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  Praise for

  Island Inferno

  “Island Inferno is a boy-meets-girl story. But in Chuck Holton’s world, boy meets girl in the middle of a jungle at 25 mph, hanging under a parachute—a reserve parachute—with an assault rifle strapped across his chest. You’d better plan on reading this in one sitting. And once you’re done, you’d better give yourself time for your pulse to calm down.”

  TOM MORRISEY, author of Deep Blue and Dark Fathom

  “Island Inferno has the fast-paced action of a Clive Cussler novel with all the solid research and authenticity of Tom Clancy’s books and a spiritual message that drove me to search deep within my own heart.”

  JEANETTE WINDLE, author of CrossFire, The DMZ, and FireStorm

  “The years he spent as an Airborne Ranger bring a gritty, heart-pounding authenticity to Chuck Holton’s writing. He was in the middle of live combat, which is why there is an air of believability to the exploits of Task Force Valor. Strap yourself in and hold on for the adventure!”

  DAVE MEURER, award-winning author of Mistake It Like a Man

  “Island Inferno beckons readers to a tropical island bathed in raw beauty and veiled in mystery. They are drawn into the valiant world of Special Forces and catapulted into a plot laden with espionage and danger. Holton’s surprise ending redefines the ultimate romance.”

  LYNNE THOMPSON, radio personality and contributing author to Stories from a Soldier’s Heart

  “Lather on the sunscreen and spray on the DEET. Island Inferno is an eco tour de force!”

  JOHN OLSON, Christy Award–winning author of Fossil Hunter

  “Chuck Holton’s remarkable storytelling ability and military expertise make Island Inferno a must-read. Suspense, intrigue, and God’s guiding hand permeate every page. The Task Force Valor series rocks!”

  MARK MYNHEIR, author of The Void

  OTHER BOOKS BY CHUCK HOLTON

  FICTION

  TASK FORCE VALOR SERIES

  Allah’s Fire (co-written with Gayle Roper)

  NONFICTION

  A More Elite Soldier

  Stories for a Soldier’s Heart

  Bulletproof

  ISLAND INFERNO

  PUBLISHED BY MULTNOMAH BOOKS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  Scripture quotations and paraphrases are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Charles W. Holton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  MULTNOMAH and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Holton, Chuck

  Island inferno : a novel / Chuck Holton.—1st ed.

  p. cm. — (Task Force Valor; bk. 2)

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56184-8

  1. Religious fiction. I. Title

  PS3608.04944344185 2007

  813′.6—dc22

  2007003586

  v3.1_r1

  For Connie

  Special thanks for this work goes to Kevin Riggs, Brad Kinney, and Trevor Williams, who braved heat, thirst, bugs, and crocodiles on an expedition to the island of Coiba with me in March 2006. The island scenes in this book are closely derived from the adventures we had there. Thanks also to Lynne Thompson for helping to clarify the female thought process, and to Mike Hare for his considerable help to ensure that the technical aspects of the book were accurate. And to Multnomah fiction editor Julee Schwarzburg, for a limitless display of patience as I wrestled with the story line.

  Glossary

  ANAM: Autoridad Nacional del Ambiente; the national environmental authority

  EOD: Explosive Ordnance Disposal

  HALO: High-Altitude Low Opening freefall parachuting

  HUNTIR: High-Altitude Unit Navigated Tactical Imaging Round

  IED: Improvised Explosive Device

  ITEB: Iso-Triethyl Borane, a fictitious odorless, colorless liquid that reacts explosively with air

  KLICK: Military term for kilometer

  MIKES: Military term for minutes

  MRE: Meals Ready to Eat

  NCO: Noncommissioned officer

  NVGs: Night-vision goggles

  PT: Physical Training

  RFID: Radio Frequency Identification

  RPG: Rocket-propelled grenade

  Aggressive fighting for the right is

  the noblest sport the world affords.

  Theodore Roosevelt

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Glossary

  Epigraph

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Author’s Note

  The Gulf of Panama. 2200 hours

  MY LIFE IS WASTED.

  The black-on-black sea stretched into nothingness before Naeem Bari, and he shivered. But it wasn’t cold. In fact, even the breeze crossing the ship’s bow did little to alleviate the suffocating heat of the tropical night as the vessel plied its way toward Panama. The humidity wrapped its fingers around Naeem like death itself. But still he shivered, because the bleakness of the sea before him mirrored his future.

  If only there were one bright spot in my career, like the sliver of moon that now hides behind the clouds. Perhaps then I could hold out hope. But no. I have no future in this business. What am I to do?

