Certain Jeopardy (28 page)

MOYER STOPPED THE TRUC
K
beneath the canopy of a closed gas station. A large, lit sign out front listed the price of fuel. Moyer did a quick conversion. Less than eighty cents a gallon. Had his life and those in the truck not been in imminent danger, he would have found it worth commenting on.

“We can’t win a firefight with .50-caliber machine gun,” Jose said. “And if he cuts loose with a rocket launcher, we’ll be barbecue.”

“What we need is a shoulder-fired Stinger missile,” J.J. said. “I don’t suppose you have one in your pocket, Boss?”

“Fresh out.” Moyer looked at Caraway. “How’s he doing, Doc?”

Jose shook his head. “Not good, Boss. He needs serious help. He’s barely hanging on now.”

“How long can he last?”

“I don’t know. He’s tough, but he’s lost a lot of blood. To be honest, Boss, I’m a little surprised he’s still with us.”

Moyer looked toward the horizon. “Time is of the essence, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Running a hand across his chin, Moyer studied his fallen team member. The longer he waited, the greater the chance Caraway would die, but the odds were against his making it anyway. In the cab Julia Cenobio sat with her arm around the children. He then turned his eyes in the direction of the helicopter and wondered what its next move would be.

“Help is out there,” Moyer said, nodding toward a shore he couldn’t see, a shore still several miles distant. “But getting there may be impossible.”

“I don’t suppose the bad guys in the van have decided to call it a night,” Doc said.

“I doubt it,” J.J. answered. “They don’t seem the type.”

Moyer had to make a decision. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I can’t promise this is going to work. Truth is, I’m clean out of great plans.”

“We’re with you,” J.J. said. “Just say what, then say when.”

Two minutes later Moyer started the truck and pulled away from the filling station and back into the open.

* * *

SANTI TAPPED THE SHOULDER
of the flight engineer, the third member ofthe flight crew, and pointed. “That is the car.”

“It looks empty. And I don’t see anyone in the area.”

Santi dialed his cell phone and gave the location to the man on the end of the line. He then keyed his mike and spoke to the pilot. “Circle the area. Look for three or four men.”

The pilot acknowledged the order and began a spiral search pattern centered on the car.

* * *

WHEN THE HIGH-INTENSITY LIGH
T
first illuminated the massive black bulk, Rich thought they were about to collide with a whale. A second later he realized they were about to collide with a nuclear submarine. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

Coffer slowed and hovered just above a hatch behind the submarine’s narrow sail. He took Rich’s hand and thrust one of the scooter’s handles into it. Rich made certain he touched none of the waterproof switches. Less than a minute later the other SEALs arrived with their human luggage, staying back just a few feet and directing their lights at the hatch. The hatch opened and a handful of tiny bubbles escaped.

Taking the scooter from Rich, Coffer pushed the device through the hatch then motioned for Rich to follow it. The compartment on the other side of the hatch was dimly lit by lights recessed into a metal bulkhead. Rich found the ladder and used it to pull himself downward. The scooter floated by and Rich seized it so it wouldn’t interfere with the others coming through the hatch. One of the SEALs entered, then Cenobio and Pete. Within a minute everyone was inside and Coffer closed the hatch.

Coffer descended the ladder and nodded to one of his men, who turned to a panel mounted to the side. Within seconds the pressure on Rich’s body increased. There was a gentle rush and the water drained. Soon they were standing on solid steel in a narrow room with a curved ceiling. Rich felt as weary as he had ever been, though he had done no actual work to get to the sub but allowed himself to be towed for three miles.

Coffer opened a hatch in the bulkhead and stepped through, followed by the others. Coffer spit out his mouthpiece, and Rich and the others did the same. Once the last inch of water had been expelled, the door from the lockout trunk opened. “This way, gentlemen.”

On the other side of the hatch stood a stately man who looked more like an English teacher than a naval officer. He wore the khaki uniform of a commissioned officer, a silver eagle pin affixed to his collar.

