Clear and Present Danger

  Ding got a strobe light with an infrared cover lens because one of his jobs would be to select and mark helicopter landing zones, plus a VS-17 panel for the same purpose. A signaling mirror for times when a radio might not be appropriate (steel mirrors, moreover, do not break). A small flashlight; and a butane cigarette lighter, which was far better than carrying matches. A large bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, also known as “light-fighter candy.” A bottle of prescription cough medicine, heavily laced with codeine. A small bottle of Vaseline petroleum jelly. A small squeeze bottle of concentrated CS tear gas. A weapons-cleaning kit, which included a toothbrush. Spare batteries for everything. A gas mask.

  Chavez would travel light with but four hand grenades—Dutch NR-20 Cl type—and two smokes, also of Dutch manufacture. The rest of the squad got the Dutch frags, and some CS tear-gas grenades, also Dutch. In fact, all of the weapons carried by the squad and all of their ammunition had been purchased at Colon, Panama, in what was fast becoming the hemisphere’s most convenient arms market. For anyone with cash there were weapons to be had.

  Rations were the normal MREs. Water was the main hygienic concern, but they’d already been fully briefed about using their water-purification tablets. Whoever forgot had a supply of antidiarrhea pills that would follow a serious chewing from Captain Ramirez. Every man had gotten a new series of booster shots while still in Colorado against the spectrum of tropical diseases endemic to the area, and all carried an odorless insect repellent made for the military by the same company that produced the commercial product called “Off.” The squad medic carried a full medical kit, and each rifleman had his own morphine Syrette and a plastic bottle of IV fluids for use as a blood-expander.

  Chavez had a razor-sharp machete, a four-inch folding knife, and, of course, his three nonregulation throwing stars that Captain Ramirez didn’t know about. With other sundry items, Chavez would be carrying a load of exactly fifty-eight pounds. That made his load the lightest in the squad. Vega and the other SAW gunner had the heaviest, with seventy-one pounds. Ding jostled the load around on his shoulders to get a feel for it, then adjusted the straps on his ruck to make it as comfortable as possible. It was a futile exercise. He was packing a third of his body weight, which is about as much as a man can carry for any length of time without risking a physical breakdown. His boots were well broken-in, and he had extra pairs of dry socks.

  “Ding, could you give me a hand with this?” Vega asked.

  “Sure, Julio.” Chavez took some slack in on one of the machine gunner’s shoulder straps. “How’s that?”

  “Just right, ‘mano. Jeez, carrying the biggest gun do have a price.”

  “Roger that, Oso.” Julio, who’d demonstrated the ability to pack more than anyone in the squad, had a new nickname, Oso: Bear.

  Captain Ramirez came down the line, walking around each man to check the loads. He adjusted a few straps, bounced a few rucks, and generally made sure that every man was properly loaded, and that all weapons were clean. When he was finished, Ding checked the captain’s load, and Ramirez took his place in front of the squad.

  “Okay—anybody got aches, pains, or blisters?”

  “No, sir!” the squad replied.

  “We ready to go do it?” Ramirez asked with a wide grin that belied the fact that he was as nervous as everyone else in the squad bay.

  “Yes, sir!”

  One more thing left to do. Ramirez walked down the line and collected dog tags from each man. Each set went into a clear plastic bag along with wallets and all other forms of identification. Finished, he removed his own, counted the bags a last time, and left them on the table in the squad bay. Outside, each squad boarded a separate five-ton truck. Few waves were exchanged. Though friendships had sprouted up in training, they were mainly limited within the structure of the squads. Each eleven-man unit was a self-contained community. Every member knew every other, knew all there was to know, from stories of sexual performance to marksmanship skills. Some solid friendships had blossomed, and some even more valuable rivalries. They were, in fact, already closer than friends could ever be. Each man knew that his life would depend on the skill of his fellows, and none of them wished to appear weak before his comrades. Argue as they might among themselves, they were now a team; though they might trade barbed comments, over the past weeks they had been forged into a single complex organism with Ramirez as their brain, Chavez as their eyes, Julio Vega and the other machine-gunner as their fists, and all the others as equally vital components. They were as ready for their mission as any soldiers had ever been.

