Certain Jeopardy (29 page)

“THEY’RE RETREATING,” MOYER SAID,
his eyes fixed to the flying hulk as it pulled slowly away.

J.J. looked over the back of the truck. “Maybe our new friends scared it off with the grenade launcher.”

“Maybe, but why didn’t he fire when he had the chance?”

The man in the wet suit slapped Moyer on the shoulder. “We can figure that out later. Right now I think we should take advantage of the break in action.”

“Who are you?” Moyer asked.

A familiar voice from behind him said, “That’s Lieutenant Coffer, Navy SEALs. I said he could come and play.”

Moyer saw Rich standing over his shoulder. He then turned and shook Coffer’s hand. “For Navy, you’re pretty punctual.”

“We aim to please. Now let’s get out of here. We have a Zodiac at the pier.”

“There’s a woman and two children—”

“Safe and with us.” He looked at the other two SEALs. “Let’sget the wounded man to the Zodiac.”

Before they could move, Moyer said. “We got him. You provide cover.”

Coffer nodded. “Make it quick. The helo is making me nervous.” Sirens in the distance pierced the thick marine air. “And sounds like company is on the way.”

Jose took charge. “Boss, you take the right shoulder, Colt the left. Shaq take his right leg. I’ll take the wounded limb. Junior, we’re going to need you when we reach the rocks.” He leaned over the unconscious Caraway. “Sorry buddy, but this is really going to hurt.” He looked at the others. “On three …” He counted and the team lifted Caraway from the ground. His body went stiff, and he released a pitiful groan.

Three minutes later the Zodiac was skimming across the dark water with all on board.

* * *

“FOLLOW THEM! DON’T LOSE
them.”

“I have them on infrared,” the pilot said.

“Good. Once they’re away from the shore you can shoot them.”

“Not without permission.”

“I give you permission. I am the foreign minister. I order you to fire on them.” Santi’s frustration with military protocol had reached the boiling point.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you are not in the chain of command. However, I will convey your wishes to the commander.”

* * *

THE ZODIAC BOUNCED, AN
D
with every vertical change Caraway moaned. Coffer piloted the craft, zigzagging across the surface as fast as the burdened boat would go. Moyer took a second to check on everyone. Julia sat at the bow, her arms wrapped around her frightened children. J.J. and Jose hovered over Caraway. Rich and Pete kept their weapons trained on the MI-17, which followed three hundred feet up and fifty yards behind. The two remaining SEALs did the same. Coffer kept his eyes forward, moving them only to glance at a handheld GPS unit. Behind him, the lights of Caracas grew more distant, and Moyer felt glad to see them go.

The Zodiac slowed. “Why are you stopping?”

“Wait,” Coffer said with a smile. He looked at his GPS unit. “Any minute now.”

Moyer glanced up at the helo. “Make it a short minute. That beast—”

A rumble from beneath the water cut Moyer off. He turned in time to see a smooth obelisk, darker than the black ocean, puncture the surface. Seconds later, a round, black bulk like a four-hundredfoot-long whale appeared. Waves from displaced water rolled beneath the Zodiac.

“Wow,” Pete said.

“Kinda makes you wish you enlisted in the Navy, doesn’t it,” Coffer quipped.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” J.J. said.

Coffer raised his voice. “Gentleman, you have ninety seconds from my mark. Trust me—you do not want to be outside when that thing begins to move. Clear?”

“Clear.” The men spoke in unison.

Two hatches aft of the sail opened, and a stream of armed sailors poured from them like ants—one of them carrying a Stinger missile launcher. Moyer snapped his head around to check the helo’s position. A U.S. nuclear sub sitting on the surface made a tempting target. The captain was risking his boat and crew to save them. An ambitious Venezuelan pilot armed with two rocket launchers might find the target impossible to resist, whatever his orders.

Coffer powered the Zodiac and directed it at the submarine. The nose of the rubberized craft climbed the hull of the sub. The submarine sat low in the water, the deck less than three feet above the rolling surface.

