The Last Line (24 page)

Of the expected Kilo class submarine there was no trace.

Beside him, Procario was aiming the Lightweight Laser Designation Rangefinder (or LLDR) at the presumed location of the sub. “I'd feel better about this if we could see the damned thing,” he said.

“It might be behind that netting,” Teller told him.

“Maybe. We'd need to get closer to see for sure.”

“That,” Teller said, “would not be a real good idea.”

Procario slapped a mosquito on his cheek, leaving a tiny smear of blood. “Bloodsuckers.”

“Hey, welcome to beautiful Belize. Land of mystery, enchantment, and mosquitoes the size of Cessnas.”

They were just ten miles south of Chetumal, across the waters of Corozal Bay. Belize was a former British colony, with town names like Sand Hill, Bermudian Landing, and Teakettle Village standing in amusing contrast to the sea of Spanish and Mayan names around them. One town in particular, Ladyville, located eight miles up the coast from Belize City, was the location of a new lily pad, a cooperative security location where prepositioned supplies and equipment could be used by American forces engaged in operations against narcoterrorists.

Teller and Procario had rented a car and driven south early that morning, crossing the border into Belize at the tiny, duty-free enclave of Santa Elena, following the Northern Highway until they found the road to the fishing port of Corozal, then driving around the curve of Corozal Bay to the much tinier, sleepier village of San Fernando.

North of San Fernando, the road had been blocked off by a chain and an orange sign reading
CAMINO CERRADO
—“road closed.”

They'd found a place to park the car, off the road and well back under the trees, and set off cross-country, navigating by compass and lugging their equipment in heavy backpacks—their satcom gear and the thirty-five-pound LLDR. An hour's hike through fairly open jungle had brought them to a cluster of low hills and the triangular headland on the bay. A number of Mayan ruins rose from the hilltops, including a kind of white stone platform overlooking the water, with ancient, worn steps leading to the top. The jungle here gave way to open ground and patches of brush; they'd found this vantage point alongside the wall so that they could look down at the presumed submarine pen without showing their silhouettes at the crest of the hill.

The road-closed sign had discouraged the arrival of any sightseeing tourists, obviously. The ruins, normally open to the public—or at least to archaeologists—were deserted. But they'd seen an armed guard at the foot of the hill, though, sitting on a block of carved masonry smoking a cigarette, and there were at least two more guards in the jungle close to the pier.
Something
was going on back there in the jungle, something those guards didn't want outsiders to see.

There seemed to be no way to get down there without being seen.

“Let's call in the hired help, then,” Procario said after another moment.

“Right.” Teller pulled out the handset for the AN/PRC-117F satcom. “Gray Fox, Gray Fox,” he called. “This is Flashlight. Ready to burn.”

“Flashlight,” a voice came back in his earpiece. “Gray Fox OTW.”
On the way.
“Two mikes.”

“Copy, Gray Fox. Be advised that the primary target is not in sight. Repeat, not in sight.”

“Copy that. Our orders are to go boots-on-the-ground and check it out up close and personal.”

“Roger. Target will be a wooden pier at the water's edge. Come on in.”

Turning, he looked back to the east, searching the sky, but there was nothing there yet. “Gray Fox,” he thought, was a mildly amusing homage to the incoming unit, still one of the most highly classified operational units within the U.S. military.

Created in 1980 to conduct intelligence for a planned second attempt to liberate American Embassy hostages held in Tehran after the disaster at Desert One, the United States Army Intelligence Support Activity—usually shortened to ISA—had gone by a number of names over the years. Commonly known simply as “the Activity” within the intelligence community, its official operational names had included, among others, Centra Spike, Cemetery Wind, and Gray Fox.

As “Gray Fox,” the ISA had helped track down Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar in 1993. Since 2005, they were no longer identified by two-word Special-Access Program code names but were referred to under the general heading of Task Force Orange, or by the more cryptic—and classified—acronym OMS. Their name was changed every couple of years for security reasons; informally, though, they were still referred to as “the Activity”—and evidently a mission planner at INSCOM had dredged up the old Gray Fox code to identify the helicopter assault team now headed for Cerros from the Ladyville lily pad.

