Island Inferno Page 14

  Rip nodded, smiling. “Let’s just say that when we turned in the rental car, we conveniently forgot to mention the tire in the trunk with the machete slash in it.”

  The theme from Mission Impossible sounded from Mary’s purse. The men quieted down until she produced her cell phone, then they burst into laughter again.

  “Excuse me.” Rolling her eyes, she rose and moved to a less noisy spot to answer the call. At that moment, the waitress reappeared with a tray of steaming entrees and began distributing them around the table.

  Rip took a sip of his lemonade. “So what did you guys do today?”

  Coop sat back to make room for the plate the waitress was placing in front of him. “Nothing much. Went shopping downtown for a while. I demonstrated my fine navigational skills, Frank displayed his knowledge of Panamanian history, Doc surprised us all by speaking exceptionally good Spanish, and Buzz and Sweeney demonstrated their ability to eat everything in sight.”

  “Plus we all picked up some new civvies,” Doc chimed in. “A brother can get an entire wardrobe down here for less than what you’d spend taking your lady to a nice dinner in the States.”

  Rip took a bite of ceviche. “I thought Marcel said to stay at the hotel.”

  Sweeney snorted. “You know what I always say: if you aren’t breaking the rules, you’re not trying hard enough.”

  Phoenix returned, looking serious. “Hey, Rip. That was Major Williams. He said your mother called the shop today looking for you. She needs to reach you right away.”

  Rip frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  She held out her phone. “You can use my cell if you’d like to call her. Just, you know, don’t mention where you are, of course. Dial 0-1-1 and the number.”

  Rip set his napkin on the table and took the phone. “Thanks.”

  He rose and moved to a secluded section of the path that ran along the water in front of the restaurant, dialing the number as he walked.

  His mother answered just before the machine picked up. “¿Hola?”

  “Mami, it’s me.”

  “Euripides! Where are you?” He could hear desperation in her voice.

  “I can’t say, Mami. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Gabi. She didn’t come home last night.”

  A ball of ice formed in Rip’s gut. Stupid girl! He grimaced. “You haven’t heard from her?”

  “No, mijo. I’m worried. Should I call the police?”

  Rip thought for a moment. “Do you have phone numbers for any of her friends?”

  “A couple, sí.”

  “Okay, call them, and see if anyone knows a guy named Chaco. See if you can find his number. I have a feeling Gabi’ll be with him.” Rip clenched his fists at the thought of his baby sister with that thug. The picture made him nauseous.

  His mother cried on the other end of the line. “I’m losing her, mijo. My baby girl.”

  The ball of ice in his gut shattered, and tears suddenly filled Rip’s eyes, surprising him. “It’ll be all right, Mami. Just …” Just what? What can you do?

  An image flashed in his mind of John Cooper sitting across from him at the Waffle House, head bowed in prayer.

  “Just pray, Mami. Okay?”

  His mother hesitated. “Of course. You pray also, my son.”

  A single tear escaped. What if it was too late to pray? “I will, Mami,” he croaked. “I will.”

  He hit the End button on the phone and dropped it in his pocket. Rage welled up within him until he thought he’d have to scream to let it out. Instead, he picked up a rock and flung it at the sunset, as far out into the water as he could.

  God, what’s the problem here? It was more of a child’s tantrum than a prayer. He didn’t know what else to say. He also didn’t know why God would listen to anything he asked, but Rip hated the feeling of being helpless.

  The phone in his pocket played its tune again. He fished it out and answered it. “What.”

  “Hello? Who is this?” Marcel’s voice was on the line.

  “Sergeant Rubio.”

  “This is Agent Bucard. Is Phoenix there? It’s urgent.”

  “Just a second.” Rip took a moment to push the anger and frustration into a corner of his mind. He’d have to deal with that later.

  He walked back to the table and handed Phoenix the phone. “Marcel’s on the line. He says it’s important.”

