Текст книги "Skeleton Coast"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

He was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life, a punch-drunk tired that dulled his reflexes and made his mind crave sleep above anything else.

The chute continued to slow, forcing him to lean back so far that his body was bent double and his butt was almost touching the ground. Just when it felt the wind would abandon him altogether and force him to slog the rest of the way up the hill a gust snatched the chute and lifted Cabrillo off his feet and over the dune’s summit.

To his horror, he saw four trucks arranged at the base of the dune so that their headlights shone on a fifth that had its long hood opened. Men were clustered around the disabled vehicle with two of them standing on the bumper and leaning into the engine compartment. Several of them cradled assault rifles. Juan had wanted to approach the vehicles carefully and determine who they were and what they were doing this far out in the desert, before making contact.

The gust that had mercifully carried him over the crest of the hill was going to drop him right in the middle of their laager. He hastily dumped the air from his chute and fell back to earth in the vain hope he could scramble back over the dune before he was spotted. He landed in the soft sand and immediately pitched forward, cartwheeling down the face of the hill in a tangle of nylon and riser lines.

He hit the base of the dune with the parachute wrapped around his body as tightly as a mummy’s bindings, his mouth and nostrils full of sand. Cabrillo spat and blew to clear his airways but no matter how he struggled he couldn’t free either arm to cut away the nylon. He watched helplessly as four of the men ran from their camp, their AK-47s held low and at the ready.

“Hiya, boys,” Juan called cheerfully when they were within earshot. “Any chance you could lend me a hand here?”

AFTER being stripped of their weapons, radios, and gear, Eddie, Mike, and Ski were dumped into adjoining cells in the block the Zimbabwean soldiers were using to guard Moses Ndebele. Geoffrey Merrick had been taken by a group of civilians who matched what Eddie thought a bunch of environmentalist fanatics would look like. You couldn’t discern their gender by judging hair length alone.

The stench of patchouli oil barely masked the odor of marijuana that permeated their clothes.

Eddie massaged his jaw where Susan Donleavy had sucker punched him after her friends had woken her. A guard who’d seen the blow walked by his cage at that moment, saw what he was doing, and smirked.

Eddie estimated there were about a hundred armed men in the prison, and now that the adrenaline had been flushed from his body and he’d had time to think through his situation he understood why there were so many. Moses Ndebele was seen by many as a potential savior of his country—the ruling regime would do anything to silence him. If they held him in a prison in Zimbabwe, it would become a rallying point for his followers. But out here nobody knew where to find him. They could hold him indefinitely.

He wondered about Merrick and Ndebele being here at the same time and assumed there was a connection but couldn’t see what it was. Daniel Singer must have made some sort of deal with the government of Zimbabwe to use the old prison or vice versa.

A couple of hours had passed since they’d been discovered. Because Linc hadn’t been brought to the cell block, that meant the former SEAL must have gotten away on one of the bikes. Eddie was relieved.

The officer in charge of the garrison had announced that the Corporation team would be executed at dawn. There was no sense in Linc sacrificing himself needlessly if he had a chance to escape.

But with the chairman stuck out in the desert, Lincoln on his own except for Tiny Gunderson and Doc Huxley, and theOregon more than two hundred miles away, Eddie conceded the chance of rescue was slim. They would need a fleet of helicopters to pull off an aerial assault and the only vehicle currently aboard ship was Linc’s Harley, so crossing the desert was out.

Eddie had gone into the CIA immediately after college and spent the majority of the next fifteen years flying into and out of China, cultivating a network of informants who in turn allowed the United States to maintain its uneasy relationship with the mainland. He’d been inserted via a submarine onto Hainan in the spring of 2001 when the Chinese were holding the crew of an EP-3 spy plane and passed on information that kept the crisis from becoming a war. He’d maneuvered around China’s secret police, one of the most efficient in the world, with near impunity because he was so good at what he did. The irony of being caught by a third-rate dictator’s Praetorian guards wasn’t lost on him.