  The trucks arrived together behind the helicopter and the troops boarded by squads. The first thing Chavez noticed was the 7.62mm minigun on the right side of the aircraft. There was an Air Force sergeant standing next to it, his green coveralls topped by a camouflage-painted flight helmet, and a massive feed line of shells leading to an even larger hopper. Ding had no particular love for the Air Force—a bunch of pansy truck drivers, he’d thought until now—but the man on that gun looked serious and competent as hell. Another such gun was unmanned on the opposite side of the aircraft, and there was a spot for another at the rear. The flight engineer—his name tag said ZIMMER—moved them all into their places and made sure that each soldier was properly strapped down to his particular piece of floor. Chavez didn’t trade words with him, but sensed that this man had been around the block a few times. It was, he belatedly realized, the biggest goddamned helicopter he’d ever seen.

  The flight engineer made one final check before going forward and plugging his helmet into the intercom system. A moment later came the whine from the helicopter’s twin turbine engines.

  “Looking good,” PJ observed over the headset. The engines had been pre-warmed and the fuel tanks topped off. Zimmer had repaired a minor hydraulic problem, and the Pave Low III was as ready as his skilled men could make it. Colonel Johns keyed his radio.

  “Tower, this is Night Hawk Two-Five requesting permission to taxi. Over.”

  “Two-Five, tower, permission granted. Winds are one-zero-niner at six knots.”

  “Roger. Two-Five is rolling. Out.”

  Johns twisted the throttle grip on his collective control and eased the cyclic stick forward. Due to the size and engine power of the big Sikorsky, it was customary to taxi the aircraft toward the runway apron before actually lifting off. Captain Willis swiveled his neck around, checking for other ground traffic, but there was none this late at night. One ground crewman walked backward in front of them as a further safety measure, waving for them to follow with lighted wands. Five minutes later they were at the apron. The wands came together and pointed to the right. Johns gave the man a last look, returning the ceremonial salute.

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” PJ brought the throttle to full power, making a last check of his engine instruments as he did so. Everything looked fine. The helicopter lifted at the nose a few feet, then dipped forward as it began to move forward. Next it started to climb, leaving behind a small tornado of dust, visible only in the blue runway perimeter lights.

  Captain Willis put the navigations systems on line, adjusting the electronic terrain display. There was a moving map display not unlike that used by James Bond in Goldfinger. Pave Low could navigate from a Doppler-radar system that interrogated the ground, from an inertial system using laser-gyroscopes, or from navigational satellites. The helicopter initially flew straight down the Canal’s length, simulating the regular security patrol. They unknowingly flew within a mile of the SHOWBOAT’s communications nexus at Corezal.

  “Lot of pick-and-shovel work down there,” Willis observed.

  “Ever been here before?”

  “No, sir, first time. Quite a job for eighty-ninety years ago,” he said as they flew over a large container ship. They caught a little buffet from the hot stack-gas of the ship. PJ came to the right to get out of it. It would be a two-hour flight, and there was no sense in jostling the passengers any more than necessary. In
an hour their MC-130E tanker would lift off to refuel them for the return leg.

  “Lot of dirt to move,” Colonel Johns agreed after a moment. He moved a little in his seat. Twenty minutes later they went “feet wet,” passing over the Caribbean Sea for the longest portion of the flight on a course of zero-nine-zero, due east.

  “Look at that,” Willis said half an hour later. On their night-vision sets, they spotted a twin-engine aircraft on a northerly heading, perhaps six miles away. They spotted it from the infrared glow of the two piston engines.

  “No lights,” PJ agreed.

  “I wonder what he’s carrying?”

  “Sure as hell isn’t Federal Express.” More to the point, he can’t see us unless he’s wearing the same goggles we got.

