“Sir?”
“Tell your men to stand down for the night. We won’t be unloading the ship until tomorrow.” Liu barely broke stride as he gave his orders.
He checked his watch. Midnight. He had to hold everything together for another eleven hours. His stomach remained calm even if he felt a headache growing behind his eyes. Yu had known when they spoke at
El Mirador
that he wasn’t unloading the rockets until after the canal was sealed, and had deliberately withheld that information. It was a petty trick, a small bit of intimidation that rankled the more Liu thought about it. Red Island was about to push Yu one step higher in the government and he chose to humiliate the man who was giving him the boost.
Wong had been right. Politics. It was his nation’s curse. Take away just half of the government infighting and Red Island would have been unnecessary because China would already control all of the Pacific basin.
Well, Liu thought with a touch of pride, thanks to me and despite themselves, the government’s going to get their wish anyway.
“
Merrcerrrr, Merrcerrrr
.” The voice dragged him back from the deepest sleep he’d enjoyed for weeks.
Mercer opened his eyes. Hovering in front of him was a face as wrinkled and gray as a balled-up piece of newsprint. Harry. “Ugh!” he groaned. “Waking to you makes my nightmares seem pleasant.”
“It’s five-thirty, Romeo. Shag your ass.”
Mercer remembered he hadn’t gone to bed alone and felt across the sheets. Lauren was gone.
“She’s already in the bathroom,” Harry informed him. “Judging by how rested she looked, you couldn’t have been much.”
“Not only are you a depraved bastard, but I suspect you’re deprived as well.” Mercer swung his legs out of the bed. He was surprised that other than a twinge of apprehension deep in his gut, he was feeling reasonably well. “Besides,” he added to stifle Harry’s leer, “nothing happened.”
Harry tossed a bundle of dark clothes into his lap. “Compliments of Foch. This is a spare uniform from the guy injured yesterday picking up Maria.”
“How is he? Do you know?”
“The driver’s still in the pokey. He managed to call Foch’s room late last night. The guy who was hit is going to be all right.”
“You’ve seen Foch. How long have you been awake?”
Harry rubbed the stubble on his chin. “When you’re as handsome as I am you don’t need much beauty rest.”
“Funny.” Mercer drew on the black fatigue pants and T-shirt.
“I woke up at five, went down to their room and heard they were all awake. When I came back up, Lauren was in the bathroom. Seems you’re the only one who wants to sleep through the fun.”
“I would if I could.” The clothes fit well enough so Mercer laced up his boots and followed Harry into the sitting room. A coffee service waited on a credenza. The aromatic steam was strong enough to start reviving Mercer even before he started on his first cup. “Any word about the Special Forces guys?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know if Lauren’s called her father yet.”
She entered from the bathroom, dressed in clothes that matched Mercer’s. “Morning, boys. Who do I thank for the fatigues?”
“Me,” Harry answered quickly. “Sewed ’em myself.”
“You got the length right, but if you really think I have a thirty-six-inch waist I’m going to hurt you.”
Mercer suspected that she wouldn’t give any acknowledgment to how they’d spent the night even though they hadn’t so much as kissed. He was wrong. She stepped to him and pressed her lips to his. “How’d you sleep?”
He smiled into her eyes. “Never better.”
“Me too.”
“Break it up,” Harry growled. “You’re going to make me gag.”
When Bruneseau, Foch, and the four remaining Legionnaires entered the suite, Mercer was on his third cup of coffee and Roddy had already arrived with Miguel. The boy understood something important was about to happen and wanted to be with his two heroes for as long as possible. Considering his recent loss, neither man begrudged his clinging presence. It was a little after six in the morning. The
Mario diCastorelli
would be entering the canal in less than an hour, while the Special Forces were still more than two hours out.
The twinge in Mercer’s gut tightened a degree.
Sitting around the coffee table eating breakfast, he led them through their plan once again. Lauren would drive the van to pick up the American commandos. She would take them straight to the Balboa Yacht Club where Mercer, Roddy, and the Legionnaires would be waiting with the boat. No amount of argument could keep Harry White from also joining them at the marina. It was then up to the Special Forces to assault the
Mario diCastorelli
. If they failed, however, Mercer wanted to be ready to lead an attack of his own. He had no illusions about taking on a potential force that had just defeated an elite American unit, but he figured the initial raid would sorely deplete the number of defenders on the ship and give them a chance.