Despite the odds, Eddie still had faith that Juan Cabrillo would find a way to save them. Though the two served in the CIA at the same time, they hadn’t met until after leaving government service. That didn’t mean Eddie hadn’t heard of Cabrillo. Juan had singlehandedly pulled off some of the most difficult assignments in the agency’s history. And because he was fluent in Spanish, Arabic, and Russian, his missions had been in some of the toughest countries on earth. He was a bit of a legend at Langley. His reputation, along with his white-blond hair, had earned him the nickname Mr. Phelps, the lead character from the oldMission: Impossible television show. Whether tracking drug smugglers from Colombia into Panama or infiltrating a terrorist group in Syria planning to blow up the Israeli Knesset with a hijacked airliner, Cabrillo had done it all.

So if anyone was able to spring them from this hellhole with only a couple of hours to go before dawn and limited resources, Eddie was sure Juan was the man.

A flashlight beam stabbed out of the darkness and blinded Cabrillo. Behind the glare he distinctly heard the sound of rifle bolts being cocked back. He held still. The next few seconds would determine if he lived or died. One of the men moved closer, covering Juan with a massive revolver, an old Webley if he wasn’t mistaken. The man was older than Juan, pushing fifty, with white shooting through the tight curls on his head and wrinkles lining his forehead.

“Who are you?” he asked suspiciously.

“My name is Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo.” Judging by the man’s age, the fact they were all armed, and that they were headed in the general direction of the Devil’s Oasis, Juan gambled his life by saying, “I want to help you rescue Moses Ndebele.”

The man’s fist tightened around the antique pistol, his dark eyes unreadable in the shifting light.

Juan plunged on, praying he was right about the identity of this group. “Three of my men are at the prison now, trying to rescue an American businessman, when they were captured by troops guarding Ndebele. One of my guys managed to escape and is waiting with an aircraft about forty miles from the prison. If I’m going to save my people I am willing to help you save your leader.”

The gun remained rock steady. “How did you find us?”

“My main parachute fouled and when I was drifting down on the reserve here I saw your headlights. I jury rigged a para-ski and have been following you.”

“Your story is just strange enough to be true.” The man lowered his pistol and said something in a native dialect. Another of the Africans stepped forward and withdrew a knife from his pocket.

“Just so you know, I have a Glock automatic in a holster and an MP-5 machine pistol strapped around my back.”

The man with the knife glanced at the group leader. He nodded and the second African cut a slit into the nylon, allowing Juan to take his first deep breath since tumbling down the dune. He stood slowly, keeping his arm well away from the holstered Glock.

“Thank you,” he said and extended his hand. “Please call me Juan.”

“Mafana,” the headman said, and clasped Cabrillo’s thumb in a traditional greeting. “What do you know of ourbaba , our father, Moses Ndebele?”

“I know that he is to be tried and executed very soon and if that happens any chance of you overthrowing your government is gone.”

“He is the first leader to unite both major tribes in Zimbabwe, the Matabele and the Mashona,” Mafana said. “During our war of independence he held the rank of general before the age of thirty. But after the war the ruling elite saw his popularity as a threat to their power. He has been imprisoned and tortured often. They have had him in custody this time for two years and will kill him if we do not rescue him.”

“How many men do you have?”

“Thirty. All of us served with Moses.”

Juan looked at the men’s faces. None of them were under forty, yet there was a lean hunger in their eyes, a measure of confidence of men who had tasted combat that made the years since irrelevant.

“Can you fix your vehicle?” he asked, taking a step forward, but forgetting he was still attached to the main chute’s plastic back plate. He promptly fell on his face. A couple of the men chuckled.

Chagrined, Cabrillo turned around so he was sitting and pulled up his pants leg. The chuckles died on their lips when they saw the gleaming artificial leg. He yanked it off, saying, “Just think of it as the biggest Swiss Army knife in the world.”

The laughter returned. Mafana helped Juan to stand and gave him an arm to steady him as he hopped across the soft sand toward the temporary camp.

“To answer your question, yes it can be fixed. Dirt has entered the fuel pump and stopped it from working. We should be ready to go in another few minutes but we have lost a great deal of time.”

Juan borrowed a hammer and chisel from a blanket strewn with tools laid out next to the disabled truck and got to work freeing his prosthesis from the plastic plate. “How are you going to free Ndebele?”

“We are going to lay an ambush outside the prison and wait for them to transfer Moses away. They may use trucks, but we suspect it will be an aircraft. Rumor in our capital is that the trial is in two days.”