“Go, go, go!” Coffer ordered.

Before Moyer could move, a pair of sailors grabbed the children and pulled them from their mother’s arms. A third sailor lifted the woman from the boat and led her to the hatch. Moyer reached for Caraway, but Coffer waved him off.

“Let us do that. We train for this.”

Moyer and his team yielded, but not one took his eyes off their comrade. The pain of the move brought Caraway to, and he screamed in pain. The scream, Moyer reminded himself, meant the man was still alive. He followed the others to one of the open hatches.

* * *

“YOU CANNOT LE
T IT
go!” Santi yelled into his microphone. “That’s an American submarine. It’s in our territorial waters. Use your rockets.”

“Sir—”

“If you do not fire now, I will make sure your career is over.”

“Sir—”

“I may not be in your chain of command, but I have authority you know nothing about. Now, fire on that submarine!”

“Sir, there’s a radio message coming in for you.”

“Your commander? Maybe now he will listen to reason.”

A voice came over the speakers in Santi’s helmet. A familiar voice.

Santi sputtered then said, “Yes, Presidenté. I understand. Yes, sir.”

As he removed his helmet in resignation, Santi thought he heard the pilot say to the copilot, “I wonder whose career is over now.”

* * *

COFFER LED MOYER TO
the command area of the submarine and showed him where to stand. A distinguished-looking man studied a video display of the surface. From where he stood, Moyer could see the image coming from the periscope.

“Sonar, conn, any new contacts?”

“Negative. We still have audio of the chopper. No other contacts.”

“Very well,” said the man whom Moyer took to be the captain. “Take us deep, XO. Make turns for fifteen knots.”

“Aye, sir,” a middle-aged man with dark skin replied and turned to two men who sat at a set of complicated-looking controls. A man in his fifties stood between them. “Make our depth four-zero-zero feet, four-degree down bubble. Make turns for fifteen knots.”

Almost immediately the sub lurched to life and a vibration ran beneath Moyer’s feet. Minutes later, satisfied that his orders had been carried out, the captain said, “XO, you have the conn.”

“Aye, sir, I have the conn.”

Moyer felt he should come to attention, but he was too tired to straighten his spine.

Coffer stood erect. “Captain, may I present, Sergeant Major Moyer. Sergeant, this is Captain Stern, skipper of the
Jimmy
Carter
.”

Stern extended his hand. “Happy to have you aboard. I understand you’ve had a rough day.”

“I’ve had better.”

“The Chief of the Boat will see to it that you have a change of clothing, a hot meal, and a bunk.”

“I have a wounded man—”

Coffer interrupted. “Already being taken care of.”

The captain nodded. “We have the best corpsmen in the navy, as well as a ship’s physician. We’ll do everything we can.”

“Thank you, sir. I also have a man whose wife and baby are back home in the hospital. He may lose both of them.”

“I understand, but I can’t do much about that right now. In about three hours we will rendezvous with a surface ship. You and your team will be transferred to it, and from there you will be flown to the States. Frankly, sir, you were lucky we were in the area. If Venezuela and Columbia weren’t at each other’s throats again, we might have been on the other side of the world.”

“Understood, sir, although I have a team member that might call it a miracle.”

“A Christian man?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

“Good. If I were you, I’d do everything I could to keep him on my team.”

“He’s a good soldier.”

The captain nodded then addressed Coffer. “Fine job, Lieutenant. Please congratulate your team for me. I’ll talk to them individually later.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

To Moyer, he said. “I’ll show you where we can wait for a medical report on your man. In the meantime I would like to meet your team.”

* * *

MOYER, J.J., RICH, AN
D
Pete sat in the crew mess drinking hot coffee and eating scrambled eggs, steak, rye toast, and hash browns. Moyer had heard that submariners ate better than any branch of the military. Now he believed it.

