be done with it.”

“That would be my personal choice,” replied the general. “But I am a good soldier; I follow orders. And my orders are to arrange for your deaths to appear to be a tragic accident. When local police eventually arrive to investigate your disappearance, they will conclude that one of your team exercised poor judgment and brought a gas can into the cabin. The gas vapors were ignited by a fire in the fireplace and everyone died in the fire.”

“What are you after? Why go to all the trouble to track down and kill scientists?” Peter was still trying to understand the fundamental motive.

“As I said, I am a soldier, and I don't question my orders.”

“Perhaps you would if you had any conscience at all,” said Davis, still defiant. It had always been his nature.

Ramirez returned his gaze to the hand grenade he was still holding. “I think you will find this most interesting, Professor. This is a well-tested method that I learned from my brothers in Colombia when I was taken in by FARC. All you need is a hand grenade,” he held up the grenade for emphasis, “and a can of gasoline or diesel fuel.

“First you pull the pin on the grenade.” He pantomimed removing the pin from the fragmentation grenade. “Then you place the grenade carefully under the gas can just right so that the can holds the spoon in place.

“Now—and this is the best part—you take your knife,” he pulled his combat knife from the belt sheath. “And you puncture the can, top and bottom so the gasoline flows out in a steady stream.” Ramirez made a show of puncturing an imaginary can with his knife.

“As the gasoline drains from the can, the weight holding the spoon in place lessens. Eventually, when most of the gas has drained from the can, the spoon pops off the grenade.

“Of course, you will witness all this first hand. Once the spoon pops from the grenade you will have three seconds until the explosion.” He indicated an explosion with his hands, and a short laugh escaped his lips.

“The explosion will ignite the gasoline. I am sorry to say that if any of you survive the explosion of the grenade—very unlikely, I assure you—you will burn in the ensuing fire.”

Ramirez continued his gloating. “My original plan was to kill all of you in the cabin by detonating the seismic charges. Fifty pounds of even low-grade explosives would have been much faster and neater, and the police would have concluded that scientists should not play with explosives.

“But… Peter destroyed the explosives, so I must adapt to the situation and use an alternative plan.”

Davis wondered if Ramirez really believed his own propaganda. He must. How else could someone commit the horrible crimes he was guilty of?

Ramirez realized that Weasel still had not returned from the wood shed. What could be taking him so long? He should have been back by now. With his knife sheathed again, he pointed his pistol in the direction of the hostages. “Ortiz. Tell Kwok to come in and guard the prisoners, then go find out what is taking Weasel so long,” he said.

Weasel had intended to get another gas can quickly, as ordered. He wanted to complete this job—they had already been on the island too long. He left the cabin and quickly walked the 50 or so feet to the woodshed. Weasel was already thinking of the nice little bottle of Russian vodka stashed in his duffle bag on board the submarine. And if anyone touched it while he was gone, he'd just have to kill them.

With his weapon slung across his shoulder, Weasel entered the woodshed and went directly to the gas cans. There were still three lined up, one next to the other on the floor of the shed—two five-gallon cans and a single one-gallon can; he reached for the smaller can.

Weasel never heard the man glide into the woodshed behind him. He made absolutely no sound. He didn't even stir the air. He was like a spirit, a ghost. Indeed, that was his call sign—Ghost.

As Weasel rose with the gas can, a gloved hand came over his mouth and pulled him sharply back. Off balance, Weasel dropped the red plastic can—it hit the ground with a slosh. As Weasel grabbed the hand over his mouth, Ghost's other arm came up swiftly and plunged a razor-sharp combat blade into the side of the exposed throat.

Ghost kept his left hand firmly over Weasel's mouth and continued to pull backward. No sound came from the dying man. His body tensed and he struggled, but his strength quickly drained along with his blood.

It took no more than a minute for the struggling to stop. Ghost laid Weasel on his back and wiped off his blade on Weasel's sleeve. He returned the knife to its sheath, and Ghost grabbed the body by the load-harness straps where they passed over the shoulders. Then he swiftly, but quietly, dragged the body out of the woodshed and away from the cabin. He hastily stashed the body behind some manzanita bushes and small fir trees and covered the drag marks leading out of the shed. Then he went back to his lair to wait for the next victim. He knew someone would come shortly looking for Weasel.

Ortiz came out of the cabin and approached the woodshed. He was irritated that it was taking Weasel so long to pick up another gas can and return with it. It was a simple task, even for Weasel. What could possibly be the problem? But then again, not much had gone according to plan today.

