‘Hey, you read his record. Silver Star, three Bronze with V, too many commendations to remember, and even the Presidential Unit Citation.’
‘We ain’t here for medals.’
‘He was DEVGRU – Naval Special Warfare Development Group. It’s not like they killed bin Laden or anything, right?’
‘Why don’t you join the Navy?’
Kozak shook his head and sighed. ‘If you’re looking for hard-core proof that the guy is legit, then there it is.’
‘You’re just another fanboy.’
‘Give him a chance.’
‘Oh, I’ll work with him. I’ll show him how we roll. He might look like Mr Perfect on the outside, but something doesn’t sit right with me. I want to know his weaknesses. His baggage. Then I can work around them – to keep us both alive.’
Kozak hardened his voice. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘I will. I’m not done training you yet.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘And one day when you grow up, you’ll amaze me, too, little brother …’
The narrow dirt road began to jog to the left, and 30K hit the brakes to roll into the turn. As the Hummer began to fishtail slightly to the left –
Fireflies twinkled beside the rubber trees lining both sides of the road.
Only they weren’t fireflies.
NINE
Raindrops the size of golf balls – or at least 30K swore they were that big – blasted into the windshield, blinding him for a second before the wipers cleared the glass –
And there they were: muzzle flashes accompanied by the thudding and pinging of rounds off the Hummer’s front end.
‘You gotta be kidding me!’ 30K shouted. ‘How’d you miss these guys with the drone?’
‘It’s too high, too far ahead,’ Kozak cried. ‘And the rain’s screwing me up! Heat sources gone cold!’
30K hit the accelerator and barked into his Cross-Com, ‘Ghost Lead, ambush! Pushing on through!’
Kozak had already set down the drone’s remote and was lowering his window to get his rifle pointed in the right direction. At the same time, he shouted to their gunner, who was already directing a broad bead of suppressing fire on the trees. ‘Hey, dude, get some fire right in the road ahead of the truck,’ Kozak told him in Spanish. ‘Right on the road!’
30K knew exactly what Kozak was talking about. The odds were high that the rebels had planted a pressure-activated IED in the road; perhaps they’d missed the first one and the rebels had opened fire anyway, but there could be more, and the man on the .50-cal could trigger the next bomb before they struck it. If the rebels had set up a trip wire, it’d be more difficult to spot in the rain.
30K juked right, keeping the Hummer tight to the trees, sideswiping a few branches that scraped across the side mirror and door with a screech that sent Kozak hollering and yanking his rifle back inside. ‘What the hell?’
‘IEDs, man,’ 30K answered. ‘Trying to stay off the path!’
‘Little heads-up first?’ snapped Kozak, who then set down his rifle and picked up the drone’s remote. ‘Shit, shit, shit! Signal’s gone!’
Ross had an elbow balanced on the door and squeezed off three bursts with his HK, driving two rebels standing beside some trees back into the brush. He estimated the ambush force at no more than fifteen or twenty, and they rolled past them within a handful of seconds.
He ducked back into the Hummer, closed the window, and got back on the team net. ‘30K, you guys all right?’
‘We’re good!’
Ross switched frequencies to Captain Jiménez, who was up in the cab of the M35, and asked if his people were okay.
‘Two men were hit, one seriously. We’re very lucky. There could be more ambushes ahead.’
‘Roger that. Stay sharp. Ross, out.’
‘Don’t get closer than that,’ said Pepper, pointing to a bullet hole in his side mirror. ‘That guy was looking to trim my sideburn.’
‘No shit,’ said Ross, his heart still wrenching in his chest.
‘They’re calling ahead to their buddies, saying we’re on our way.’
‘Maybe not,’ countered Ross. ‘First thing I did was hit ’em with an EMP grenade.’
‘I thought that was a frag.’
‘Nope. Pulse wave should’ve knocked out their radios and cell phones, and maybe even deactivated any IEDs they’d planted ahead.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Ghost Lead, Kozak. I’ve reestablished contact with the drone. Good thing is, I got something. Have a look at this.’
