Strike Eagle (30 page)

“You’ll risk killing the vice president.”

“We believe they’ll kill the girl first, then use Adleman as a bargaining chip. If we’re quick enough, we will succeed.”

Newman remained silent for a moment. “I don’t like any of this, not one bit, Pete. It’s too quick, and the odds are in their favor.”

“General, there’s a young man out there in the rain risking his life for the vice president, and another man risking his life for his daughter, and that’s our best bet. I don’t like
any
of the things we’re doing, but it’s better than rolling over and playing dead.”

“Pete … thanks. And keep me informed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Simone hung up and turned back to the screen. The image of Bruce Steele wavered in and out of view. On an adjacent screen, figures showed thirty-four Air Force helicopters at Subic. Eight of them were loaded with the remainder of the SEALs who were not already in the jungle.

The other helicopters were ready to be used as backups and to fly support personnel into the area. The one Black Hawk set aside for delivering the Fulton Recovery System was already in the air. As much as it went against his grain, there was nothing more he could do except to wait.

Bruce glanced at his watch. Water covered the clock’s face, but the numbers 1733 blinked up at him. Another hour until sunset.

Pompano moved ahead of him, pushing thick jungle growth out of the way. They had slowed their pace. Bruce tried to pick out any signs of human life—threads from a shirt caught in the branches, broken leaves, or broken branches that were shoulder high.

Pompano was certain that they would soon reach the clearing. He slowed to almost a crawl and seemed even more careful where he stepped. He reminded Bruce, in the way he handled himself, of Abuj.

Suddenly Bruce froze. Pompano had stopped. Bruce strained to hear, but couldn’t make out anything except the incessant dripping of water as it cascaded down the leaves.

Pompano barely turned his head to look at Bruce. He didn’t speak, but Bruce could tell what he was thinking, just by his eyes.

Yolanda.

Pompano crept forward. One foot up, then slowly down to the ground, applying weight, testing to ensure that no stray sticks were underneath his foot, ready to snap in an unnatural sound.

Bruce imitated the old man and forgot about the time. He was almost afraid to breathe, for fear that the very sound of the air coming out of his nostrils would alert the Huks.

Step, move, test. It was a pattern he recreated a thousand times. Step, move, test.

With this slow cadence, Bruce’s ankle began to throb. He imagined it swelling, engorged with blood. Soon he would no longer be able to stand the pain.…

Pompano stopped.

Bruce squinted past the old man. Just ahead, Bruce could barely make out light—not shining at them, but rather diffusing though the heavy canopy of green. It had to be the clearing.

Bruce glanced at his wrist. 1801. A half hour until dark.

A half hour to rest, to run over the plan, to mentally steel himself for what was to come. A half hour to pray that he wouldn’t trip up; a half hour to pool the energy he needed for the rescue.

Or the last half hour he had left to live.

Cervante frowned. It wasn’t the shrieks of the girl that disturbed him. The men were just having their fun, spending time enjoying her.

No, it wasn’t her cries, or even the sobs. Cervante had decided to wait, to be one of the last to have her.

What disturbed Cervante was something subtler. Something just out of range of his hearing. A low rumble.

He stepped outside. By the side of the house, just visible around the corner, was the back of the truck holding the high-power microwave weapon. The smells of dinner wafted out from the back of the house. The walls muffled Yolanda’s voice. He wondered if he were hearing things. It resembled a giant gathering of … mosquitoes … buzzing somewhere out in the jungle.

The mosquitoes would come when the rain stopped, but he knew that they were not flying now.

Cervante pushed back inside. The corner room held all the electronic equipment. He picked up a microphone. “Any activity?”

A voice came back seconds later. “No traffic.”

Cervante frowned. He walked over to the bank of detectors set up by Pompano. Each detector had a long line running from it. He put his ear to each speaker, but heard nothing other than the damned rain, falling from the clouds.

Still not satisfied, he stepped from the side office and went back into the front room. The girl’s cries were already growing weaker. What would they be like in another seven or eight hours?

A young Huk stumbled from the back, pulling up his pants and grinning stupidly. Cervante waved an arm toward the door. “Get the high-power microwave weapon ready.”

“Are the Americans coming?” The man’s voice was instantly alert.

Cervante listened for a moment.

Nothing.

Still …

“Probably not. But it will be good practice for you to prepare the device.” When the man did not immediately leave, Cervante growled, “Quickly!”

Colonel Ben Lutler watched over the shoulder of one of the Electronic Warfare Officers in the back of the MC-130. Black cloth was thrown back on top of the array of instruments. When the MC-130 was not operational, the cloth ensured that no unauthorized people would be able to look at the sophisticated electronics.

The EWO intently watched his screen. Sensors were trained on the house in the middle of the clearing; all he saw was a bright blob, no detail possible with the amount of heat coming from inside.

People walking away from the house came gradually into view once they were ten or so yards away. The farther they got from the house, the better the infrared sensors worked—but the clouds still masked the detail.

Lutler straightened and started for the cockpit; the EWO was so wrapped up in his surveillance, he didn’t even notice Lutler leave.

As he approached the cockpit, Lutler knew the sun would soon set, enabling even more infrared detail to be picked out. But he also knew that whatever was inside the house would remain hidden, like a jealous mother guarding her young.

Bruce stretched his legs. His ankle was growing more painful.

He tried to ignore it, and swung his M-16 around to prop his leg up. Fumbling with his holster, he pulled out his service revolver and stared at the silencer attached to the barrel. A faint smell of gun oil drifted through the drizzle. If he was going to use anything, he’d use this first. He’d save the M-16 for later—after all hell broke loose.

Pop!

Bruce froze.

The sound came again. Faint. It was as if … someone had moved just inside of the clearing, walking lightly on the grass.

Bruce held his breath.

Pompano opened his eyes. He stared at Bruce and kept still. The sound grew louder.

Something thrashed in the leaves. A branch rustled where it was moved, brushed back.…

Bruce grasped his revolver, moving it slowly up … up until it pointed at head level. The gun shook. He tried to keep it steady, but rain, sweat, and blurry vision kept him from seeing straight.

Pop!

Silence.

Footsteps, and the person walked away. The noise was quickly lost in the symphony of sounds that surrounded them.

Bruce lowered the gun. The silencer made the gun feel heavy. He hadn’t noticed it at the time.

He felt drained, exhausted from the wait—and they hadn’t even started.

Bruce holstered the weapon, allowing the barrel to slide down into the stiff leather. His chest hurt—he realized that he had been holding his breath when the guard walked by. But he had survived. Survived the jungle, and now survived the first line of defense that surrounded their prize.

In the growing darkness, Pompano watched, unblinking. His cheek was raw, a scab not yet having formed by his temple. He spoke a single word: “Come.”

“Over there.” Captain Bob Gould pointed across the cockpit. Head saw a paved parking lot next to an old store.

The store looked deserted. Head craned his neck, surveying the area. No towers, telephone or power lines. “How far are we from the drop-off point?”

“Ten miles.”

“Let’s go for it.”

As he brought the Black Hawk around, Gould got on the radio and informed the Thirteenth Air Force of their position.