  There had been a time when Naeem was proud to be a mariner. He had been born into a poor Pakistani family, and as a teen, becoming a seaman had seemed an exciting alternative to sweating in his father’s scrubby fields, staring at the desolate expanse of mountains that formed the walls of his prison. But he had simply substituted one bleak reality for another.

  After spending twelve years at what amounted to little more than slave labor on a variety of aging merchant vessels, Naeem’s youth had been consumed like the rusty hull of the Invincible upon which he stood. He often came to the ship’s bow when he had tr
ouble sleeping. It was the only place where he could think in peace.

  The old vessel throbbed beneath his feet, as if the dark Pacific waters it had labored across for twelve days were the consistency of molasses. They had crossed the ocean three times in as many months. How many more times would the dilapidated ship be able to make the trip? Shepherding goats wasn’t looking so bad after all.

  He looked at his watch, pressing the tiny button to illuminate the dial. Nothing happened. Cheap Chinese garbage. He let out a disgusted sigh. Oh well. He could easily find another one in downtown Panama City, if they had enough time to go ashore while the ship’s cargo was being off-loaded. He’d better try to salvage whatever sleep he could. He would be pulling watch on the bridge in a few hours.

  As he turned away from the ship’s bow, a shout sounded from somewhere high on the ship’s superstructure. Naeem peered around the nearest container just in time to see the control room door slam open and the officer on duty come tumbling out and collapse on the landing.

  Is Emilio drunk? Why …?

  Before Naeem could wonder further, another man emerged from the control room and stopped under the doorway light.

  Naeem felt as if his stomach and his bowels had suddenly switched places. The fact that the man was definitely not part of the ship’s crew was almost as terrifying as the submachine gun he carried.

  Pirates!

  As Emilio struggled to his feet, Naeem started toward the stairway that led up to the bridge. More shouts echoed from the crew’s sleeping quarters. Then a burst of gunfire erupted from the control room.

  Naeem jerked his gaze upward only to see his friend’s limp form topple down the stairwell.

  He gasped. Emilio!

  Angry voices approached, and Naeem instinctively stepped between two rows of containers, sure that his heart would leap from his rib cage. More gunshots sounded, followed by screams of agony.

  They are murdering the entire crew!

  His first instinct was to plunge overboard. But even though he was a decent swimmer, treading water for a few hours and then succumbing to exhaustion—or worse, sharks—might not be preferable to a bullet in the head.

  More gunshots split the air. Naeem’s breathing was as staccato as the gunshots. He pressed his fists into his eyes and tried to think.

  He could hide, but the Invincible wasn’t that big a ship, and the pirates were bound to find him eventually.

  The orange lifeboat, located at the rear of the ship, was made to hold the entire crew, but the gunfire made it clear that most of the men were even now meeting their fate. Besides, the lifeboat required at least two men to launch.

  Sweat flowed from every pore of Naeem’s body, and his nightshirt stuck to him like cellophane. He promised Allah and himself that if he survived this night, he would never again step foot on a raft, much less a ship.

  The raft! Two small inflatable life rafts in canisters were tucked beneath the forward stairs. Naeem peered around the corner of the container on the starboard side of the ship. He could just make out the dark shape of the fiberglass box that held the life rafts and several flotation vests, about twenty meters away.

  He jerked his head back when two men emerged from the superstructure, but not before Naeem recognized the third man held between them.

  Franjo Karovik, the ship’s captain.

  One pirate held the captain while the other, a huge, incredibly muscular black man, shouted a question. When Franjo didn’t immediately answer, the pirate smashed his forearm into Franjo’s face. Naeem heard the crunch of bone, then his friend crumpled to the deck.

  A sob escaped before Naeem could stifle it. He clapped a hand over his mouth, turned, and ran between the containers to the port side of the ship. A peek aft showed no signs of movement. More shouts and gunfire drifted from the stern.

  Time was running out.

  When the pirates finished with the crew, they would most certainly search the ship, and he would be found. He must go now.

  Hoping that anyone left in the control room would not see him, Naeem ducked around the side of the container stacks and sprinted for the stairwell. He quickly found the box that held the life rafts, and after fumbling with the latch for several seconds, he managed to yank open the lid.

  Inside were a dozen life vests and the barrel-shaped pods that held the rafts. He heaved a pod out of the box and staggered over to the railing. The pod was heavy, at least forty-five kilos, but with the amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins, Naeem barely noticed. He hesitated.

  Though the raft was self-inflating, it was meant to be deployed aboard ship, which in this case was impossible. For a moment he considered going back for a life vest, but when heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs above him, Naeem dropped the pod over the railing and followed quickly after, throwing caution and himself thirteen meters into the sea.