Multiple images appeared in both Ross’s Cross-Com and his tablet computer, grainy footage taken by the drone’s camera along with FLIR images that showed the outlines of dozens of personnel strung out near the mangrove-fringed riverbank, along with several flatbed trucks and old jeeps whose engines still glowed. Behind them stood several structures, no larger than the shacks they’d encountered at the first outpost, but these had satellite dishes mounted on their roofs. Range was about four kilometers away.
Then something else caught Ross’s attention. He did a double take, and Kozak, seeing it too, zoomed in with the camera.
‘Boss, you see that?’
‘Can you zoom in even more?’
‘Trying.’
Ross drew his head back. ‘Oh, yeah, Kozak, I see it now.’
TEN
Fully submersible and semi-submersible narcosubmarines were being built beneath the triple canopy in some of Colombia’s most remote, jungle-infested regions. Narrow waterways shrouded by vegetation cut through the mangrove swamps and led to dry docks constructed along the rivers. Within these often sophisticated structures, fully operational subs were produced from parts cannibalized from around the world and often under the supervision of ‘freelance’ Russian engineers being paid handsomely for their knowledge. The subs cost upwards of four million dollars to build and carried literally six to ten tons of cocaine to Mexico and elsewhere, with much of it eventually bound for the United States and Europe.
This particular boat, whose diesel engine had warmed enough to be spotted through her hull, shimmered like an albino crocodile drawn by the drone’s FLIR. She was more than thirty meters long, Ross estimated, and nearly three meters high from deck plates to ceiling. Assumedly, she had twin screws and cruised at more than twenty kilometers per hour, judging from her size. Once out in the ocean, she’d submerge to thirty meters, and her fiberglass construction would make her virtually undetectable to radar. If she was like other narcosubs Ross had studied, she’d be manned by a crew of four: a captain, a navigator, and two machinists, who’d keep the engines and other devices in good working order. Even with a full load of cocaine, her range was probably about three thousand miles, well within the reach of the United States. Conditions aboard the sub would be horrible. The men would be confined to a space no larger than ten feet by ten. They would live off junk food and breathe in diesel fumes all day and night. They would work in shifts, and with every miserable hour that passed, they’d think about the half-million dollars they were earning as a team to transport product with a half-billion-dollar street value.
Presently, the hatch was flipped open on the sub’s two-meter tall sail, and a rifleman stood in the conning tower. Above him rose some kind of video periscope protected behind a clear glass dome, a kind of homemade, off-the-shelf-looking device that struck Ross as both bold and ingenious.
‘Locking in the GPS coordinates now,’ said Kozak. ‘Sending them back to higher if I can. Wait, damn!’
‘What is it?’
‘Lost contact again.’
‘Kozak, bring in the drone before we lose it.’
‘Might be too late.’
‘Do what you can. 30K, find us some valet parking about half a klick north, thank you.’
‘Roger that.’
Ross shared their discovery with Captain Jiménez, who was less than enthusiastic about attacking this new outpost. ‘The FARC rebels are tough, Captain, but Los
Rastrojos are very highly trained. Some of them defected from my group, and others come from the Sinaloa Cartel in Mexico. Others are former Los Zetas, the most ruthless of all. I’m sure this camp is very well defended.’
‘I’m sure it is. But we have the storm on our side. You’re not bailing on me, are you, Captain?’
‘Of course not. I just wanted you to know that if there is a hell in Colombia, then this is it.’
‘I appreciate that, Captain.’
‘I hope you do, because one of my men has just died.’
Ross hesitated. ‘I’m sorry about that. I really am. Stand by. Ross, out.’
‘He ain’t thrilled, huh?’ Pepper asked.
‘One of his guys died. He says we’re going into hell.’
Pepper shrugged. ‘Just another day in paradise, but I’ll say this – we need to hit that camp from both sides of the river. Let’s assume they know we’re coming. They don’t know exactly when … or how … so that’s how we get ’em.’
Ross smiled tightly. ‘I think I know what you have in mind.’
Pepper hoisted his brows and nodded.
