Eddie cleared his throat. “I don’t get it, Chairman. If these people care about the environment, why would they mess with the ocean like this?”
“We’re going to find out tonight when we rescue Merrick and grab us a couple of kidnappers.”
RIGGERS had laid out the insertion team’s parachutes in one of theOregon ’s empty holds. The shiny black nylon looked like spilled oil on the deck plates. When Juan entered after a twenty-minute conversation with Langston Overholt at the CIA, Mike Trono and Jerry Pulaski were already there, carefully folding their parachutes so when they deployed twenty-five thousand feet above the Namib Desert they wouldn’t foul. Mike was a former para-rescue jumper from the Air Force while Ski had come to the Corporation after fifteen years as a recon Marine. Max was chatting with Eddie and Linc as they checked equipment and weapons arranged on trestle tables set up along one wall of the hold.
Cabrillo knew that every member of the Corporation could work with anyone else without the slightest problem, but there were a few dream pairings among the crew. Linc and Eddie were one, and Mike and Ski were another. When together, each team was absolutely devastating under fire and could operate at an almost telepathic level.
Next to the tables were four rugged-looking motorcycles. These were what theOregon had gone to Cape Town to pick up. Designed for hard desert riding, they had fat balloon tires for crossing soft sand and extra-powerful shock absorbers. In the past few days a team of mechanics had stripped them down to bare essentials to save on weight and covered up their once garish colors with a desert camouflage paint job.
His ship’s cell phone rang as he walked across the cavernous space. “Cabrillo.”
“Chairman, it’s Eric. Just want to let you know that we’ll be in range of Swakopmund in twenty minutes.
I’ve already alerted George so he’ll have the chopper fueled and ready. Mark’s getting our gear together now. Tiny will be at the airport with the Citation by the time we reach him and I’ve even been able to charter a plane in Kinshasa.”
“Good work.”
“If everything goes as planned we’ll be on the hunt at dawn tomorrow.”
“That’ll give you, what, eighteen hours to search before the batteries die?”
“Give or take. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but we’ll find them.”
Everyone aboard was well aware how personally Juan took being used by Benjamin Isaka and his rebel partner, Samuel Makambo. That he had unleashed so many weapons into a brutal civil war was like a lead weight in his stomach and every second they were in the field increased the likelihood they would be turned on innocent civilians. Despite what he’d said earlier to Sloane about responsibility, he knew if people died because of this debacle part of him would die as well.
“Thank you, Eric,” he said softly.
“No problem, Bossman.”
“How are we looking?” Juan said as he approached the three men. On the table was a scale model of the Devil’s Oasis prison that Kevin Nixon in the Magic Shop had constructed using satellite images and the few grainy photographs they’d been able to find on the Internet.
“Kevin made us a nice toy,” Eddie said, “but without knowing the interior layout and Merrick’s exact location we’re going in blind.”
“So how do you want to make our play?”
As chief of shore operations it was Seng’s job to plan the assault. “Just like we discussed right from the beginning. High-altitude high opening jump from about sixty miles north of the facility so they won’t hear our plane or get suspicious if they have radar. We glide in, land on the roof, and follow the old axiom that plans get tossed out the window as soon as you make contact.”
Juan grinned.
“While Linc lowers the bikes to the ground we will find Merrick and Susan Donleavy,” Eddie continued.
“Once we have them, we hightail it out of there on the desert bikes and meet up with Tiny wherever George can find a passable place to land the jump plane.”
“Don’t forget we need to grab one of the kidnappers so we can have a little chat about those power generators.”
“I’ll personally truss one of them up like a Christmas goose,” Linc said.
“You have the schedule all figured out for ferrying everyone to shore on the chopper?”
“Yeah. Because of weight limitations George is going to get a lot of stick time today. It’ll take four runs to get everything to the airport. George and I figured it out so on the last run he’ll be carrying the least amount of weight. This way we can strap on the empty drop tanks. He’ll fuel up onshore and have more than enough range to scout for Tiny’s landing zone.”
“Just make sure I’m on the last trip in,” Juan said. “I’d like to get some sleep today.”
“Already had that in my plan.”
“You’re now head of the list for employee of the month.”
“How’d it go with Lang?” Max asked.
“I’ll tell you while I pack my chute.”
Juan began his careful inspection of the mammoth parachute, one designed to allow a person along with two hundred pounds of gear to ride the prevailing winds up to seventy-five miles as he floated to earth. A favorite tool of Special Forces, the rig had extra padding along the straps and employed a two-tiered deployment system to ease the shock of transiting out of the brief free fall when exiting the plane. Even with these safety devices, pulling the cord was a test of nerves because the jumper knew he was in for a brutal assault to his body.
“Good news on both fronts,” Cabrillo said, running his fingers along the riser lines looking for any sign of fraying. “Lang said he’ll contact NUMA and they’ll probably send a ship to investigate the generators.
And because the CIA put the deal together with Isaka they will pay us to do what we were going to do anyway and get those weapons back.”
“How much?”
“Barely enough to cover costs, so don’t plan on early retirement.”
“Better than nothing.”
“That Benjamin Isaka turned out to be an agent of Makambo’s Congolese Army of Revolution has the CIA’s Africa desk in an uproar.” Cabrillo started arranging the risers so when he began to fold them he could bundle them together with rubber bands.
“They never saw it coming?”
“It came totally out of the blue. It’s got them rethinking every asset they have on the continent. Lang says the head of the Africa desk has already offered to resign.”
“Will he?”
“She, actually, and no. Provided we get those weapons back the CIA is going to wipe this whole fiasco under the rug.”
“Why do I have the feeling there isn’t a whole lot of room under that rug anymore?”
“Because there isn’t,” Cabrillo said bitterly. “No one wants to hear about how the CIA screwed up. It makes the U.S. look incompetent and, more important, unprepared. So when there is a problem—”
“Like how the Agency trusted a guy who turns out to work for the rebels trying to overthrow his government.”
“Like that. They go into CYA mode and nobody pays the piper for the mistake. That particular corporate culture is why no one saw 9/11 or Iraq’s initial invasion of Kuwait or the sophistication of India and Pakistan’s nuclear programs, and,” Juan concluded, “part of the reason I left.”
“Well, at least we’re going to be in position to set things right this time. Uh, Juan?”
The change in tone in Hanley’s voice made Cabrillo look up from his work.
“You going to be okay?” Max asked and nodded at the parachute.
Of every human emotion Cabrillo detested pity most of all. The looks of cheerless sympathy passersby had given him the day Julia Huxley had wheeled him out of a San Francisco hospital with one pants leg neatly pinned had enraged him. He vowed from that day onward no one would ever look at him like that again. So since losing his leg he had undergone three surgeries and literally thousands of hours of physical therapy so he could run without the slightest trace of a limp. He could ski and swim better than when he’d had both limbs and was able to balance himself on the prosthesis with ease.