Captain Stern and Coffer sat with them, listening to Moyer and the others tell their stories. From time to time Moyer noticed sailors in the mess looking their way.

Coffer explained, “Ship’s captains don’t usually sit in the crew’s mess.”

“I thought we’d have more room here,” Stern said. “Open space on a submarine is rare. Besides, the officer’s mess is being used.”

“I don’t suppose this would be a good place to have claustrophobia.” Moyer looked around the room.

“Psych testing weeds those folks out right from the start,” Stern said. “Not many men qualify for this duty. It’s not easy spending six months underwater.”

Moyer began to speak, then Jose and a sailor entered the room. Jose had insisted on assisting, or at least observing, Caraway’s medical treatment. Moyer stood, as did the rest of his team. He didn’t like the look on Jose’s face.

Jose shook his head. “He lost too much blood. We tried to compensate, but it was too little too late.”

Stern stood and laid a hand on Moyer’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. Do you want me to call the chaplain?”

Moyer sank to his seat and stared at the table in front of him.
“Boss …” Jose began.

“Get that wound on your face taken care of. Colt, go with Jose and get checked out.”

“I’m fine—”

“Do it, J.J. Maybe they can fix that nose.”

“Yes, Boss.”

* * *

HECTOR COULD NO
T SIT
still. Every time he sat down at the table in the officer’s mess he popped up and began pacing again. He gripped a cup of coffee in his hands as if it were a life preserver. He ran a hand through his salt-crusted hair. He had been offered a shower but refused. He did exchange his wet clothing for a blue work suit of the kind worn by many of the enlisted men.

He sipped his coffee but couldn’t taste it. His mind had no room for anything other than rampant worry and the images of his wife and children. A few moments earlier he had felt a motion that made him think the submarine might be rising. Several gauges were mounted to the wall, and he watched as the depth indicator flashed lower and lower numbers, as if it were a countdown. Then the gauge hit zero feet.

The pacing resumed. Fear chewed at his insides as if a ravenous animal was feasting on his organs.

Motor sounds, sailor sounds, ventilation sounds grew in intensity with each moment. He forced himself to breathe deeply. There was nothing for him to do but wait and pray. He begged God for the safety of his family. He bargained with God, offering his life for theirs.

“Papa?”

Hector spun. His daughter, his son, his wife stood at the room’s threshold.

Hector dropped to his knees and held out his arms. He didn’t need to call them. They rushed to his embrace. They cried. He wept. Hector pulled them as close as possible, then tried to pull them closer still.

“My Lina. My Nestor.”

Then he rose. Julia stood by the metal table. Her hands trembled. Tears dripped from her face.

“Julia …”

She fell into his arms and dissolved into sobs. Hector felt no shame in adding his tears to hers.

Nestor hugged one of Hector’s legs, Lina the other. Hector turned his eyes upward. “Thank you … thank you … thank you …”

CHAPLAIN BARTLEY STOOD AT
the head of the casket, which hovered over a grass-green tarp that concealed the cold hole in the ground of the military cemetery. Moyer had tried to listen to the sermon but failed at every turn. His mind refused to focus on anything but his sense of failure. Stacy stood to his right, holding his elbow. Rob stood to his left, wearing a suit that looked a size too large. His son had offered to attend the funeral. Moyer didn’t ask why. He was just glad to have his boy near. Gina, always a sensitive child, didn’t want to come. Moyer couldn’t blame her. He hated funerals.

He scanned the crowd that stood around the open grave. A memorial service had been held a short time before. The grave-side service would be short, which Moyer appreciated. Standing with him were the other members of his team. J.J. stood as if his spine had morphed into a steel rod, his face still puffy and his eyes black from the broken nose. Moyer could see the emotion boiling beneath the surface.

Jose, the wound on his face caused by a bullet that very nearly killed him, stared at the coffin. Moyer had only seen him at the debriefing session and the funeral. He spent every hour by his wife’s side. Yesterday they received the encouraging word that Lucy might be able to carry the baby almost full term—at least long enough for the baby to live once free of the womb. The danger remained, but now there was hope.