“Welcome to the
Jimmy Carter
, gentlemen. Sorry you had to use the back door.” He shook the hand of each man and looked each in the eye. “I’m Captain Jay Stern, skipper
.
I think I know the answer, but which of you is Dr. Hector Cenobio?”

Cenobio raised a trembling hand.

“I am glad you’re safe.” He turned to a short man with weathered skin. “COB, let’s get some dry clothes for these men. Make sure they get a warm meal, and find a place in officer’s country for them.”

“Aye, sir.”

“This is James Reid, Chief of the Boat. He’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Stern started to leave.

“Captain,” Rich said. “We still have men in Caracas.”

“I’ve been made aware of that. Your team leader has been in contact with Ops Command.”

“We need to go back for them. We have wounded.”

“My orders are to provide safe passage for Dr. Cenobio. We’re pressing our luck hanging out so close to Venezuelan-protected waters.”

Cenobio pushed forward. “Sir, my family … my children.”

Stern’s face softened. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

“Begging the captain’s pardon,” Coffer said. “Sir, if it were one of my men, I’d want to go back. Some of my men will volunteer. With your permission, sir, I’d like to try.”

A sailor in a blue coverall uniform handed Stern a piece of paper then disappeared back to where he came from. “The saber rattling between the U.S. and Venezuela has been going on for some time,” Stern said. “SECNAV is dialing us back. Apparently the administration is trying a more diplomatic approach.” He opened the paper, read it, then read it again. He raised his head and looked at Rich. “Your team leader is making a run for the beach.”

“Captain, please …” Rich ran out of words.

“Lt. Coffer, your men rested enough to go again?”

“Aye, sir, just give the word.”

Stern took a step closer. “Let’s be clear on this, gentlemen. Venezuela has a navy. It might be Little League but they could do us some damage, and I have a lot of men on this boat who have families too. So long as we remain a slow mover this close to their waters, we are in danger. We are at our best on the move, not idling. So do this, do it right, and do it fast. Clear?”

“Clear as rain, Skipper.”

Stern swiveled on his heel and left.

Rich took Coffer’s arm. “I’m going with you.”

“Me too,” Pete said.

“Negative. My men are trained for this kind of thing.”

“You’re not hearing me, Lieutenant. We’re going with you. If it were your men, would you leave the heavy lifting to someone else?”

Coffer didn’t respond. Instead he looked deep into Rich’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” Rich said. “Offer to break my arm again.”

Coffer smiled. “Maybe later. Right now, we’ve got work to do. We’ll get you some fresh weapons.”

Ten minutes later, still wet, Rich and Pete hung onto the rope handhold on the side of a large Zodiac rigid-hull inflatable boat as Coffer attempted to eek out a little more power from the motor.

MOYER COULDN’T SHAKE TH
E
feeling that he was driving toward disaster. It was difficult enough to lead healthy, highly trained soldiers into battle, but taking a mother, her two children, and a man more dead than alive into harm’s way was nothing short of crazy. If there were another option, he’d take it, but none existed. Their window of escape was fast closing, and any further delay would ensure Caraway’s death. No matter what Moyer decided, it would be a bad decision.

Given how long the helicopter had circled the departure point, Moyer figured that Shaq and Pete’s car had been located. Moyer pulled onto the coastal road and drove at a leisurely pace, his eyes following the flight pattern of the helo. They were circling—no, spiraling—in a search pattern, giving him a brief moment of hope. If he could time it right, Moyer could speed to the departure point when the helo was on a northbound course, its tail turned to Moyer. And just maybe there would be some friendlies waiting for them.

Moyer turned to Julia. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“I don’t know everything that’s going to happen, but I need you to be focused and brave for the children. Can you do that?”

“Yes, of course.” She looked at her son and daughter tucked into the tight floorboard space.

“That helicopter is searching for us. It’s not looking for this truck, but any vehicle in the area at this time of night will draw attention. That means we have to get in and out of the car as fast as possible. In a moment the chopper will turn north and be unable to see us, but the pilot will turn back this way again in a few moments.”

“What do you want me to do?” Her voice was calm and firm.