  “Maybe he needs help finding his sense of humor,” Sweeney quipped before stuffing a large forkful of roasted chicken into his mouth.

  She gave him a sideways glance and excused herself to take the call. Rip took his seat and dug into his almost cold plate of fish. Even still, his first bite of the local specialty—called Corvina—was nothing to complain about.

  Frank looked up from his food. “Everything okay, Rubio?”

  Rip shook his head. “It’s my sister, bro. Mom says Gabi didn’t come home last night.”

  “Ooohh. The girl’s gone wild,” Sweeney said, grinning.

  Rip dropped his fork. “Shut up, Bobby, or you’ll be sucking your next supper through a straw.” He was in no mood for joking.

  The stocky southerner raised both hands in mock surrender. “At ease there, Staff Sergeant. Don’t get your undies in a wad.”

  Rip looked at Coop. “And you wonder why I don’t like to talk about things.”

  Phoenix reappeared at the table. “Okay, guys. It looks like we’re getting somewhere. I think we have a mission.”

  Buzz slapped his thigh. “All right! That’s what I like to hear. Tell us.”

  She rolled her eyes at the big Texan. “Not here, Buzz. Let’s finish eating, and then we’ll hop a taxi back to the embassy.”

  “Nope.” Sweeney held up a hand. “Two taxis.”

  Forty minutes later, Task Force Valor sat expectantly around another table, this one in a conference room on the third floor of the embassy.

  Agent Bucard burst through the door in his signature rumpled suit with his signature facial expression—peeved. Phoenix entered behind him, cool and professional in a form-fitting black crewneck shirt and olive drab tactical pants. They both carried a sheaf of papers.

  “Good evening, men. I hope you enjoyed your little jaunt downtown today.” Marcel scowled. “While you were playing tourist, the rest of us were working.”

  Rip noticed Mary’s barely contained smile as she stood next to the balding station chief. The guy needed a good beating with a happy stick.

  “We reported our findings in Colón this morning to Panamanian intelligence,” Phoenix said. “Within three hours the police raided the warehouse in the free zone and arrested several men, one of whom is a private pilot. The man confessed to picking up a shipment of stolen goods on the island of Coiba, off the Pacific Coast.”

  Marcel cleared his throat. “Our agency is very familiar with this island, which until recently served as a maximum-security prison for Panama’s worst offenders.”

  From the way Bucard said it, Rip got the distinct impression that there was more that the lanky station chief wasn’t saying.

  Coop raised his hand. “How big is this island? Could they hide an entire ship near there without being spotted?”

  Phoenix pulled an eight-by-ten color satellite photo of the island from a folder, passing it around the group. “It’s very possible. Coiba is about three times the size of Manhattan, and except for a few park rangers and eco-police, it’s completely uninhabited. There are plenty of secluded bays that would accommodate a ship the size of the Invincible.”

  “So what’s the mission?”

  “We think the pirates who stole the ship are hiding out on the island, and they are obviously trying to sell off the cargo as quickly as possible. Once that’s finished, they will either reflag the ship and sell it for scrap or scuttle it. Since we believe the ITEB was onboard that ship, then capturing that cargo before it leaves Coiba is imperative. If we can retrieve the ITEB intact, it might lead us to the supplier or manufacturer.”

&nb
sp; “Didn’t the ITEB we captured in Lebanon help with that?” Frank looked puzzled.

  “Only partially for two reasons. First, the explosives you captured were not in their original shipping containers, which could have provided us with additional clues, and second, owing to the political red tape when dealing with the Lebanese government, we weren’t able to get as close a look at it as we would have liked.”

  Coop smirked. “Who says the ITEB hasn’t already left the island?”

  Phoenix leaned over the table. “It may have. That’s why we need you and your team to find out. The pilot claims not to have seen anything matching our description of the explosive, and his claim holds up based on what the Panamanian authorities found in Colón. But time is of the essence here. The pirates have to know that time is not their friend.”

  “So what’s the time frame for the raid?” Frank asked.