The faces confronting him were grim and set. Everyone knew and accepted the risks. The French wanted a chance to avenge the comrades felled by Liu Yousheng and Hatcherly Consolidated. Roddy was defending his very home, hoping to keep it from slipping back into the kind of tyranny not seen since Noriega’s day. Lauren had a sworn duty to defend the United States and never in her career had her mission been clearer. If they failed, America would face a Cold War-style nuclear confrontation with an adversary possessing a frightening strategic advantage.
What about Harry? Mercer wondered. Why did he want to be a part of this? Like so many of his generation, Harry hadn’t waited for the draft. He’d signed up to do his part during World War II and rightly placed himself among those called the Greatest Generation. It could be that he thought this fight was worth the same kind of sacrifice. Or maybe, Mercer chuckled to himself, the stubborn fool had never backed away from anything in his life and was too set in his ways to stop now.
And his own reason for accepting the risks? Mercer knew it was a combination of them all—with one more addition. He made no distinction between the carbon dioxide gas that had wiped out Gary’s camp and the squad of soldiers Liu had dispatched to the river to kill them. To him the Chinese were as responsible for those deaths as the geologic anomaly. Mercer looked at Miguel. For no reason other than greed and ambition, this innocent had been orphaned by Liu Yousheng. It was a burden the boy would carry for the rest of his life.
Mercer had always been haunted by the idea that the terrorists who murdered his parents had probably been congratulated for their barbarity. In a thousand dreams he’d seen them celebrating the ambush that had cost him everything and gained them nothing. It made him hate the killers all the more, a deep and primal emotion that he’d carry to his grave. He wasn’t sure if punishing Liu would give Miguel any comfort as he grew into adulthood, but Mercer understood too well how the boy’s soul could be corroded if the Chinese mastermind succeeded.
“I think we’re set,” Lauren said when the briefing was over. “When I talked to my father this morning he said the commandos made their flight okay. They managed to bring extra communications gear so we can all stay in contact during the assault.”
“What about your missile cruiser?” Foch asked.
“The destroyer USS
McCampbell
is already within Tomahawk range and will be able to bring her VGAS cannon to bear in another two hours. They will keep the ship out of Panama’s territorial waters but will be overflying an experimental spotter drone based on the Predator aircraft.”
“If Liu has moved SAM batteries here to protect his nuclear rockets, your drone won’t last five minutes,” Rene Bruneseau interjected.
Lauren gave him a smug look. “The spotter drone has the radar cross-section of a hummingbird. No worries.”
One of the Legion soldiers leaned forward. Named Rabidoux, he was the dark-complected son of an Algerian mother and a French father. He more than any of them had been stunned that Rene was a fellow Muslim. “I have been on NATO exercises with the American Green Berets. We won’t need the destroyer, its gun or missiles. I think we won’t even need us.”
Mercer nodded to him. “Hope you’re right.” He looked at the Timex Harry had lent him. “It’s seven o’clock now. I know it won’t take us that long to get into position, but I suggest we get going.”
All the weapons had been bundled in cheap nylon bags so they aroused little interest on the way to the elevator. While the majority of the group continued to the lobby, Miguel insisted that Mercer and Roddy escort him back to the Herraras’ room.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” he asked. He’d already asked that same question a dozen times.
“You have to stay here to take care of my children,” Roddy answered. “When I am gone, they look up to you.”
“But you might need me,” the boy insisted with a touch of petulance, then continued his appeal in Spanish.
Mercer admired Roddy’s patience with Miguel. Working past his own apprehension and fears, he was able to speak in reassuring tones. Mercer didn’t know the words but could follow the conversation, recognizing the exact moment of capitulation by the tears that formed in Miguel’s eyes. Roddy spoke to him some more, and like a magician managed to turn the tears into a weak smile and then a small giggle.
Not a magician, Mercer realized. A parent.