Rich stood with his head down, his wife by his side. Next to him Pete moved his fingers into a fist then released them over and over again.

Moyer wondered about the Cenobios. When the transport plane from the aircraft carrier they had been transferred to landed, the State Department had taken charge of the physicist and his family. He assumed they were returned to Canada.

As the chaplain read from the psalms, Moyer’s thoughts ran to the news in the morning’s paper. An article told of how a group of drug smugglers had engaged military personnel and were killed. A second story told how Venezuela’s foreign minister, Andriano Santi, had suddenly retired from public service.

It had been seven days since the mission, and Moyer had spent a portion of each of those days wondering why the helicopter had not fired on them or the submarine. Several ideas had been floated, but Captain Stern’s idea, shared in the crew mess while they awaited word of Caraway’s condition, seemed most plausible.

“Venezuela has a fairly robust military, but nothing like the U.S. We have more aircraft and ships in mothballs than they do in active service. They also have a difficult country to defend. They’re not that far from the U.S.; we can have jets and cruise missiles pounding them in less than an hour. Would you want to fire on a vessel knowing it would bring a response like that? Chavez and his goons may talk big, but when it comes down to it, their Boy Scouts don’t want to go toe to toe with us.”

“… in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

Moyer looked up and saw Chaplain Bartley nod. Now came the hardest thing Moyer had to do. He and his team stepped to the flag-draped coffin, circling it. Silence bathed the area. Moyer called his men to attention. “Present arms!”

The men delivered a military salute done only at funerals. Rather than a snap gesture, each man slowly raised his hand to his cap. The salute seemed to last forever. Moyer could hear people shuffling in discomfort. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of people wiping their eyes.

Seconds passed as the salute continued. A short distance away, a bugler blew “Taps.” Everything in Moyer melted. A tear ran from his eye. Across the casket he saw J.J.’s hand shake.

The salute ended and the team stepped away. An honor guard approached and, in a well-practiced tradition, removed the flag and folded it into a tight triangle. The lead member of the guard turned, walked to Moyer, and presented him with the flag. Moyer took it in his upturned palms. The guard member took one step back, came to attention, and saluted. Then he stepped away.

Moyer’s hands began to tremble. He took several deep breaths. He felt his wife touch his arm, willing strength into him. Rob laid a hand on his shoulder.

Moyer stepped forward then crossed to a woman he had met only a short time ago: Orla Caraway seemed like a chocolate Easter bunny left in the hot sun. To her left stood a man with his arm around her shoulders; to her right was a young boy clinging to her hand. The child let go when Moyer approached.

“On behalf …” His words evaporated. He took a deep breath, held out the flag. “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your father.” He extended his arms and the boy took the flag.

Taking a step back, Moyer offered a salute, then turned and stepped to his wife’s side. He couldn’t look at her for fear of losing control of his emotions.

Chaplain Bartley said, “This concludes our service.” Slowly the crowd dissipated.

“I need a few minutes,” Moyer said.

“Of course,” Stacy replied.

Rob started to leave, stopped, and embraced Moyer. Moyer took his son in his arms and began to weep. A minute later Rob pulled away and joined his mother as they walked to the parking lot.

Only five men remained around the coffin.

* * *

“ANGIODYSPLASIA,” THE ARMY DOCTO
R
said.

“Not cancer?” Moyer asked. He glanced at Stacy.

“Nope. It usually affects older people, but it’s not unheard of in men your age.”

“Treatable?”

“Yes. Ninety percent of patients stop bleeding without treatment. We’ll have you well and tormenting low-ranking enlisted men in no time. Oh, and the next time you have a medical problem, come to us. It makes us look bad when Army personnel go to civilians for diagnosis.”

“Will do, Major.”

“Good, now get out of here. I have sick people to care for.”