The moment of truth had arrived.
They were about to meet the mysterious messenger from the embassy.
A ray of moonlight hit the man’s face, and Harv took a step forward. “Viper? Is that you?” he asked in Spanish.
“Mayo!”
Harv embraced him. No words were spoken.
Nathan smiled at hearing Harv’s old nickname. During their Echo operations, Harv had procured an entire case of the little squeeze packs. He used to put mayonnaise on everything, even his hot dogs. The kilo teams settled on Rojo for Nathan. Red. Back then, his hair had lacked any traces of gray.
Lyle pulled a knife, cut the disposable binds around Viper’s wrists, and gave him his handgun back.
Viper tucked the gun into his holster.
“I apologize for cuffing you,” Lyle said, “but we had to be sure you weren’t a threat.”
“It’s okay,” Viper said. “No harm done.”
“You speak English,” Harv said.
“A lot has changed over the years.”
The two marines who’d brought Viper over lowered their handguns and withdrew.
“It’s good to see you again,” Nathan said. He too gave the man a hug. Being a good ten inches shorter, Viper nearly disappeared inside Nathan’s grasp. They couldn’t reminisce in front of the present company, but Viper had played a critical role in Nathan’s rescue.
“I need to get on the SATCOM and update our status,” Lyle said.
“How do you do that?” Harv asked. “I didn’t see a dish.”
“We use a backpack unit for LEO birds. We can type or dictate messages into a terminal, and the unit sends an ultra-short encrypted burst.”
Nathan wondered how many low-earth-orbit satellites the US military had… probably dozens. Joint Special Operations Command had many resources at its disposal.
Harv said, “So the burst transmission minimizes your RF signature.”
“Exactly, sir. It’s not foolproof and can be jammed, but the unit rotates frequencies in that event. We’re currently in a dark period until the next bird clears the horizon. We usually have a twelve- to thirteen-minute window before it drops back down. We can talk to JSOC in real time with an HEO bird if we have to, but that’s not as stealthy, and it depletes the batteries faster. I’ll give you guys some time alone.”
Nathan said, “Thank you, Sergeant. Do we need to move out?”
“Not just yet, sir. I’ll let you know what JSOC comes back with.”
They waited until Lyle rejoined his men.
“Damn, it’s really good to see you again,” Harv said.
“Yeah, you guys too,” said Viper.
“I never had a chance to properly thank you. You helped Harv save my life. I’ve never forgotten it.”
“I felt terrible about what happened. I’m really sorry you went through it.”
“It happened. I’ve moved on.”
“I’m sure you guys are wondering why I asked for your help.”
Nathan lightened the moment, knowing Viper felt uneasy about all of this. “The thought had crossed our minds.”
“We kept our real identities secret, even from each other. I haven’t used Viper since I saw you guys last. My real name is Estefan Delgado.”
“We can only give you our first names. I’m Nathan. That’s Harv.”
“It’s okay. I don’t need to know more than that.”
Harv said, “In your second note to the embassy, you said Pastor Tobias was killed by a sniper, presumably Raven.”
“That’s right. Tobias was his first name. His apellido—” Estefan had trouble finishing his sentence, emotion catching in his throat. “His surname was Delgado.”
CHAPTER 12
“He was your father,” Harv said.
Estefan nodded.
“Man, I’m really sorry.”
“He was a servant of God who never questioned his faith. He gave away nearly all his money. He never asked, but I sent him all I could. He’d dedicated the latter part of his life to helping the people of Santavilla.”
“You’re his legacy,” said Harv. “You and the other kilos saved countless lives, and you didn’t do it for money. If your dad had known about that, he would’ve been proud.”
Estefan shrugged. “I never told him I became a sniper. We weren’t very close until recently. I have a hard time letting go of old anger. We sort of patched things up last year. My wife kept pressuring me to make the effort. I wish I’d done it a long time ago.”
“Tell us what you know,” Nathan said, concerned they didn’t have much time. “Why do you think Raven’s the shooter, and why was your father murdered? We didn’t see the second note you tossed over the fence into the embassy, but we know you mentioned Santavilla. What’s going on?”
“Gold.”
“Gold?” Harv asked. “You mean literally?”
“My father was murdered because of greed. There are several rich veins very close to the surface near Santavilla, but the locations are too rugged for larger commercial operators to access without destroying a significant area of forest.” Estefan’s tone sounded lifeless and flat. Clearly, he was still reeling from his father’s murder.
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Nathan said.
“It’s okay. One of the mines produces a very high yield. Before he was killed, my father told me the mine was producing nearly three ounces of gold per ton. The spot price of gold has hovered at $1,400 per ounce, and it’s resurrected the industry here. In fact, gold is one of Nicaragua’s new economic engines. It could even become one of our country’s biggest exports within a few years. There’s huge money involved.”
Harv said, “Three ounces per ton doesn’t seem like a very big number to me.”
“Three ounces per ton is a lot. Trust me, it’s a big number. Many large commercial mines yield less than a quarter ounce per ton. They make up for the smaller ratio through sheer volume. You’ve seen those huge Komatsu dump trucks, the ones with the giant tires where the driver has to climb a ladder and take a staircase to drive it? An average-sized Komatsu can haul one hundred tons of ore. If you do the math using 0.2 ounces per ton, that’s twenty ounces per load.”
Nathan ran the calculation in his head. “So every truckload of ore is worth $28,000?” Nathan asked.
“That’s what I meant when I said there’s huge money involved. Keep in mind, 0.2 ounces per ton is on the low side. Some commercial mines yield four or five times that number.”
“We’re in the wrong business,” Harv said.
Nathan glanced over at Staff Sergeant Lyle, who was huddled in a clump of ferns with one of his men. Lyle made eye contact and nodded an okay. Nathan looked toward the eastern horizon but didn’t see any traces of morning twilight reaching through the canopy yet. “How do you know so much about this?”
“I live in Managua now. I’m a government attaché. I work with foreign mining companies, mostly Canada and the US, that want to do business in Nicaragua. I negotiate the larger contract points before the lawyers hammer out the finer details. I wine and dine them, put them up in the nicest hotels, and give them tours of existing mines and processing plants. It’s a competitive business. We have to contend with South American countries to attract the commercial operators, but we can’t give the leases away. My job is to find a balance between concessions and benefits. My father did the same thing before he became a pastor. I think that’s why he was adamant about helping the miners of Santavilla. He felt guilty.”
“I’m no expert,” Nathan said, “but I would imagine starting up a large-scale mining operation requires millions of dollars.”
“It absolutely does. As an example, one used Komatsu dump truck can cost close to $1 million by itself. Just changing a single tire costs tens of thousands, but the payoff can be huge. Several of our larger mines down here are producing over a hundred thousand ounces of gold annually.”