All the weapons had been bundled in cheap nylon bags so they aroused little interest on the way to the elevator. While the majority of the group continued to the lobby, Miguel insisted that Mercer and Roddy escort him back to the Herraras’ room.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” he asked. He’d already asked that same question a dozen times.
“You have to stay here to take care of my children,” Roddy answered. “When I am gone, they look up to you.”
“But you might need me,” the boy insisted with a touch of petulance, then continued his appeal in Spanish.
Mercer admired Roddy’s patience with Miguel. Working past his own apprehension and fears, he was able to speak in reassuring tones. Mercer didn’t know the words but could follow the conversation, recognizing the exact moment of capitulation by the tears that formed in Miguel’s eyes. Roddy spoke to him some more, and like a magician managed to turn the tears into a weak smile and then a small giggle.
Not a magician, Mercer realized. A parent.
Miguel hugged both men and made Mercer promise to look out for Mr. Harry.
“You should know by now,” Mercer teased, “that with Harry on our side it’s the other guys who have to look out.” He pantomimed how Harry had shown Miguel the sword secreted in his walking stick. “He’s bloodthirstier than old Captain Morgan when he sacked Panama City.”
Roddy whispered to Mercer, “Then shouldn’t he drink his namesake’s rum?”
“Poetic license,” Mercer retorted. “Besides, I don’t know if Jack Daniel was bloodthirsty.”
Mercer retreated down the hallway to give Roddy and Carmen some privacy to say good-bye. Even if her husband wasn’t going to be in danger, she worried for him, for them all really.
A pounding rain had erupted in the few minutes it took to get to the parking lot. It stung Mercer’s face as he looked up to judge how long the foul weather would be with them. The sky was an arc of bruised gray clouds that obscured the tops of the tallest buildings. It appeared that the storm would last for hours.
Roddy had borrowed his brother-in-law’s pickup truck to drive the Legionnaires and the weapons to the Balboa Yacht Club. Victor had just finished the night shift at Hatcherly’s container port, and he and Roddy spoke quietly while the arms were loaded into the truck’s enclosed bed. It would be a tight fit for the soldiers in back, but they only had to drive fifteen miles or so. Lauren was already behind the wheel of the idling van.
Mercer climbed into the pickup’s cab to get out of the rain. Harry sat next to him and was squeezed in when Roddy jumped behind the wheel once Victor marched off for a bus stop.
“Victor says that last night Hatcherly moved a ship out of its dry dock. It had been there for weeks, although he’s sure no work was ever done to it. The freighter that took its place is about four hundred feet long. He thinks it’s a refrigerator ship but didn’t see the name.”
“Sounds like the Korvald.”
Roddy nodded, rainwater dripping from his nose. “I think it must be. The dry dock is fully enclosed, allowing the Chinese to unload their rockets without being detected.”
“That’s probably how they brought in the missile-launcher trucks.”
“Makes sense,” Roddy agreed.
“Once we hook up with the Special Forces we can alert the USS McCampbell. Taking out the Korvald sounds like something the navy should handle.”
Roddy started the truck and maneuvered so Mercer’s window came abreast of Lauren’s. “You all set?” Mercer called to her.
She rolled down her window a couple of inches. “This is gonna be a milk run.” She grinned. “We should be at the Balboa Yacht Club around ten. It all depends on customs at the airport.”
“And we’ll have the boat ready to go. See you when we see you.”
Lauren blew him a kiss and put the van in gear. Roddy waited until she had pulled into the early-morning traffic before turning around in the parking lot and leaving the hotel in the opposite direction.
Twenty minutes after reaching the Gamboa Highway they pulled into the Balboa Yacht Club, a grandiose title for a rather run-down establishment located immediately below the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the parking lot they could see a PANAMAX container ship in one lane of the lock and a cruise liner about to enter the other.
As Roddy had predicted there were no other vehicles at the club. It was a Tuesday morning and the weather only helped keep sailors away. Rain hitting the tin roof of the two-story clubhouse sounded like hail. There were a dozen sailboats in the marina and an equal number of powerboats tied to the wooden jetties. Like most small boatyards, there were watercraft resting on wooden trestles and a battered crane to hoist them into or out of the water. A lone gasoline pump stood like a sentinel on one of the piers.
Beyond the marina lay the mile-long Miraflores Lake. Like forgotten castles on a mist-shrouded moor, several cargo ships floated eerily on the water, their running lights barely cutting into the storm and the smoke from their funnels blending with the murky clouds. A single horn blast echoed across the artificial lake.
The three men sat in the quiet truck for a second until Harry broke the spell the haunting scene had cast over them. “What a shitty day.”
Mercer threw open his door at the same time Foch and Rene emerged from the rear of the pickup. His men swarmed out after him with the bags of weapons. Only Harry and Roddy had rain jackets with them, but the storm didn’t faze the soldiers. If anything they knew the weather would help the American commandos when they staged their assault.
Roddy led them around the clubhouse and across the lawn to the marina. Wind whistled through the rigging on the sailboats and waves slapped against their hulls. The boat he had borrowed was a thirty footer with a tuna tower that rose fifteen feet and a cabin accessible through a sliding glass door. He leapt onto the craft and jammed the key into the lock. The men piled into the cabin, water dripping from their clothes onto the faded indoor/outdoor carpet. The soldiers were more intent on the weapons than the fact they were all soaked to the skin.
“They okay?” Mercer asked.
“Oui,” Rabidoux said and handed over one of the .45-caliber pistols.
Mercer checked the action once, then popped the magazine so he could replace the round he’d chambered. With two more hours to wait, there was no need to charge the weapons yet. Roddy had gone forward and returned with a handful of towels. He passed them around and turned to start the gas stove to make coffee.
“Anyone bring a deck of cards?” Harry asked from the settee. He played idly with the spring mechanism on his cane.
At ten minutes past nine, Lauren called from the airport to tell Mercer that the jet from Miami had just arrived. No sooner had Mercer cut the cell connection than Roddy’s phone rang again. It was Victor. From the hotel, he had taken a bus to the viewing area at the Miraflores Lock to wait for the Mario diCastorelli. Mercer handed over the phone and listened as Roddy spoke in Spanish with his brother-in-law.
“The ship is already in the upper of the two western locks,” Roddy reported after hanging up. The western lock was on the opposite side of the canal from the marina. “The doors just closed behind it and they are beginning to flood the chamber.”
“It takes an hour to cross the lake, right?” Mercer asked.
Roddy nodded. “A little longer with the rain.”
“Man, this is going to be tight.” Mercer and Foch exchanged a look. “What do you think?”
“I think that if the Green Berets don’t arrive in forty-five minutes we should do this ourselves.”