  “You leave tomorrow night.”

  Expressions of surprise and disbelief erupted all around the table. Sweeney shook his head, laughing. “You CIA folks aren’t real big on planning, are you?”

  She held up a hand for quiet. “Like I said, time is of the essence. Now this will be a fairly straightforward reconnaissance and raid. The plan is to insert you near the pirate’s camp and have you try to determine their strength and, if possible, the location of the ITEB.”

  Sweeney leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “Too bad we can’t just send them a little present with a Spectre gunship. One of those flying battlewagons could take out every one of those pirates and mow the grass at the same time.”

  Phoenix smiled. “But why let the Air Force have all the fun?”

  Rip studied the map. “This is a really big island. How are we going to know where to start looking?”

  “And rugged. It could take us weeks to cover the area on foot,” Coop said.

  Marcel cleared his throat again. “We know where the plane picked up the shipment.”

  “Because the pilot told you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Hogan seemed confused, as did the others. “What’s that mean?”

  Phoenix and Agent Bucard looked at each other. “Go ahead, tell them,” she said.

  Marcel did his throat-clearing thing again. It was starting to get annoying. “What I’m about to tell you is classified Top Secret and does not leave this room, understand?”

  Nods and grunts of assent went around the room.

  “There are only two airstrips on Coiba. One is near El Centro, which was the village where the penal colony’s administrative offices were situated. Today a few policemen are stationed there to prevent squatters. The other is across the island in a very remote area away from the work camps, here.” He held up one of the photographs of the island and pointed to the spot with his finger.

  Rip tried to make sense of that. “But why would the Panamanians build an airstrip in the middle of nowhere?”

  Marcel dropped the photo back on the table. “The Panamanians didn’t build it. We did.”

  Now Rip was really confused. “What? You lost me.”

  The station chief nodded. “The CIA once had a training base on the island back in the early ’80s. The base was built to train Contra rebels from Nicaragua in infantry tactics, then send them back to fight the Sandanista government.”

  Frank let out a low whistle. “I remember reading about that whole mess. Didn’t Congress forbid the US government from helping the Contras?”

  Bucard glanced down at his paperwork. “Yes, well, technically. But that was before my time. Suffice it to say that we are pretty certain the pirates are using the old airstrip for pickups. Their camp can’t be far away since no roads exist on that side of the island.”

  Doc spoke up. “So how do we get in?”

  “Very simple,” Marcel said. “We will have a boat drop you off in that area tomorrow night. You can sneak up on the pirate encampment before dawn and then radio us with your findings.”

  “Whoa, hold up.” Coop raised a hand. “From the aerials here, it looks to me like that area is mostly triple-canopy jungle.”

  “What’s your point?” Marcel looked peeved.

  “My point is that movement at night in the jungle is not possible.”

  Marcel smirked. “Do you mean to tell me that your team of crack commandos can’t even walk in the woods at night?”

  Coop stared him down. “With all due respect, sir, what I’m saying is that you obviously have no idea what you’re talking about. I went through one of the final jungle warfare training classes at Fort Sherman before they closed it down in late 1999. I’ve been in the jungle at night. There isn’t even enough light under the jungle canopy for night vision to work.”

  Marcel’s face reddened. “Don’t presume to tell me what I know and don’t know!”

  “Then don’t presume to tell me how to run my mission.” Coop’s tone was icy, unwavering. “You’ve given us the objective. We’ll take it from here. Task Force Valor plans its own mission execution.”

  Marcel looked like his head was about to pop. He picked up his folders and turned to leave. As he yanked the door open, he sputtered, “Your commander will hear about this!”

  The door swung shut with a hiss and a muted click. For a moment, the room was silent. Then Phoenix’s face cracked into a smile, and the rest of the team burst into laughter.

  Sweeney slapped Coop on the back. “Way to tell’m, boss!”

  Phoenix was trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “Okay, quiet down please. Master Sergeant Cooper, what do you see as the best course of action to get this mission accomplished?”

