Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Berets) (31 page)

A sense of urgency tightened its icy grip around his heart. It had already been over twenty minutes since he had heard Powers's diversion. He'd made the dash across the beach as soon as the sicarios had taken off toward the sound of the firing. Shortly after he started swimming, he'd heard another burst of fire and some explosions that sounded like grenades. He was afraid that Powers had made contact again. Since then Riley hadn't heard anything. He prayed his team sergeant was still alive.

FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

6:18 A.M.

"This is Hammer. I say again, I have negative radio contact with Eyes Three element. Over."

Westland stared at the radio, her brow furrowed in thought as Pike talked into the mike.

"Can you make contact with the Garcia! Over."

"Wait one."

Pike took a deep breath as he sat back in the chair and endured the pause. He'd much rather be out there in the action than sitting here on his ass talking on a radio.

"Roger. We have contact with the Garcia. Over."

"Order its captain to move in closer, to within forty-five kilometers. Over."

"Roger, will relay your order. Over."

Pike waited a minute and then keyed the mike again. "What about IR chem lights or strobes on the shore? Do you have anything on your screens? Over."

"Negative on that. Through the thermals we can see a lot of people running around near the target, but no indication of friendlies. Over."

Westland suddenly leaned forward. "Ask Hammer to use its thermals over the water, between the boats and shore. Maybe they're in the water, trying to swim out."

Pike nodded. "I didn't think of that." He keyed the mike. "Hammer, this is Hammer Base. Scan the water near the shore for any swimmers. Our people may be trying to swim out to the boat. Over."

The disembodied voice from the Spectre gunship rogered the message and Westland sat back in her chair as she waited for the result.

She rubbed her eyes wearily. What a screw-up. Still no word on Stevens. No word from the team. This had the potential for disaster written all over it. Always before when she'd heard about something like this it had seemed kind of distant. Like watching a TV show or reading a spy novel. But now that the men in danger were flesh and blood people she was working with, it all seemed so different. Not glamorous or thrilling, the way it sounded when field agents recounted stories of their missions.

The worst part for Westland was the realization that Dave Riley had predicted this very occurrence. She hadn't been convinced there was a leak. Now she was. The story of Stevens cavorting with a local woman had surfaced as Jameson tried tracking down the missing DEA agent. Westland was upset with Jameson for not having reported it earlier. It was a little late now to do us much good, she thought bitterly. Riley had pointed to Stevens as a weak link from the start. Unfortunately, he'd been proven correct.

She started as she heard the gunship come back on the air. "Hammer Base, I've got a heat source in the water approximately four hundred meters from shore. Over."

BARRANQUILLA

6:30 A.M.

Riley rode the swell and finned hard, rising up out of the water to his midchest. He scanned the immediate area. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a black dot—the buoy. He swam over to it and grabbed the line. He released his ruck from its buddy line and attached the snap link to the buoy line. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself down on the line to the boat. The line was tied directly into a large carbon dioxide-charged bottle strapped to the boat's floorboards. Riley fumbled along the bottle until he felt the valve. He pulled the release, let go of the boat, and swam to the surface.

He had barely taken his second breath of air when the Zodiac popped up almost underneath him. The carbon dioxide was still inflating the boat as Riley clambered over the side. He pulled in his ruck. When the gas stopped hissing, he closed the inlet valve and the compartmental valves. Then he tore through the waterproof bags in his pack and pulled out the SATCOM radio.

He didn't bother with a bounce-back test, just keyed the mike and spoke. "Hammer, this is Nail Three Five. Do you have an IR chem light on shore, moving south along the coast, about four hundred meters in? Over."

"Nail Three Five, this is Hammer. That's a negative. We've scanned the whole area for ten klicks each direction over the past ten minutes and have found nothing. Hammer Base is patched into this net and wants to talk to you. Over."

Riley slumped down in the boat. He was too late. Powers was either dead or captured; otherwise his IR light would still be on. Riley slammed his fist into the side of the boat. His team wiped out. He'd known from the beginning that the whole mission was flaky.

"Nail Three Five, this is Hammer Base. Over."

He stared at the radio. Westland's voice drifted away over the waves. Riley shook his head. He needed a few minutes to sort things out. He ignored the radio.

He considered heading in toward shore, but he knew that would be futile, since he had no way to contact Powers. His team sergeant would be doing something to gain the attention of the gunship, even if his IR chem light wasn't working. The lack of any signal was a very bad sign.

Riley wondered what brilliant cover story was going to be concocted to explain the deaths. He was sure the CIA or DEA had one ready, which led him to the thought of what the Colombians were going to do with the bodies. Another Desert One scenario with American bodies being displayed to make a political point? And how was the American government going to explain away the bodies in the hands of the Colombian drug cartel? Probably claim there was an aircraft crash during training.

Riley drew a deep breath. It didn't matter to him what the government did. His men were dead. He had other more important questions swirling through his mind. Was Powers really dead or had he been wounded and captured? Who and where was the leak? What was going to happen to the task force now?

Riley knew that the CIA—hell, even the Department of Defense— considered him and his men expendable, just dumb GIs who didn't need to know the whys and the wherefores but just what to do. Well, Riley had a somewhat higher opinion of himself.

He picked up the mike.

FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

6:30 A.M

Westland stared at the radio in exasperation. Why wasn't Riley answering? She'd recognized his voice even as he gave his call sign. His asking about the IR light meant he had probably left someone alive back on the beach. Maybe the whole team was hiding somewhere and Riley had swum out to bring in the boat.