Which would be too late to save my guys, Juan thought. He also thought Mafana’s ambush idea would guarantee a bullet to Ndebele’s head the moment they engaged the guards. He had to find a way to get Mafana to attack the Devil’s Oasis before dawn or Eddie, Mike, and Ski were dead men. “What if I had a plan to free Moses tonight and fly him to safety in South Africa?”

The former guerrilla regarded Cabrillo sagely. “I would like to know more about this plan.”

“So would I,” Juan muttered to himself, knowing he had just a few moments to come up with something.

“First let me ask you: Do you have any rocket-propelled grenades?”

“Old Russian RPG-7s left over from the war.”

Juan groaned. Zimbabwe’s revolutionary war had ended twenty-five years ago.

“Do not worry,” Mafana added quickly. “They’ve been tested.”

“What about rope? How much rope do you have?”

Mafana asked one of his men for the answer and translated for Juan. “A great deal, it seems. At least two thousand feet of nylon line.”

“And one final question,” Juan said, looking back at where his cut-up parachute fluttered in the wind as inspiration hit him like a thunderbolt. “Any of you guys know how to sew?”

21

THEconstant backdrop of insect noise almost made Daniel Singer miss the ring of his satellite phone. He groped blindly for the instrument amid the damp tangle of his sheets and mosquito netting. He’d slept with it close by, not trusting one of the mercenaries he’d hired not to steal it while he slept. Money could buy only so much loyalty.

“Hello,” he said thickly.

“Dan, it’s Nina. There’s been a problem. Someone tried to rescue Merrick.”

Singer came fully awake. “What? Tell me what happened.”

“There were four of them. Three of them were captured and a fourth escaped on a motorbike. Susan shot Merrick in the chest. That’s how we knew they were here. The guards watching over Moses Ndebele found parachutes on the roof.”

“Wait, Susan shot Geoff?”

“Yes, in the chest. She pretended to be a kidnap victim and when she had the opportunity she grabbed a gun and shot him. We’ve stopped the bleeding and dosed him with some heroin from Jan’s stash. And don’t worry, I confiscated the rest.”

Drug abuse among his people was the last thing Singer worried about. “Who are they, the men who came for Merrick?”

“They claim they were hired by the company to save him and Susan. They won’t tell us anything else.

The captain of the guards wants to execute them at dawn, Danny.” There was horror in her voice when she delivered this last piece of information. “Everything feels so out of control. I don’t know what to do.”

“First thing is to calm down, Nina.” Singer took a breath to steady his own nerves and think through how he wanted to handle the situation. Vapor rose from the mangrove swamp outside the open-sided shed where he slept. Nearby, one of the African mercenaries grunted in his sleep while in the distance flare stacks from the numerous oil facilities belched so much flame that it looked as though the whole world was burning. The sight of such environmental devastation sickened him.

“What do you want me to do?” Nina asked.

Singer studied the luminous dial of his watch until he could see it was four thirty in the morning. Before falling asleep he’d checked the latest meteorological reports. They showed that the storm building over the mid-Atlantic would likely become the tenth named storm of the year, and all indications pointed to it growing into a monstrous hurricane.

Using the Devil’s Oasis to lock up his former partner, and messing with his mind a little bit, had only been phase one. They were just biding their time until a big storm came along and Singer implemented the second part of his operation. With Mother Nature being so cooperative, albeit with a little help from the heaters he’d placed off the coast of Namibia back in ’04, he could have Merrick flown here to Cabinda first thing in the morning.

“I’m going to send the plane to get you tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Um,” Nina started then fell silent.

“What is it?”

“Dan, they are going to execute the three commandos at dawn. We’ve all talked about it and none of us want to be anywhere near here when it happens. The mood is really ugly. The guard commander still thinks there’s a group on their way here to rescue Ndebele and none of the women, myself included, feel comfortable around these men, if you know what I mean.”

Singer thought for a moment. “Okay, there’s a place about forty miles east of you. The pilot who first took me to the Devil’s Oasis told me about it. I can’t remember its name but you’ll see it on a map. It’s a ghost town now but there’s an airstrip. I’ll call the pilot in Kinshasa and have him take off at first light.