  “We could pull up alongside and take the miniguns—”

  “Not tonight.” Too bad. I wouldn’t especially mind....

  “What do you suppose our passengers—”

  “If we were supposed to know, Captain, they would have told us,” Johns replied. He was wondering, too, of course. Christ, but they’re loaded for bear, the colonel thought. Not wearing standard-issue uniforms ... obviously a covert insertion—hell, I’ve known that part of the mission for weeks—but they were clearly planning to stay awhile. Johns hadn’t heard that the government had ever done that. He wondered if the Colombians were playing ball ... probably not. And we’re staying down here for at least a month, so they’re planning for us to support them, maybe extract them if things get a little hot ... Christ, it’s Laos all over again, he concluded. Good thing I brought Buck along. We’re the only real vets left. Colonel Johns shook his head. Where had his youth gone?

  You spent it with a helicopter strapped to your back, doing all sorts of screwy things.

  “I got a ship target on the horizon at about eleven o’clock,” the captain said, and altered course a few degrees to the right. The mission brief had been clear on that. Nobody was supposed to see or hear them. That meant avoiding ships, fishing boats, and inquisitive dolphins, staying well off the coast, no more than a thousand feet up, and keeping their anticollision lights off. The mission profile was precisely what they’d fly in wartime, with some flight-safety rules set aside. Even in the special-operations business, that last fact was somewhat out of the ordinary, Johns reminded himself. Hot guns and all.

  They made the Colombian coast without further incident. As soon as it was in view, Johns alerted his crew. Sergeants Zimmer and Bean powered up their electrically driven miniguns and slid open the doors next to them.

  “Well, we just invaded a friendly foreign country,” Willis noted as they went “feet dry” north of Tolú. They used their low-light instruments to search for vehicular traffic, which they were also supposed to avoid. Their course track was plotted to avoid areas of habitation. The six-bladed rotor didn’t make the fluttering whops associated with smaller helicopters. Its sound, at a distance, wasn’t terribly different from turbopowered aircraft; it was also directionally deceptive—even if you heard the noise, it was hard to figure where it came from. Once past the Pan American Highway, they curved north, passing east of Plato.

  “Zimmer, LZ One in five minutes.”

  “Right, PJ,” the flight engineer replied. It had been decided to leave Bean and Childs on the guns, while Zimmer handled the dropoff.

  It must be a combat mission. Johns smiled to himself. Buck only calls me that when he expects to get shot at.

  Aft, Sergeant Zimmer walked down the center of the aircraft, telling the first two squads to unbuckle their safety belts and holding up his hand to show how many more minutes there were. Both captains nodded.

  “LZ One in sight,” Willis said soon thereafter.

  “I’ll take her.”

  “Pilot’s airplane.”

  Colonel Johns orbited the area, spiraling into the clearing selected from satellite photos. Willis scanned the ground for the least sign of life, but there was none.

  “Looks clear to me, Colonel.”

  “Going in now,” Johns said into the intercom.

  “Get ready!” Zimmer shouted as the helicopter’s nose came up.

  Chavez stood up with the rest of his squad, facing aft to the opening cargo door. His knees buckled slightly as the Sikorsky touched down.

  “Go!” Zimmer waved them out, patting each man on the shoulder to keep a proper count.

  Chavez went out behind his captain, turning left to avoid the tail rotor as soon as his feet were on the dirt. He went ten steps and dropped to his face. Above his head, the rotor was still turning at full power, holding the lethal blades a safe fifteen feet off the ground.

  “Clear, clear, clear!” Zimmer said when he’d seen them all off.

  “Roger,” Johns replied, twisting the throttle again to lift off.

  Chavez turned his head as the whine of the engines increased. The blacked-out helicopter was barely visible, but he saw the spectral outline lift off and felt the dirt stinging his face as the hundred-knot downwash from the rotor subsided, and stopped. It was gone.