  Naeem crossed his arms over his chest and hit the water feet-first. The impact ripped the air from his lungs. Panicking, he flailed toward the surface for what seemed like an eternity. He finally broke through, choking on salt water and bile.

  Where is the pod? It isn’t here! Terror redoubled inside his gut. When something broke the surface ten yards to his left, a new jolt of adrenaline shot through his already raw nervous system.

  I am going to die.

  Los Angeles, California. 2207 hours

  RIP RUBIO NEARLY DOVE headfirst into the drainage ditch at the sound of the explosion. But a split second later, he realized that the sound had come from a delivery truck running over a Coke can in the road.

  Man, take it easy. This is L.A., not Lebanon.

  He checked his Suunto t6 wrist computer as he rounded the corner onto Eighth Street, one mile into his run.

  Seven forty? You’ve got to be kidding me!

  He kicked it for the next block and a half, punishing himself for slacking off. He had never run this route slower than seven minutes, even when the cops weren’t chasing him. Seven minutes forty was unacceptable.

  You’re getting old, Rubio. Old and slow.

  He dodged an empty water bottle on the sidewalk, eyeing it warily. After his fiery introduction to the liquid explosive ITEB two weeks earlier in Sidon, Rip would never look at bottled water the same way again.

  He frowned and ran even faster. Rip had purposely waited until late to start his run when the traffic had lessened and it wasn’t so hot.

  “Gonna do a little PT,” he had told his mother as he headed for the door of the little apartment in Estrada Courts. In the shadow of downtown Los Angeles, it was the barrio where he had grown up.

  His mother looked up from straightening the cushions on the dilapidated couch in the living room. Her face bore a tired, pained look. “I told your sister to be home before dark, but Gabi is worse at thirteen than you were at sixteen. If you see her, maybe you can send her home. She will listen to you, mijo.”

  Rip nodded. “You got it, Mami. Don’t worry.”

  “Cuídate, Euripides. The gangs are worse than they’ve ever been.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Mom, I’m a Special Forces staff sergeant. I’ve survived four combat deployments to the Middle East. I think I can take care of myself in my own backyard. Besides, haven’t you seen the commercials? I’m an Army of one!”

  His mother made the sign of the cross and started muttering to herself in Spanish as he stepped through the rickety screen door onto the crumbling stoop to begin his run.

  A rusty Oldsmobile passed by, belching exhaust. Rip coughed and realized he was practically sprinting. He made himself slow down a bit before his heart exploded. He would be heading back to Bragg tomorrow, his week’s leave over. Some genius had scheduled his annual physical training test for Friday morning, the day after he returned, so it wouldn’t do to wear himself out tonight.

  He wasn’t going to improve much in the next two days anyway. The run had really been more of an excuse to get out of the house. After a couple of days the place started to get depressing. He was wor
ried about Gabi. Rip knew what the gangs were like, and so did she.

  After his father had gone back to Jalisco to marry his mistress when Rip was seven, they had been forced to move from their modest home to the projects: Estrada Courts. His mother knew it was a bad neighborhood but had no choice. She had three cleaning jobs in the city, and while she worked, Rip learned his major life lessons on the streets of Boyle Heights—the kinds of things his father should have been there to teach him, and a few things no parent would want their kid to know.

  His mom tried to make up for it by dragging him to the nearest Catholic mission every time the doors opened. The services at Nuestra Señora del Rosario de Talpa weren’t all bad. It had always been a quiet place to think and had plenty of sweet-looking chicas to flirt with from the back row.

  Things got better when his mother married the owner of the grocery store over on Olympic Boulevard. Within a year, Gabrielle was born, and two years after that their hopes of moving to a better home were dashed when their new father was shot in a robbery.

  They never found out who was responsible. Some speculated it had been the Sentinel Boys; others blamed it on KAM. But when his mother rushed to the hospital to comfort her husband, his mistress was already there. They were divorced within a year.

  Mom just never got a break …

  Rip was jerked out of his reverie as two brightly painted imports blew past him on Eighth Street, swerving in and out of traffic, racing each other toward the freeway on-ramp.

  Idiots. Bragging rights for the fastest car was a stupid thing to die for. Had he ever been that stupid? He was glad no one was around to answer that question.

  He picked up the pace again and turned left onto Glenn Avenue. Any farther down Eighth and he’d be in Evergreen’s turf.

  He’d been ambushed by some of their gang when he was seventeen, and it had almost cost him his life. In a way, though, Rip was thankful for it. That incident had cemented his decision to join the Army.