She jumped as the radio came alive.

"Hammer Base, this is Nail Three Five. Over."

She grabbed the mike before Pike could get to it. "Give us a situation report. Over."

"Four dead. One missing. They were waiting for us. Over."

Oh, God! Westland closed her eyes. Pike took the mike from her limp hand.

"What's the status of the one missing and how do you know the other four are dead? Over."

"I saw the four bodies. I left Eyes Three Six on the shore. He provided a diversion for me so I could swim out. He was supposed to break an IR chem and move south along the coast. Hammer hasn't picked up his light, so he's either dead or captured. Over."

Pike nodded and took a deep breath. He did some quick tactical calculations and made the hard but correct decision. "All right. Bring it on home. There's nothing more you can do. I'm having your pickup ship come in to you. Head on the old azimuth and you should run into the Garcia. Moonbeam will direct you if you need it. I'll have Hammer hang around to see if it picks up anything. Over."

"Roger. Break. Hammer, be advised that the bad guys have Redeyes, at least two that we saw. Over."

"This is Hammer. Roger. Thanks for the info. We're too high for them anyway. Out."

Riley reached back and primed the engine. The waterproofing of the engine was perhaps the most amazing feature of the submersible Zodiac. The engine cranked on his second pull. He turned the nose of the boat away from shore and, with a last lingering look over his shoulder, headed out to sea.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

7:30 A.M.

Hanks looked up from the paperwork scattered across his desk as Strom walked in. His senior aide looked much the worse for wear after having gotten the alert call from Westland in the middle of the night. Hanks gestured toward the coffeepot. "Grab a mug."

He waited until Strom had his coffee and had settled in the chair across from his desk before jumping him. "What the hell is going on?"

Strom ran a hand through his carefully managed hair. "Nail Three was compromised last night. Of the six Green Beanies, we've got one back over at Belvoir getting debriefed, four dead, bodies not recovered, and one missing."

"Shit." Hanks slammed his mug down on the desk. "I thought the next mission wasn't getting run until tomorrow night. Why weren't we informed of the move up?"

Strom protested weakly. "I didn't know either, sir. Westland didn't bother to keep me updated."

Hanks shook his head. "What the hell was she thinking?"

"She says the army general in charge, that guy Pike, told her to keep the timing in tight and not let us know, based on their concern about a leak."

"Bullshit! I want her ass! I briefed her myself to keep us up to date. Who the hell does she think she works for?" Hanks fumed for a few seconds, considering the ramifications.

Strom took the opportunity to throw the blame elsewhere, trying to minimize the heat heading his way. "Those SF guys could fuck up a wet dream. I've been working on damage control. We're implementing a cover for the bodies. I already had that worked out." Strom paused in thought. "Hell, I guess we can extend that cover to the missing guy even if the cartel has managed to capture him. As long as he doesn't talk."

Hanks looked at Strom as though his subordinate had two heads. "You know as well as I do that they'll make him talk if they've got him. I don't like saying it, but hopefully he got blown away and his body is lying in the jungle somewhere. How'd they screw this thing up?"

Strom talked quickly, trying to further diffuse the responsibility. "It wasn't all the Special Forces guys' screw-up. That DEA guy Stevens was grabbed by the cartel and probably made to talk. He must have given up the time and location. We haven't been able to locate him either."

"Christ." What now? Hanks thought. He considered all the information Strom had given him. The loss of the Special Forces team really wasn't that important right now. It was history. Hanks's job was to look to the future.

What was important was hitting the Ring Man. In fact, it was even more important now that the Ring Man's lab hadn't been hit. And Hanks was no closer to having an answer to that problem. He knew the shit was going to hit the fan in Colombia today. The cartel probably already knew about the role of the U.S. if they had grabbed Stevens, and it wouldn't take them long to trace the plan back to Alegre, especially if they had captured one of the Special Forces team members. There was going to be blood flowing in the streets in a couple of days.

Hanks looked up at Strom, who had waited nervously while his boss sorted things out. "What about the Ring Man hit? Come up with any ideas on how to handle that?"

Strom answered tentatively, not sure what his boss's reaction would be. "Maybe we should talk to the survivor from the Special Forces team, sir."

Hanks looked up, interested. "Get Westland over here."

FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

8:40 A.M.

Riley was tired, depressed, and irritated. He had made it to the navy destroyer Garcia without any problem and had been hoisted on board. Two marines had hustled him, without a word, right onto a helicopter waiting on the fantail. He'd been flown to Panama and cross-loaded again onto a C-130 for the trip back to Virginia. Sitting alone in the back of the C-130 for six hours had slammed home to him the realization that the rest of the team wasn't coming back. Unable to rest during the flight, Riley had alternated between pacing the cargo bay and sitting. He had reviewed his actions during the firefight innumerable times, in a pitiless self-flagellation.

He hoped the powers-that-be wouldn't ignore the possibility that Powers might still be alive. He knew they probably wished the team sergeant was dead. That would make everything simpler for everyone, Riley thought angrily. Less ass-covering to do. The thought of Powers being still alive and abandoned triggered an impotent rage in Riley.

He had not been disappointed in Pike's reaction after the debrief. Pike was over at the Pentagon right now pleading his case to the chairman for efforts to be made to find out what had happened to Powers.

Westland had briefed Riley on Stevens during the debrief, then she had taken off for Langley. Riley should have known that the DEA man had been the source of the leak. Everyone was also writing Stevens off, assuming he was dead. If he ever saw Stevens again the man would wish he was dead.