  He ought to have expected it, but the feeling came to Chavez as a surprise. He was in enemy territory. It was real, not an exercise. The only way he had out—had just flown away, already invisible. Despite the fact that there were ten men around him, he was momentarily awash in a sense of loneliness. But he was a trained man, a professional soldier. Chavez grasped his loaded weapon and took strength from it. He wasn’t quite alone.

  “Move out,” Captain Ramirez told him quietly.

  Chavez moved toward the treeline in the knowledge that behind him the squad would follow.

  11.

  In-Country

  THREE HUNDRED MILES away from SSG Ding Chavez, Colonel Félix Cortez, formerly of the Cuban DGI, sat dozing in el jefe’s office. El jefe, he’d been told on his arrival several hours before, was occupied at present—probably entertaining a mistress. Maybe even his wife, Cortez thought; unlikely but possible. He’d drunk two cups of the fine local coffee—previously Colombia’s most valuable export crop—but it hadn’t helped. He was tired from the previous night’s exertions, from the travel, and now from readjusting yet again to the high altitude of the region. Cortez was ready for sleep, but had to stay awake to debrief his boss. Inconsiderate bastard. At least in the DGI he could have submitted a hastily written report and taken a few hours to freshen up before normal office hours began. But the DGI was composed of professionals, and he’d chosen to work for an amateur.

  Just after 1:30 in the morning he heard feet coming down the corridor. Cortez stood and shook off the sleep. The door opened, and there was el jefe, his visage placid and happy. One of his mistresses.

  “What have you learned?” Escobedo asked without preamble.

  “Nothing specific as of yet,” Cortez replied with a yawn. He proceeded to speak for about five minutes, going over what things he had discovered.

  “I pay you for results, Colonel,” Escobedo pointed out.

  “That is true, but at high levels such results require time. Under the methods for gathering information which you had in place before I arrived, you would still know nothing other than the fact that some aircraft are missing, and that two of your couriers have been apprehended by the yanquis.”

  “Their story about the interrogation aboard the ship?”

  “Most unusual, perhaps all a fabrication on their part.” Cortez settled into his chair, wishing for another cup of coffee. “Or perhaps true, though I doubt it. I do not know either man and cannot evaluate the reliability of their claims.”

  “Two men from Medellin. Ramón’s older brother served me well. He was killed in the battles with M-19. He died bravely. Ramón has also served me. I had to give him a chance,” Escobedo said. “It was a matter of honor. He is not very intelligent, but he is faithful.”

  “And his death is not overly troublesome?”

  Escobedo shook his head without a moment’s pause. “No. He knew what the chances were. He did not know why it wa
s necessary to kill the American. He can tell them nothing about that. As for the American-he was a thief, and a foolish thief. He thought that we would not discover his thievery. He was mistaken. So we eliminated him.”

  And his family, Cortez noted. Killing people was one thing. Raping children ... that was something else. But such things were not his concern.

  “You are sure that they cannot tell the Americans—”

  “They were told to get aboard the yacht, using the money as their bona fides and concealing their cache of drugs. Once the killings were accomplished, they were instructed to go to the Bahamas, turn the money over to one of my bankers, destroy the yacht discreetly, and then smuggle the drugs in normally, into Philadelphia. They knew that the American had displeased me, but not how he had done so.”

  “They must know that he was laundering money, and they must have told the Americans this,” Cortez pointed out patiently.

  “Sí. Fortunately, however, the American was very clever in how he did this. We were careful, Colonel. Beforehand we made sure that no one could learn exactly what the thief had done.” Escobedo smiled, still in the afterglow of Pinta’s services. “He was so very clever, that American.”

  “What if he left behind a record?”

  “He did not. A police officer in that city searched his office and home for us—so carefully that the American federales never noticed that he had been there—before I authorized the killings.”

  Cortez took a deep breath before speaking. “Jefe, do you not understand that you must tell me about such things as this beforehand! Why do you employ me if you have no wish to make use of my knowledge?”

  “We have been doing things such as this for years. We can manage our affairs without—”

  “The Russians would send you to Siberia for such idiocy!”