Technically, the ISA, under INSCOM direction, was intended as intelligence support, tasked with gathering HUMINT and SIGINT for a variety of classified operations. In this instance, however, it was being employed as a primary ops unit rather than in a purely intelligence-support role. The incoming strike was tasked with securing the stolen nuclear weapons first and foremost; a second, parallel raid was being mounted at this moment on the warehouse at the Chetumal airport. Gathering intelligence was the secondary objective this afternoon, including most especially information on the intended targets—and on just who was behind this nightmare of submarine-deployed A-bombs.

In Teller's opinion, the Activity was definitely the right team for this mission. Teller had worked with the ISA before, in Afghanistan and doing cyber ops, and knew just how good they were. Delta Force was supposed to be the best, but these guys were one notch better.

“Flashlight, Gray Fox,” sounded in his earpiece. “One mike. Light 'em up.”

“Copy, Gray Fox. Light is on.” He nudged Procario. “Paint 'em.”

Procario had already lined up the small, tripod-mounted AN/PED-1 LLDR, sending a series of invisible, coded pulses of infrared laser light down and across the water to strike an exposed bollard at the side of the makeshift pier. Scattering off the target, the light would be picked up by the receivers on the incoming helicopters, guiding them in for a precise strike.

The two sentries on the stone blocks at the bottom of the hill were still smoking. They looked like locals—smugglers, probably, or rebels, or both. Revolutionary groups had used the profits from drug smuggling to fund their activities for decades—nothing new there. Teller still didn't believe the drug cartels were behind the import of nuclear weapons. They had the money, certainly, but not the motive.

Neither did Hezbollah, despite reports of their being involved with the cartels, and despite Castro's identification of Mohamed Hamadi as a Hezbollah operator. Even the Iranians—long the power behind Shiite Hezbollah—didn't have a motive to launch a nuclear attack on Mexico.

Might Iran launch a nuclear strike against the United States, using a Russian Kilo class sub? Well, that was why the Activity was coming in hot right now. Prisoners might be able to shed some light on whoever was behind this plot, and on exactly what their motives might be.

Teller heard it first, a faint, fluttering tremble in the air, coming across the bay from the north. The sound grew steadily, swelling to thunder … and then two MH-60L Black Hawk DAPs roared in scant feet above the water, zeroing in on the invisible spot of infrared light reflecting off the pier. DAPs—Direct Action Penetrators—were specially modified MH-60 helicopters used by the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the Night Stalkers, for covert strike operations. Riding clouds of spray raised by their prop wash, the two dead-black helicopters flared and went nose-high as they approached the jungle, then rose, one slowing to a graceful hover above the tree canopy as the other banked sharply left. The two sentries stared openmouthed for a moment, then threw down their weapons and bolted, vanishing into the jungle. The lone man sitting on the ruins jumped up and started running in the other direction, racing all-out up the slope of the hill toward Teller and Procario.

“I've got him,” Teller said. He reached for his M-4A1 carbine, left leaning on the wall beside his pack. As the man drew closer, less than fifty yards, Teller aimed his weapon at the ground in front of him, snapped the selector switch to burst fire, and put three quick-spaced rounds into the earth.
“¡Alto!”
he yelled, and the man skidded to a confused stop.
“¡Levante las manos!”

In response, the man raised his hands, looking around wildly for the source of the command. At his back, ISA commandos were fast-roping from one of the Black Hawks, vanishing into the trees behind the pier. Teller heard a chattering burst of full-auto gunfire and a shrill yell. The second Black Hawk circled over the jungle like a hungry predator, ready to provide close fire support.

“¡Ven! ¡Ven!”
Teller shouted.
“¡Ahora bajar!”

Still shouting in Spanish, Teller ordered his prisoner to come closer, then to get down on the ground. More gunfire sounded from the objective, and then the circling Black Hawk stooped, the M-230 chain gun slung beneath its left stub wing shredding the forest canopy with 30 mm shells at a rate of better than ten per second. Explosions ripped through the forest, throwing fragments of leaves and bark above the treetops as someone back in the woods began screaming.