Like Weasel, Ortiz was letting his mind drift off the task at hand, thinking how pleasant it would be to return to the submarine and play cards with the Russian sailors. Ortiz liked to gamble and drink, and if a fight erupted, all the better. He enjoyed hurting people, especially with his hands.

“Weasel, what are you doing?” he called as he approached the woodshed. No answer. Now Ortiz was really getting annoyed.

He walked to the open door of the woodshed and stepped inside. Weasel was not there. Ortiz looked to the left, then to the right—no Weasel. Then he noticed the gallon-size gas can in the middle of the dirt floor. He knelt near the can and examined what appeared to be several large drops of blood mixed with the dirt. Grasping his machine gun with both hands, Ortiz turned, planning to conduct a quick search around the woodshed before reporting to General Ramirez. He had just cleared the open door to the woodshed when Ghost slipped from behind the door and placed his left hand under Ortiz's chin and lifted, forcing his head backward. With his lower jaw locked in place and his head back so far it was painful, Ortiz could not make a sound. Ghost pivoted and extended his left leg behind Ortiz, toppling the terrorist onto his back.

He landed hard, loosening his grip on the MP5; a flash of sharp pain shot through his back. Ghost knocked the gun away. Ortiz reacted by placing both hands on the arm of the attacker. On his back, with both arms latched onto Ghost's left arm, Ortiz was completely vulnerable for the final move of the attack.

It came fast and without mercy. Ghost plunged the seven-inch blade into the left side of Ortiz's chest. Ghost rotated the blade sideways and at an angle so that the blade slipped between two ribs, missing the sternum. The sharp steel sliced through muscle and lung tissue, finally piercing the heart.

To Ortiz it felt as if his entire chest was experiencing an enormous and painful cramp, unlike anything he had ever felt—a sharp, shooting pain that radiated out into his arms. The pain intensified, and then his eyes registered the man standing over him, dressed in camouflage—the face painted shades of tan, black, and green. The last thing Ortiz saw was the coldness of the eyes. The final thought to cross his mind was that the angel of death had personally come to claim his wicked soul.

Ramirez was out of patience. He stormed to the front door and yelled. “Weasel, Ortiz!”

No reply. Only the sound of a gentle wind whispering through the trees. It was approaching mid-afternoon, and the scattered clouds were beginning to thicken. Maybe a storm approaching.

Again he yelled, “Weasel! Ortiz!” Still only silence. He became wary, alert to danger. Something was very, very wrong. Gripping his pistol firmly and raising it to the ready position, he was just about to step out the door when the window to his right suddenly shattered.

Kwok fell to the floor of the cabin, blood pooling where he lay on the wooden floorboards. Karen screamed and the other students looked aghast. Professor Savage and Peter were stunned; but Davis immediately recognized what was coming down.

Before Ramirez could react, a camouflaged man suddenly appeared in front of him.

Jim Nicolaou had been standing on the porch, hugging the wall, and spun swiftly in front of Ramirez, a .45-caliber pistol extended into Ramirez's face.

Jim was dressed in digital camouflage fatigues. On his right thigh was a tactical pistol holster hanging from a web belt. Across his chest were several magazine pouches. Like Ghost, his face was painted in camouflage colors, and he wore an olive drab knitted cap.

The only insignia on his uniform was a small U.S. flag on his right shoulder and a circular patch on his left that had an image of a globe with two crossed lightning bolts, all embroidered in black on a tan background. This was the symbol of the Strategic Global Intervention Team.

“Weasel and Ortiz are no longer able to answer you. They've joined their comrade in hell,” Jim said as he nodded toward the body of the clean-shaven terrorist, slain with a single bullet to the head.

Jim kept his eyes riveted on Ramirez. He retrieved the Glock pistol from the General and shoved it into his belt. Then he took the grenade and shoved it into a cargo pocket.

“Now, slowly slide the sling from your shoulder and let the MP5 drop to the floor.”

Ramirez complied, slowly and with exacting movements. As encouragement, the big pistol never moved from the bridge of his nose.

“Lock your hands behind your head,” Nicolaou ordered. Ramirez did as he was told.

“I am General Ramirez. I demand to be treated according to the terms of the Geneva Convention as a prisoner of war.”

“Stuff it,” Jim responded.

By now two other SGIT team members had appeared behind Nicolaou, all dressed in identical digital camouflage fatigues, faces painted in shades of tan, green, and black. The one named Ghost reported. “The perimeter is secure. Two terrorists dead. This is the last one alive.” He nodded at Ramirez standing before his squad leader.