Ross’s tablet beeped, and Major Mitchell returned to the video link window. ‘Delta Dragon, you want the bad news? Or the bad news?’
‘It’s all right, sir. Storm’s here. Eyes in the sky aren’t much help, I know. But it’s not all bad. Here’s the latest intel we’ve received from the drone.’
Mitchell glanced away to study the images. After a few seconds he looked up and asked, ‘You got a plan?’
Kozak was a heartbeat away from throwing the drone’s remote out the window. ‘I think it’s stuck in a tree,’ he cried, still unable to regain a link. He’d managed to lock on to the UAV’s locator beacon, an emergency provision if she lost power or was damaged in battle. The beacon had an independent battery and could broadcast the drone’s GPS coordinates and elevation, which it was doing at the moment.
‘You’ll have to get your little toy later,’ said 30K.
‘You know what the major says – no footprints. So we gotta go back.’
‘Yeah, dude, whatever, we’ll do that later. Hey, that looks good up there, what do you think?’ 30K pointed to an opening in the forest on their right side where the trees seemed to part like a doorway.
‘Do it,’ said Kozak, clutching his seat as the Hummer jostled up, off the road and on to the slightly higher ground off the path. They sliced through the underbrush until 30K believed he’d traveled sufficiently far to allow the whole convoy to pull off the road.
‘Check the range,’ he told Kozak, who compared their current coordinates with those of the narcosub camp. ‘Half a klick, on the money. Who’s the man?’
Kozak looked at 30K and in a deadpan answered, ‘Captain Ross. But then again he said that Pepper was the man.’
30K rolled his eyes. ‘Get outta here.’
Kozak opened the door –
And stepped into the torrential rain, the wind suddenly whipping him away from the Hummer and toward a cluster of trees. ‘Holy –’ The rest of his curse was drowned out by another gust that sent him leaning forward at a forty-five-degree angle.
Toto was already road pizza. The wicked witch was somewhere in Siberia, plucking waffles, iPods and family photos from her hair. This was, in Kozak’s expert opinion, friggin’ nuts and a far cry from the good old days on Brighton Beach Avenue, chasing after those cute girls from Long Island who’d come down and act like tourists.
‘Team, this is Ghost Lead. Listen up,’ said Ross.
Kozak had to turn up his Cross-Com’s volume against the howling wind and thrashing of branches.
While the captain went over the plan, a computer-generated map of the base appeared in their HUDs. The map had been created via intel gathered by the UAV. That was the kind of spot-on, up-to-the-second intelligence analysis they needed, the kind of data that kept them one step ahead of the enemy. Ross designated all of their targets and presented the AFEUR troops with their own overwatch and attack orders.
There was one word that Ross used twice, a dirty word that Kozak never liked to hear prior to a mission:
Booby trap.
Triggering one would blow the team’s cover and get themselves killed without permission. ‘Don’t do that,’ Ross had said. They’d all seen too many good men lose their lives or get maimed because the enemy wasn’t man enough to face them.
When Ross was finished, Kozak called him and said, ‘Ghost Lead, I have one more idea. I think our primary drone is stuck in a tree – which gets me thinking: let me park the secondary up in a tree near those buildings.’
‘I like your style, Kozak. Do it,’ he ordered.
Kozak grinned inwardly, then reached back into the drone holster attached to his utility belt and hanging from his right hip. The secondary UAV’s rotors were folded inward, shrinking the craft into a Frisbee-size package that was deployed in nearly the same fashion.
‘Okay, baby, don’t let me down,’ he whispered.
And with that he tugged out the UAV and tossed it into the air. The quadrotors automatically expanded and activated, and the drone lifted off, veering chaotically into the night. Kozak plugged in the target zone, and now the drone would fly automatically to that area and hover, awaiting its next command – if it didn’t crash first.
‘Ghost Lead, the drone’s deployed,’ he said, then he jogged up behind 30K, who was already slipping furtively into the jungle. ‘Hey, bro, you ready for this?’
‘What do you think?’
