Skeleton Coast

  “Because there isn’t,” Cabrillo said bitterly. “No one wants to hear about how the CIA screwed up. It makes the U.S. look incompetent and, more important, unprepared. So when there is a problem—”

  “Like how the Agency trusted a guy who turns out to work for the rebels trying to overthrow his government.”

  “Like that. They go into CYA mode and nobody pays the piper for the mistake. That particular corporate culture is why no one saw 9/11 or Iraq’s initial invasion of Kuwait or the sophistication of India and Pakistan’s nuclear programs, and,” Juan concluded, “part of the reason I left.”

  “Well, at least we’re going to be in position to set things right this time. Uh, Juan?”

  The change in tone in Hanley’s voice made Cabrillo look up from his work.

  “You going to be okay?” Max asked and nodded at the parachute.

  Of every human emotion Cabrillo detested pity most of all. The looks of cheerless sympathy passersby had given him the day Julia Huxley had wheeled him out of a San Francisco hospital with one pants leg neatly pinned had enraged him. He vowed from that day onward no one would ever look at him like that again. So since losing his leg he had undergone three surgeries and literally thousands of hours of physical therapy so he could run without the slightest trace of a limp. He could ski and swim better than when he’d had both limbs and was able to balance himself on the prosthesis with ease.

  He had a handicap, but he wasn’t handicapped.

  However, there were still things he couldn’t do as well as when he had both legs and one of those was skydiving. Keeping your body arched and stable while falling through space required minute adjustments of your arms, but mostly it was the legs that kept a diver steady. Juan had made dozens of practice jumps in the past couple of years and no matter how he tried he couldn’t prevent himself from going into a slow rotation that quickly turned into a dangerous spiral.

  Unable to feel the sensation of wind pressing against his ankle and foot he couldn’t correct the spin without a jump partner grabbing and steadying him. It was a rare defeat that Juan hated to admit and Max knew it.

  “It’ll be fine,” Cabrillo said, and continued to fold his chute.

  “You sure?”

  Juan glanced up with a smile. “Max, you’re acting like an old woman. Once I’m out of the plane I just need to arch my back. We won’t be in free fall long enough for me to start my Dervish impersonation. HAHO, old friend. High altitude high opening. If this was any other kind of jump I’d be in the op center watching the monitors with you.”

  “All right.” Max nodded. “Just making sure.”

  A half hour later Juan handed his chute and gear to one of the riggers to carry to the chopper hangar near the Oregon’s fantail. Before heading to his cabin for some long-overdue sleep he stopped by the medical bay to check up on Sloane. Doc Huxley wasn’t at her desk or in the adjoining operating theatre so he searched the three recovery rooms. He found Sloane in the third. The lights were turned down to a muted glow as she slept propped up on a hospital-style bed. She’d pushed aside her blankets and Juan could see the dressing covering the wound under her arm. There was no indication the gunshot was still bleeding.

  Her copper hair was fanned against the white sheets and a wisp of it fell across her forehead. Her lips were slightly parted and as Juan brushed the cowlick aside her mouth pursed as if to receive a kiss and her eyelids fluttered for a moment before she slid deeper into unconsciousness.

  He straightened her blankets and strode from the room. Ten minutes later, and despite the distraction of the upcoming rescue and the weight of the missing weapons preying on his mind Cabrillo was in a sleep as deep as Sloane’s.

  His alarm sounded an hour before he was scheduled to fly to the Swakopmund airport to meet up with Tiny Gunderson. His eyes snapped open, clear and blue and ready to face anything. He rolled out of bed, contemplated another quick shower, and decided against it.

  Juan turned on a couple of lights and hopped to his walk-in closet. Ranked like riding boots at the back of the closet were his artificial legs. Some were flesh-toned and hardly recognizable as prosthetics while others were industrial-looking affairs with titanium struts and visible actuators. He sat on a bench and fitted on what he called his combat leg, version 2.0. The original had been mangled a few months earlier at a shipbreakers yard in Indonesia.