Miguel hugged both men and made Mercer promise to look out for Mr. Harry.
“You should know by now,” Mercer teased, “that with Harry on our side it’s the other guys who have to look out.” He pantomimed how Harry had shown Miguel the sword secreted in his walking stick. “He’s bloodthirstier than old Captain Morgan when he sacked Panama City.”
Roddy whispered to Mercer, “Then shouldn’t he drink his namesake’s rum?”
“Poetic license,” Mercer retorted. “Besides, I don’t know if Jack Daniel was bloodthirsty.”
Mercer retreated down the hallway to give Roddy and Carmen some privacy to say good-bye. Even if her husband wasn’t going to be in danger, she worried for him, for them all really.
A pounding rain had erupted in the few minutes it took to get to the parking lot. It stung Mercer’s face as he looked up to judge how long the foul weather would be with them. The sky was an arc of bruised gray clouds that obscured the tops of the tallest buildings. It appeared that the storm would last for hours.
Roddy had borrowed his brother-in-law’s pickup truck to drive the Legionnaires and the weapons to the Balboa Yacht Club. Victor had just finished the night shift at Hatcherly’s container port, and he and Roddy spoke quietly while the arms were loaded into the truck’s enclosed bed. It would be a tight fit for the soldiers in back, but they only had to drive fifteen miles or so. Lauren was already behind the wheel of the idling van.
Mercer climbed into the pickup’s cab to get out of the rain. Harry sat next to him and was squeezed in when Roddy jumped behind the wheel once Victor marched off for a bus stop.
“Victor says that last night Hatcherly moved a ship out of its dry dock. It had been there for weeks, although he’s sure no work was ever done to it. The freighter that took its place is about four hundred feet long. He thinks it’s a refrigerator ship but didn’t see the name.”
“Sounds like the
Korvald.
”
Roddy nodded, rainwater dripping from his nose. “I think it must be. The dry dock is fully enclosed, allowing the Chinese to unload their rockets without being detected.”
“That’s probably how they brought in the missile-launcher trucks.”
“Makes sense,” Roddy agreed.
“Once we hook up with the Special Forces we can alert the USS
McCampbell.
Taking out the
Korvald
sounds like something the navy should handle.”
Roddy started the truck and maneuvered so Mercer’s window came abreast of Lauren’s. “You all set?” Mercer called to her.
She rolled down her window a couple of inches. “This is gonna be a milk run.” She grinned. “We should be at the Balboa Yacht Club around ten. It all depends on customs at the airport.”
“And we’ll have the boat ready to go. See you when we see you.”
Lauren blew him a kiss and put the van in gear. Roddy waited until she had pulled into the early-morning traffic before turning around in the parking lot and leaving the hotel in the opposite direction.
Twenty minutes after reaching the Gamboa Highway they pulled into the Balboa Yacht Club, a grandiose title for a rather run-down establishment located immediately below the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the parking lot they could see a PANAMAX container ship in one lane of the lock and a cruise liner about to enter the other.
As Roddy had predicted there were no other vehicles at the club. It was a Tuesday morning and the weather only helped keep sailors away. Rain hitting the tin roof of the two-story clubhouse sounded like hail. There were a dozen sailboats in the marina and an equal number of powerboats tied to the wooden jetties. Like most small boatyards, there were watercraft resting on wooden trestles and a battered crane to hoist them into or out of the water. A lone gasoline pump stood like a sentinel on one of the piers.
Beyond the marina lay the mile-long Miraflores Lake. Like forgotten castles on a mist-shrouded moor, several cargo ships floated eerily on the water, their running lights barely cutting into the storm and the smoke from their funnels blending with the murky clouds. A single horn blast echoed across the artificial lake.
The three men sat in the quiet truck for a second until Harry broke the spell the haunting scene had cast over them. “What a shitty day.”
Mercer threw open his door at the same time Foch and Rene emerged from the rear of the pickup. His men swarmed out after him with the bags of weapons. Only Harry and Roddy had rain jackets with them, but the storm didn’t faze the soldiers. If anything they knew the weather would help the American commandos when they staged their assault.