‘If anything happens –’
‘Dude, now you sound like Pepper,’ said 30K. ‘We only need one prophet of doom on this team.’
‘Pepper’s not like that.’
‘You ain’t been around him long enough. Trust me.’
‘Well, if anything happens to me –’
‘Look, we’re going in there to get our package and get out. These punks with water pistols don’t stand a chance. They’re waiting on line to get some from the United States Army. You read me?’
‘Hell to the yeah,’ said Kozak.
He knew exactly how to draw a pep talk out of 30K, one that always made him feel better before the first shot was fired.
And speaking of first shots, Ross had been emphatic about that. No screwups. The captain had even painted the post-op picture for them:
Later on, after the raid, when the rebels found their dead and dying comrades, one of them – about to die himself – would look up into the burning eyes of his commander, shudder, and say, ‘We never saw them.’
ELEVEN
Ross and Pepper were tucked so tightly into the tangled roots and thickets of the mangroves that their optical camouflage could remain off.
Recon time.
En route to this position, they had encountered two trip wires and had quietly avoided them while marking the surrounding trees with tiny, LED-lit sensors that transmitted each trip wire’s location via the Cross-Coms. Those coordinates were placed on the team’s operational map. They had then spotted a series of planks creating a path through the jungle, one assumedly used by the drug gangs, but Ross and Pepper kept about three meters to the left, sticking to the mud, noting and marking yet three more trip wires at ankle height, above the aforementioned path. Several more calls came over the Cross-Com, with more booby traps IDed and avoided, and then, each team called in to report they were in their recon positions.
Their approach had gone down by the numbers – and while that should have comforted Ross, it didn’t.
The dry dock warehouses were situated on the north side of the river, about ten meters from the shoreline, and they must have been there for some time. The vines, shrubs and other aggressive weeds had moved up along their walls and were spreading across their roofs like a dark green rash, while other vines hanging down from the trees and draping across the warehouses helped disguise their man-made angles. Ross was certain that the FARC and Los Rastrojos troops had given Mother Nature a helping hand, shifting foliage so tha
t it would help with the overall effect, and the outcome was impressive. You had to stare hard to discern the buildings.
Opposite the warehouses stood a rickety-looking dock, about a meter wide and ten meters long, with a few of the pilings leaning unnervingly to the right. The narcosub, whose hull was painted a flat olive drab, sat moored to the dock, bobbing as the wind whipped waves up to her sail.
Ross switched to night vision, and the lens mounted on his helmet turned his Cross-Com’s HUD to phosphorescent green. He confirmed the locations of the four guards standing at the larger dry dock, and the two others huddling beneath a small awning near the second.
The rain was magic and had driven a larger contingent of the Rastrojos and FARC troops inside, seeking cover, and if they’d moved the package into the submarine, there was no clear evidence. Ross deployed a sensor, noting more than twenty individuals inside the structures. The sub was here. The package was most likely here …
So what the hell had they been waiting for?
His answer came in the next breath.
Two late-model SUVs appeared from another trail leading down from the north, and they rolled up alongside the warehouses, the beams of their headlights filled with rain.
‘Well, look at that,’ muttered Pepper. ‘It’s a real party now.’
Ross called the team: ‘All right, everybody, listen up. Two vehicles just arrived. Hold your positions.’
A storm would hardly delay the departure of a submarine; in fact, the sub captains preferred to launch at night, with no moon, and in bad weather to help cloak their exit. While it was true that high seas could wreak havoc once the sub hit open water, the real reason for the delay became unsurprisingly clear:
The drivers of the SUVs jumped out, ran around to the backs of their vehicles, lifted the tailgates, and after a loud whistle, they were joined by about a dozen men from the warehouses. These men formed two lines and began moving plastic milk crates stacked with bricks of cocaine from one man to the next, a ‘brick brigade’ to deliver the cocaine from the trucks and across the dock, where the gunman from the submarine had jumped down to receive each crate and hand it back to another man standing in the sail. The bricks themselves were about the size of a trade paperback book, and the crates were square and small enough to squeeze through the sub’s tight hatch.