Moyer smiled. Dr. Cenobio had married well. “There’s a small pier extending from the jetty into the water. I’ve seen it on satellite photos. That’s where my men took your husband.”

“Is he safe?”

“I haven’t heard. Communication has been by encrypted cell phone to my country and from there to others. When we get there and I tell you to go, I want you and the children to run to the water’s edge and hide under the pier. Can you do that?”

“I think I can … Yes, I will do that. What happens after that?”

“I’m not really sure.” Moyer’s intestines cramped and churned, but for the first time in weeks, it didn’t seem important.

The refurbished truck moved easily down the coastal road. Moyer saw several cars headed in the other direction, as the city was coming alive with early risers. Moyer wondered if he’d see the sunrise. He glanced at the Cenobio children and thought of his own. He ached for them and wished with all his heart he could hold them one more time.

The helicopter banked and started north.

Moyer slammed the accelerator to the floor.

The vehicle responded immediately. Whoever had rebuilt this beauty knew his engines. Were the situation not so dire, he would have felt bad for stealing the truck.

Ahead, and several hundred feet in the air, the MI-17 began its turn south sooner than he had expected. For a moment Moyer considered calling off the run and trying again on the next pass, but there would be no “good” time. There was just
this
time.

Moyer killed the lights as he came close to a wide, warped asphalt road. The dips, potholes, and grooves, combined with the truck’s speed, made for a rough ride. Moyer thought of Caraway in the back and started to ease off.

A hard rap on the back window drew Moyer’s attention. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the headlight of a large vehicle. Steam, lit by the one working headlight, poured from the front. Moyer couldn’t see the vehicle clearly, but he would bet a month’s pay it was the battered blue van they had seen before and that Jose had spotted leaving the industrial building.

The back window of the truck fragmented, and Julia screamed, as did the children.

“Down. Get down now!” Moyer grabbed Julia’s head and pushed her forward over her crossed legs. This would keep her head low and—the thought sickened him—provide one more barrier between the gunmen and the children.

Moyer glanced back through the shattered window. J.J. and Jose sat up like dead men rising from a coffin, and M4 and 9mm fire filled the air. The driver of the van hadn’t expected gunfire from the bed of the fleeing truck. He swerved and lost traction, and the van spun but stayed upright.

Moyer kept pressing forward, his eyes bouncing from the road ahead to the killers behind them. The van’s tires spun in loose dirt then regained traction. J.J. and Jose held their fire for the moment, as ammunition was limited.

Another shot clipped the top of the cab, and J.J. and Jose returned fire in several bursts. The pursuing van’s remaining headlight died.

Moyer stole another glance behind him in time to see Jose’s head snap to the left as something hit the back of the cab.

“No. Oh, no.”

Then Jose turned back to the van and let fly another burst. He was still alive and able to raise his weapon, alleviating Moyer’s fear that his medic had just taken one in the head. The truck shot past the sedan Rich and Pete had used to bring Cenobio to this place. He slowed and turned the truck sideways, the passenger side facing the ocean. He killed the engine and shouted, “Go. Go now!”

He threw open his door and exited holding the M4 he had kept between the door and the seat. He began firing, not in bursts, but shot after shot, aiming for the driver’s seat of the oncoming van. The van slowed, swerved, then plowed into the parked sedan. A man’s arm and head appeared in the open driver’s side window, as if he were taking a nap.

J.J. was the first out of the truck bed, and he too fired at the van. Several men poured from the vehicle and took up position behind the crumpled sedan. Moyer switched to auto-fire and sprayed a hail of bullets just above the hood and trunk of the car as he scrambled behind the truck. Jose had already pulled the unconscious Caraway from the bed and set him on the ground—Jose was bleeding from a nasty gash in his cheek.

Snapping his head around, Moyer saw Julia and the children scramble down the breakwater. Once they were at the water’s edge they would be shielded from any stray bullets.

Thunder came from overhead. Moyer didn’t need to look, didn’t want to look, but he did. The MI-17 gunship was headed their way.

The helicopter’s searchlight flashed to life, washing Moyer and his men in a cascade of light. Moyer and J.J. fired into the light then directed their weapons at the two air intakes above and behind the cockpit. The craft pulled away but didn’t leave the area.