For a long moment, the jungle was silent again, save for the heavy
wop-wop-wop
of the two aircraft.

Another civilian broke and ran from the jungle's edge, carrying an M-16. Teller raised his M-4 and fired another burst.
“¡Alto!”

The man with the rifle stopped, looked up the hill directly at Teller, and raised his weapon. Teller fired again, a three-round burst that hit the man just as Procario fired as well, multiple rounds catching him in a vicious crossfire that kicked him back and knocked him down.

Teller could see movement through the trees now and raised his M-4 once more—but the figures emerging from the tree line were anonymously garbed in Kevlar, helmets, and close-assault gear. One turned toward the hill and raised his hand in silent salute.

“Flashlight, Gray Fox.”

“This is Flashlight. Go.”

“Fox One reports AO is secure. You can come in now.”

“Copy that. We have a prisoner up here.”

“Well, welcome to the party, then, Flash. The more the merrier.”

HOSPITAL DE JESÚS

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

1523 HOURS, LOCAL TIME

“Hello, Ms. Dominique. How are we feeling now?”

Dominique opened her eyes. De la Cruz was standing by her bed, accompanied by two other men in plain, dark civilian suits.

“I don't know how
you're
feeling, Señor de la Cruz,” she said, “but I'm doing just fine.”

“
Bueno.
You had us worried.”

“It was an ambush. A man on a motorcycle…”

He nodded. “I know. I came as quickly as I heard. I am … distressed to hear that Señor Chavez was killed.”

“So am I.” She reached up and touched the bandage wrapped around her head. The gash was still tender; not all that bad—only a minor cut—but a scalp wound could bleed like nobody's business. “Thank you for coming. Maybe you can tell the doctors that I'm okay, that I want my clothes and I want to leave.
Now.
”

She'd been having trouble communicating with the doctors. They'd sent her up here, to a private room, straight from the ER, and told her nothing save that the police wanted to talk with her. She'd not been badly hurt; they hadn't even needed to give her sutures, using a butterfly strip instead to close up the cut on her forehead.

“I am afraid,
señorita,
that things are not so simple,” de la Cruz told her.

“I'm not hurt,” she told him. “Not badly enough to be put in the hospital. There's no need for me to remain here.”

“Of course not. My … associates and I are here to take you to another location. A
secure
location.”

Dominique was instantly suspicious. “And who are they?”

“CISEN officers, like myself. This is Señor Martinez, and that is Señor Cobos. They have some questions to ask of you.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“As I said, a secure location.”

“Not the airport?”

“No. Things have … changed. Ah … here is the orderly with your clothing. We'll step outside while you dress.”

When she was alone in the room, Dominique got out of bed and went to the window. The streets of Mexico City crawled and clotted and honked far below—about five stories down. The window was sealed; there was no escape that way.

Her cell phone, ominously, was missing from her pocketbook. Possibly it had fallen out and gotten lost in the street or in the car during the explosion, but its absence worried her. If someone had taken it deliberately, taken it to cut her off from Langley or Teller …

Reluctantly, she began dressing. Her first order of business, however, was to pull a cheap ballpoint pen from the pocketbook and clip it to the front of her bra, between the cups. Unscrewing the pen, she made an adjustment to the credit-card-thin sliver of circuit-covered plastic hidden inside. Then she put on the bra so that the pen would ride unnoticed when she put on her shirt.

As insurance it wasn't a hell of a lot—but it was all that she had right now.

CERROS RUINS

YUCATÁN, MEXICO

1603 HOURS, LOCAL TIME

The submarine, as Teller had feared, was gone. There was plenty of evidence that it had been there, however. A thin rainbow sheen of oil coated the water along the crude wooden pier that ran parallel to the shoreline; two pickup trucks farther back in the jungle still had several dozen 55-gallon drums that once had held marine diesel fuel, and a large dump of empty drums farther back in the jungle showed where they'd been depositing their empties.