  Inside the round calf was a throwing knife and a .380-caliber Kel-Tec automatic pistol, one of the smallest handguns in the world. There was also enough room for a small survival kit and a diamond dusted garrote wire. Kevin Nixon, who’d modified the leg for Juan, had also placed a flat packet of C-4 explosives in the foot and hidden the timer/detonator in the ankle. Plus there were a few other tricks built into the limb.

  He made sure the leg was snug and as an added precaution put on a belt with straps to tie so the prosthesis wouldn’t come off no matter what Cabrillo did. He dressed in desert camouflage fatigues and a pair of rugged boots. He retrieved another Glock and an H&K MP5 submachine gun from his gun safe. The armorer would have loaded magazines waiting for him at the helipad. He placed the weapons and a spare combat harness into a cheap nylon bag.

  Maurice knocked gently on the cabin door and let himself in. As per Cabrillo’s earlier instructions he carried a breakfast tray that was heavy on fruit and carbohydrates. And while he would have loved some of his steward’s powerful coffee, Juan settled for several glasses of orange juice. They were going into the desert, and while everything had been well planned, he wanted to be as hydrated as possible just in case something did go wrong.

  “You do the Royal Navy proud,” Juan said wiping his lips and tossing the napkin on the tray when he’d finished.

  “Please, Captain Cabrillo,” Maurice said in that reserved voice of his. He was the only member of the Corporation to call Juan captain rather than chairman. “I oversaw the serving of high tea for twenty officers in a force seven storm off the Falkland Islands during that little flare-up. If you would permit me to be frank, sir, you have yet to tax my abilities.”

  “All right then,” Juan said with a fiendish glint. “Next time we hit a hurricane I would like a Gruyère cheese and lobster soufflé with a baked Alaska for dessert.”

  “Very well, Captain,” Maurice intoned and retreated from the room.

  On his way to the hangar Juan ducked into the infirmary again. Julia Huxley was just closing up a pair of red plastic medical cases. She wore scrubs, but her ubiquitous lab coat was slung over the back of her chair.

  “I take it by your packing that you’re coming with us and our patient is doing well?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “She woke up about an hour ago,” Julia said. “Her vital signs are all stable and I see no sign of infection so she’ll be fine for as long as I’m away. Besides, my orderlies are better trained than most ER nurses.”

  “All right then. Give me a minute to say hi and I’ll help you with your cases.”

  Sloane was lying back against a bank of pillows. Her face was pale and her eyes were somewhat sunken, but when she saw Juan leaning against the doorjamb her mouth split into a radiant smile.

  “Hello there, sunshine. How are you feeling?” Juan crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “A little groggy from the meds but okay, I think.”

  “Hux says you’re going to be fine.”

  “I was surprised that your doctor is a woman.”

  “There are eleven women on my crew,” Juan told her, “including my second officer, Linda Ross.”

  “Have I been hearing a helicopter?”

  “Yeah, just ferrying some men to shore.”

  She eyed his fatigues and gave him a dubious look. “You said you’d tell me who and what you really are.”

  “And I will,” he promised, “as soon as I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To do the job we came to Namibia for and hopefully find who was behind the attacks on you and who built
the wave-powered generators.”

  “Are you with the CIA or something?”

  “No. But I used to be. And that’s all I’m going to tell you until tomorrow. How about I come by at eight and we can have breakfast together?”

  “It’s a date.”

  Juan bent and grazed her cheek with his lips. “Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She held on to his hand as he stood. “I want to apologize to you again for getting you mixed up in my problems.” Her voice was solemn.

  “It turns out your problem is related to my own so there’s no need to apologize. And besides, I should be the one to say he’s sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t find your ship full of diamonds.”

  “Fool’s errand,” she said wanly.

  “Hey, even fools win the lottery.” With that he left her bedside and, with a medical case in one hand and his bag of weapons in the other, headed for the hangar with Julia.