“Bought us some time,” J.J. said.

“Why hasn’t the chopper opened up on us?” Jose asked. “He’s got to have at least a .30-caliber onboard—maybe a .50.”

“Not to mention rockets.”

“Beats me.” Moyer rose and fired several shots. “Watch the building to the left. If one or two reach that position, they will have a straight shot at us.”

Several more rounds pounded the truck.

The helo approached once more, and Moyer opened up on the craft. He could see small flashes as his copper-jacketed rounds rebounded off the chopper’s skin. Then he heard something that chilled him: the click-click-click of dry firing. J.J. had expended the clip of his 9mm. A moment later Jose’s weapon made the same sound.

Moyer handed his 9mm to J.J. and his only extra M4 magazine to Jose. He had no idea how many rounds remained in his own weapon, but he knew there couldn’t be many.

Jose peeked over the back of the truck and sent a stream of bullets into the back of the vehicle then returned to his position. “Why can’t cars blow up like they do in the movies?”

The helo approached again and the three men fired on it.

Moyer’s gun quit. “That’s it for me.” Better to die with an empty gun than a full one.

Again the MI-17 backed away. They should all be dead now. One rocket, a few bursts from the craft’s machine gun, and they’d be toast. Yet the pilot seemed uncertain. Why? Moyer glanced to the side and saw an armed man at the edge of the large commercial building to the left. “Left!”

Jose turned and fired in one instinctive motion. The man disappeared behind the corner for a moment then fell to the ground in full sight.

“Great shot,” J.J. said.

“Odd. I thought I had missed.” Jose returned his attention

“We have to keep them pinned behind the car.”

“You mean like they have us pinned behind the truck?” J.J. asked.

“Exactly. They can’t have much ammo either.”

Moyer glanced back to the pier. He saw no sign of the Cenobio woman and her children. He took that as a good omen. If he couldn’t see her, the hostiles couldn’t either. Fortunately the helo was preoccupied with them and not what might be going on at the waterfront.

Another movement near the building caught Moyer’s eye, but this time he didn’t shout. Three men quickstepped from the breakwater’s edge to the back of the building. One figure was taller and bulkier than the rest. Shaq! “Reinforcements have arrived.”

Before J.J. or Jose could respond, the large man moved to the corner closest to Moyer and the others. He waited three seconds then unleashed a torrent of bullets. Two of the men went behind the building, flanking the hostiles. Moyer heard more weapons fire. While guns blazed, a man in a wet suit ran to the truck from the breakwater. He carried an M4 with a M203 grenade launcher on the rail beneath the weapons barrel. While the other three men showered the sedan and van with bullets, the man Moyer realized was a SEAL popped up and launched the grenade. He dropped down again.

The explosion was like music to Moyer.

* * *

“I’M AWAITING APPROVAL, MINISTER.
I cannot open fire without orders from my commander.”

Santi was beside himself. He screamed into the microphone, “You can see foreign nationals attacking our shore!”

“I see a gunfight between two groups of men. From here I can’t tell who is who.”

Pounding his hand on the wall of the craft, Santi continued his rant. “Don’t be an idiot! I’m telling you which ones to shoot. The other pilot followed my orders.”

“I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry, Minister, but I was given strict instructions from my commander to clear all action with him. He said you might ask me to do something like this.”

Santi looked out the window and saw several new combatants— then he saw the explosion. He turned to the young soldier manning the 12.7mm gun. “I order you to shoot the men by the truck.”

“Hold your fire,” the pilot ordered.

The young man looked at Santi then the pilot.

“I said fire.”

“No, sir.”

Santi released his safety belt and pushed the young soldier aside. Suddenly the craft twisted up and to the left, making it impossible for Santi to aim the machine gun.

“Turn us back around!”

Loud popping noises filled the cabin. The pilot pulled away.

“They are shooting at us again,” Santi shouted. “Engage them!”

He heard the pilot report that they were taking fire again. He then heard the base commander order them to pull back.

Santi couldn’t believe his ears.