  “Well, it’s going to take some more map reconnaissance and discussion, to be sure. But I can tell you one thing: We won’t be inserting by boat.”

  “Oh yeah …” Sweeney’s eyes lit up. “I feel a HALO blast coming on!”

  Isla Coiba. 2400 hours

  FERNANDA HUDDLED ON the muddy jungle floor as the rain pelted her, running in cold rivulets over her shivering body and mingling with her tears.

  The plastic zip ties dug painfully into her bound wrists, but it was so dark that she couldn’t even see them if she pulled her hands up in front of her face. What she wouldn’t give to be back in her apartment in Panama City, awakened by a passing bus to find that this was all just a nightmare.

  But to be awakened, one had to fall asleep, and that wasn’t going to happen to her this night.

  A soft moan came from somewhere to her front, though she still couldn’t see anything.

  Zack.

  Her ears still rang from the gunshot. She could see him clutching his side, eyes wide as he fell next to her in a heap at the feet of the thug with the big black pistol. Fortunately for Zack, the bullet had only grazed his rib cage, leaving a nasty bloody gash.

  The thug hadn’t been alone, because when he fired his pistol, the rest of the men with him opened fire as well, shooting wildly toward the top of the ridge. Then they were surrounded by nine ragged, dirty men, most of whom carried wicked-looking weapons. The dark-skinned one with the scar above his left eye was apparently the leader. The other men called him Chombon.

  She could hear Carlos behind her, whimpering softly in his sleep, bound as she was, hand and foot. He had surrendered immediately when Zack was shot, skidding to a halt with his hands held high. But that hadn’t spared him from a few rifle butts and brutal kicks as the thugs led them away.

  “Fernanda?” Zack’s voice croaked softly in the darkness. “Are you awake?”

  She sniffled, then whispered, “Yes.”

  They had been ordered not to speak. She’d seen a guard huddling under his poncho against a tree a few feet away before night fell, so she spoke as quietly as possible.

  “Where do you think they’re taking us?”

  Wet leaves rustled. Zack must be trying to scoot closer to her. Then the noise stopped, and he said nothing.

  She strained to hear any movement from their guard, but the only sound was h
uge raindrops slapping the palm fronds on their way to the jungle floor.

  Finally, Zack spoke again. “They must be taking us to their camp. I counted nine of them and didn’t see any gear other than their weapons and water bottles. We must have held them up so they were unable to get back before nightfall.”

  Fernanda could have used a drink from one of those water bottles. Despite the rain, her mouth was dry and her head hurt from dehydration. Each of their dangerous-looking captors carried a water bottle tied with a loop of twine that he slung over his shoulder.

  She took a ragged breath. “What will they do with us?”

  Zack hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out what they were doing here in the first place.”

  Fernanda had wondered the same thing. After being captured, they walked for a little less than three hours, but being herded along by this group of armed ruffians had been slow going.

  She thought at first that they must be a band of prisoners who had missed the boat off the island when the penal colony was shut down two years earlier. But the weapons they carried were shiny and new, some sort of assault rifles like the terrorists wielded in movies. Where would prisoners get such weapons? No, they must be terrorists themselves, or pirates, perhaps.

  Zack grunted as he tried to move closer still. “Don’t worry, Fernanda. I don’t think they got Alex.”

  Alex! The professor hadn’t followed Zack and Carlos down the hill when she fell, and she feared that he had been hit by the hail of gunfire up on the ridge. If he escaped, though, perhaps he was able to return to their backpacks and call for help.

  Something inside her felt like he had abandoned them to the brutes and run away. But that was silly. Alex had no weapon. He would simply have been captured and beaten, or maybe shot, like the other two. If he had escaped unhurt, he was their only hope.

  She tried to sound confident. “He should have found his way back to camp fairly easily with that GPS thing he has.”

  “Alex wasn’t carrying the GPS. I was. I dropped it when I got shot.” Regret filled Zack’s voice.