For his part now, Ross took the lead, and the muddy river bottom quickly fell away. He kicked hard, and they headed toward the opposite shoreline, some forty meters away and about fifteen meters east of the dock and warehouses. Their target was an especially thick section of roots that offered ample cover and allowed a breather.
If all was going well, then Jiménez had divided his group into four teams, with two spreading out to the narrower flanks to ford the river and move in from the north, with another pair, the captain included, remaining on the south side, closer to the narcosub. From these secondary positions the men would launch their ambush.
Ross tried to relax as he swam, fighting against the obvious and gut-wrenching fear that any one of those men could make a simple but grave error. Any one of them, like that sniper had during their last raid, could allow himself to be caught and/or killed.
No, he told himself. Not this time. They would attack swiftly, with audacity and purpose, standing on the shoulders of all the SF operators who’d come before them. No fears now. Only the mission. Moving … communicating …
On target.
The rain was cooling the river’s surface, but farther below, the water still felt warm, and his boots began dragging through the silt and finally pushing deeper into the mud. He reached out and felt a thick root, and then he slowed, sensing Pepper’s hand on his boot, and together they rose up within some lily pads, clearing their eyes and noses, but keeping their chins beneath the surface.
Ross glanced up at movement in the canopy. No, he wouldn’t tell Pepper about the coral snake up there, highly venomous to be sure. It slithered beneath two branches and was surrounded by a cloud of mosquitoes, trying to hide from the storm.
In the next second, shouts from the dry docks and flashing lights near them cut through the downpour and seemed to be right there, right there … a breath away.
He gave Pepper the signal and they scaled the roots, shifting behind the trees and settling down along the brush opposite the larger building, where two guards were posted on this, the west side.
‘I’m the bait,’ he whispered to Pepper.
‘Roger that.’
Ross activated his camouflage and ran out of the tree line, directly toward the two guards. He dropped down to his haunches and waited as they noticed something weird in front of them, a strange fluctuating silhouette, as though an extraterrestrial had dropped from the roof and was about to confront them. They both frowned, aimed their guns at Ross, who just stood there, the rain playing havoc with the camouflage’s system, flickering and shimmering.
And then, another apparition appeared behind one guard, and an arm that looked as though it were made of water came around the man’s torso and plunged a knife into his heart.
As the second guard turned, bringing his rifle to bear on Pepper, Ross put his Cold Steel SRK knife to work, driving the black, Tuff-Ex — coated blade into the hollow between the man’s collarbone and the top of his sternum. Using the collarbone as a lever, Ross worked the blade in a circular motion, shredding everything inside.
Neither of these men would die instantaneously, as it took several knife wounds to produce results you only saw in movies; instead, Ross and Pepper dragged their victims back behind some trees, where both were zipper cuffed, their socks removed and forced into their mouths, their lips taped shut. The operation took less than sixty seconds.
‘And this is why I still bring a knife to a gunfight,’ said Pepper with a wink.
Ross dragged the flat sides of his SRK along his hip, cleaning the blade. He resheathed the knife, than gave Pepper a nod. ‘Clear to move in.’
TWELVE
With trees now thrashing against one another, and the rain falling so fiercely that it felt more like pellets of titanium striking his back and shoulders, Kozak was at once surprised and shocked to find himself wearing one of the biggest shit-eating grins of his life.
No, he wasn’t a glutton for punishment.
He was a glutton for intel –
And boom! He’d hit the jackpot!
In fact, he was almost too excited to speak, but he made the report nonetheless. ‘Ghost Lead, the drone’s in place. And I think I’ve spotted the package!’
‘Good job, we’re moving in. Keep that drone quiet.’
‘Roger that.’
Kozak and 30K had found a cover position at the base of two long rows of bamboo that towered into the canopy like the bars of some colossal prison, the shoots groaning and creaking as they bowed in the gale. The mud smelled more pungent than ever because Kozak had spread some on his face and cheeks the way 30K had, a couple of ancient barbarians ready to pounce. They’d applied the bug spray liberally but didn’t trust the stuff in all this rain, which had probably washed it off. Easier to just grab mud and drag it across your face and neck, than blind yourself with the spray. So there they were, old-school low and good to go.
‘Hey, thanks again for spotting that wire,’ Kozak said.
‘Just another one you owe me, little brother.’
Kozak rolled his eyes and zoomed in once more with the drone’s camera, past an opening in the rear of the larger dry dock building through which they’d probably rolled out the completed submarine. There was no door here, with heavy chains hanging from the ceiling that had either suspended the entire craft or had been used to lower its diesel engine into place during construction. Worktables ran along both sides of the dry dock. Battery-operated power tools were stored in crates or lying near cutting stations. Cans of marine paint, sections of fiberglass and paintbrushes were piled high near one corner station, where a row of gas-powered generators sat beneath coils of extension cords. PVC pipe of various lengths and thicknesses hung from racks above the workbenches, and above them, cobwebs draped in dust spanned the rafters.
Kozak adjusted the drone’s camera angle so he had a clean view deep into the structure, where he once more spied the man who matched Delgado’s description: just over five feet, with dark, curly hair and a full beard. He didn’t look like a CIA paramilitary operations officer. Then again, what did those guys look like? A combination of James Bond and G. I. Joe? Or were they the wiry little guys with snake’s eyes, sunken cheeks and raspy voices you found behind the counter of a ghetto liquor store?
In point of fact, Delgado better resembled a rather nondescript drug mule from Colombia charged with swallowing seventy-five or so latex-and-wax-wrapped capsules of cocaine and praying he wasn’t X-rayed at the airport. The man’s wrists were bound behind his back with nylon cord, and a pair of FARC troops stood beside him. More troops, both FARC and Los Rastrojos men clutching their Galils, stood near the entrance closest to the dock, shielding themselves from the rain.
Kozak sent the images out to the Cross-Coms, and 30K offered his color commentary: ‘Well, there’s our little geek. Glad to know he’s here. He’s saying, “Oh, Mommy, please come get me from these bad guys. I wanna go home …” ’
‘Damn, here we go,’ said Kozak, panning with the drone’s camera to the dock and submarine.
‘What is it?’ asked 30K.
‘Looks like they’re done loading the drugs.’
‘Pepper and Captain Ahab better be ready.’
‘They’re not. Ghost Lead, this is Kozak. Are you getting this? That’s our package. They’re moving him now.’
It had all unfolded perfectly in Ross’s mind’s eye:
The AFEUR troops flanking and encompassing the perimeter …
He and Pepper slipping into the dry dock and, utilizing their optical camouflage, taking out as many thugs as possible before slipping away with the package — after not a single shot was fired …