  19

  THE hold in the antique de Havilland C-7 Caribou was roomy enough for the men to sprawl on the bench seats with their gear set around them. The four small motorcycles sat aft in front of the loading ramp and were held in place with bungee cords. While at some point during the plane’s long career her interior had been modified so it could be pressurized, thus saving the men from dealing with the frigid temperatures at that altitude or having to breathe off a supplemental oxygen system, the drone of the two Pratt & Whitney radial engines made conversation next to impossible.

  Cabrillo studied the faces of his men as he leaned against a bulkhead to take some of his parachute pack’s weight off his shoulders. Eddie Seng noted Juan’s scrutiny and shot him a cocky grin. Mike Trono and his teammate, Jerry Pulaski, sat side by side playing rock, paper, scissors. It was a ritual of theirs, but not a competition. They played until they each picked the same thing for five throws in a row. He’d seen them do it with the first five throws on more than one occasion.

  Because of his size and the parachutes’ weight limits only Linc wouldn’t be burdened with one of the dirt bikes. He was crammed into a canvas seat, his head resting on his shoulder and his mouth slack, a sure sign he’d drifted to sleep.

  “Hey, Chairman,” Tiny Gunderson shouted. Juan looked toward the front of the plane. The door to the cockpit was open and he could see the big, blond Swede strapped into his seat, a meaty hand resting on the yoke. Julia was in the copilot’s chair, her medical cases sitting between the two seats.

  “Yeah, Tiny?”

  “Just a heads-up. We’re fifteen minutes out.” He lowered the dim cabin lights even further and turned on a red battle lamp.

  “Roger that,” Cabrillo replied. He then shouted over the din of the turboprops, “Fifteen minutes, gentlemen.”

  Linc startled awake with an exaggerated yawn.

  There was no need to recheck equipment for that had already been done a dozen times over and there was no need to tighten already taut straps and harnesses, but the men did it all again anyway. You had just one chance to get a parachute drop right. They readied the bikes, unsnapping the bungee hooks and getting them into jump positions.

  Five minutes out Tiny turned on a yellow warning light that told the men to don their supplemental oxygen. The cylinders were strapped across their chests and fed air through heavy rubber tubes. Cabrillo and the others slipped the masks over their mouths and noses and adjusted the airflow, then donned large goggles. When everyone flashed him a thumbs-up Juan turned and nodded to Tiny, who was watching for his signal. The veteran Air Force pilot already had on his own mask.

  Gunderson closed the cockpit door, and a moment later the motor that controlled the rear ramp began to whine. The noise was instantly overwhelmed by the roar of freezing air that scoured the cargo hold like a hurricane. A loose piece of paper whipped past Cabrillo and was sucked out into the night sky.

  He could feel the subzero temperatures on his cheeks, the only ex posed part of his body. He adjusted the thick scarf he’d wrapped around his neck to protect his skin.

  When the ramp was fully deployed the rear of the plane was an inky black hole with nothing to delineate the sky from the featureless desert except for the blaze of stars visible above the horizon. From this altitude Juan felt he could almost reach out and touch them.

  “Comm check,” he called into his throat mike and one by one his men answered on the tactical net.

  The yellow light began to blink. One minute to go.

  For the hundredth time since getting onto the plane Juan mentally went through the steps he’d take exiting the aircraft, how he’d move forward and let himself fall and immediately arch his back, spreading his arms and legs to maximize his resistance through the air to lessen the jolt of the chute deploying. He could tell by the closed eyes and concentrated looks that the others were doing the same mental exercise.

  The engines changed pitch as Tiny began a slight climb, and as the deck started to tilt, the yellow light winked off and was replaced by a green one.

  Unlike any other type of commando drop, the men didn’t need to leap from the aircraft in a tight bunch. With so little free fall, HAHO jumpers had ample time to regroup in the air and avoid becoming separated. One by one the men shuffled forward and disappeared out the stern ramp. The lightweight motorcycles dropped from under them as each arched his back before pulling his rip cords. When Juan got to the lip of the ramp he could see four tiny lights mounted on top of the chutes indicating their successful deployment. When they neared the Devil’s Oasis the lights would be switched to infrared globes they could discern through night vision goggles.

  Cabrillo rolled his bike into the void like a rock star doing a stage dive, his arms outstretched and his back arching in a perfectly executed jump. The slipstream buffeted him but he was able to maintain his pose, and when he felt himself beginning to flip over he adjusted his body to flatten out once again. He reached across his chest to pull the rip cord just before the falling motorcycle hit the end of its long tether. The drogue shoot sprang free and filled with air, its resistance drawing the main chute out of its bag.

  Juan knew almost immediately there was a problem. The chute snagged for an instant coming out of its sack and the expected jolt of it blooming open didn’t come. Air resistance against the partially inflated chute snapped him vertical but he continued to plummet with the rippling of nylon over his head sounding like a sail luffing in a stiff breeze.

  Looking up it was too dark to tell what had happened, but he’d made enough jumps to know that the riser lines had tangled.

  While his next movements were unhurried, his mind was racing. He was silently cursing himself as he tried to jimmy the lines free by torquing his body and yanking on the cords. He’d packed the chute, so its failure was entirely his fault; if he couldn’t get the risers sorted out he’d put the entire mission in jeopardy.

  He had plenty of altitude so he continued to struggle with the lines, but as he approached twenty thousand feet he had a decision to make. If he fell much further and managed to deploy the chute he’d never be able to glide all the way to the prison. Even with the built-in safety factor Eddie had determined using their glide to fall ratio he’d land well short of the Devil’s Oasis. On the other hand, if he had to cut it away and rely on his much smaller spare he’d be too low to paraglide close enough to the coast for George to pick him up in the chopper.

  He glanced at the digital altimeter strapped to his wrist. He’d passed through nineteen thousand.

  With a curse he cut away the motorcycle’s tether, hit the releases, and fell out of the fluttering main chute. Dropping free automatically popped the drogue for his auxiliary and for the first time since pulling the rip cord Cabrillo allowed himself to consider his circumstances. If the spare fouled he had roughly three minutes to contemplate what barreling into the desert floor at a hundred and twenty miles per hour would feel like. Whatever the feeling, he knew it would be brief.

  With a whoosh his backup
parachute blossomed like a black flower and the pain of the straps tightening between his legs and across his shoulders was the most sublime of Cabrillo’s life.

  “Beau Geste to Death Valley Scotty,” he called over his mike. The call signs were Max’s idea of humor and had been his contribution to the mission.

  “Either you are in one hell of a hurry to get on the ground,” Eddie replied, “or you had a problem.”

  “Main chute fouled. I had to cut it away.”

  “What’s your altitude, Beau?”

  “Eighteen thousand five hundred.”

  “Give me a second.”

  “Standing by, Scotty.”

  It was Eddie’s job to lead the team to their target so he carried a portable jump computer as well as their GPS.

  “Okay, Beau, using maximum brake you’re falling about fourteen feet per second. That gives you twenty-two minutes aloft.” Even carrying the dirt bikes, the rest of the men would be airborne for twice that amount of time due to their large ram-air chutes. “Winds at your altitude are still hitting about fifty knots but that’ll slow as you get closer to the ground.”

  “Roger that.”

  “I estimate you’ll land about four hundred miles inland from the coast.” Because the prevailing winds ranged east to west the men had jumped when the plane was almost to the Botswanan border. Juan would land well beyond the Robinson helicopter’s ability to reach him and return to the ship, even with drop tanks.

  “I’ll have to wait for a land recovery,” Juan said. “Scotty, with one of the bikes so much junk down below, your number one priority is Merrick and Donleavy. You won’t be able to carry one of the kidnappers so just forget it.”

  It was losing the opportunity to interrogate one of the kidnappers that angered Cabrillo the most. That and the fact his men were going into harm’s way without him.

  “Understood, Beau.” Already the distance between the main group of men and Juan was taxing their tactical radios’ range. Eddie’s voice sounded tinny and remote.