Take one of the trucks and wait for him there. He should arrive sometime before noon.”

“Thanks, Danny. That’ll be perfect.”

Singer cut the connection. He knew better than to try to fall back asleep. Years of careful planning were coming together. How much easier it would have been if he hadn’t given so much of his fortune away after forcing Merrick to buy him out. He could have simply paid for what he needed outright and negated the necessity of so many difficult steps.

But as he stood leaning against a pole watching the oil field’s hellish glow he knew that the difficulty of this operation also made its success that much sweeter. There was no substitute for hard work. And maybe that was why he had given away most of his billions. They had come too easily. He and Merrick were barely into their twenties when they patented their coal scrubbers. Sure, there had been a lot of long hours to perfect the system, but nothing like the lifetime needed to understand and appreciate that much wealth and success.

Because he had had to work so hard to put this operation together he could savor it that much more.

The sacrifices, hardship, and privation made his ultimate victory more precious than all the money he’d accumulated in his previous life. And that it was all for the good of mankind made it even better.

He wondered, and not for the first time, how many lives he would save once the world woke up to the reality of global warming. The number ran into the tens of millions, but sometimes he thought that maybe he was really saving all of humanity and that in the future historians would look back and define this year and this storm as the one that made people see the light and stop the wanton destruction of the planet.

He wondered what someone would call such a person. The only word that came to mind wasmessiah .

While he didn’t care for the religious overtones, believing all religions to be myths, he admitted it was the best fit.

“Messiah,” he whispered aloud. “They’ll never know I saved them but I am their messiah.”

THE convoy, minus one of the vehicles, stopped five miles from the Devil’s Oasis to make final preparations for the attack. They’d circled around the prison so the prevailing winds were at their backs.

Cabrillo had spent most of the journey in the lead truck with Mafana honing the plan and coordinating it with Max Hanley and Franklin Lincoln. The batteries on his sat phone were just about dead by the time they all felt they had every angle covered.

Mafana seemed relieved that Juan was with them. He admitted that during the war he was merely a sergeant and lacked Cabrillo’s mind for tactics. The plan Juan had devised was far more intricate than Mafana’s direct approach, but also had a far greater chance of success.

Stepping out of the truck, Cabrillo knuckled his lower spine, trying to work out kinks that would challenge a professional masseuse. His eyes were red-rimmed from the dust, and no matter how much water he drank he could feel the grit on his teeth. He promised himself the longest shower of his life when this night was over. The thought of warm water brought on a fresh wave of fatigue. If not for the caffeine pills he’d added to his medical kit some months earlier he would have dropped to the ground and curled up like a dog.

He sucked in a bunch of quick deep breaths and shook out his arms in an effort to get his blood flowing again and decided on a quick shower and the longest nap of his life instead. While a couple of Mafana’s men unfolded his parachute and laid it on the desert floor, Cabrillo went through his equipment and discarded anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary, including his Glock and holster, a throwing knife, and his canteen and medical kit, plus half his ammunition for the H&K machine pistol. By doing this he was able to carry two additional rockets for the RPG-7 he was borrowing from Mafana.

He made certain that he kept his pocketknife. The original had been a gift from his grandfather for his tenth birthday. He’d lost that one decades ago and a dozen more just like it but every time he felt the buck knife in his pocket he was reminded of how he’d cut his finger the day he’d been given the gift and tearfully told his grandfather he wasn’t responsible enough for the blade. The old man had smiled and said, by thinking he wasn’t, proved that he was.

He called Max again. “We’re about five minutes from starting the attack.”

“Everything is set with Linc and Tiny,” Max told him. “George is standing by with the Robinson and we’re headed into position. Mark called. He and Eric are ready to start their sweep for the missing weapons at first light. Through his network of pilot cronies Tiny was able to get one of the best bush flyers in central Africa.”

“Okay, good.”

“How you doing, Hoss? You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m okay. Just being reminded that getting older sucks.”

“Wait until you have to drag your wrinkled butt out of bed after you hit sixty.”

Juan chuckled. “And with that lovely picture in my mind I’ve got to go.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. See you in a couple hours.”

“I’m putting some beer on ice for you.”

“There’s going to be four of us, so make it a case.” Juan cut the connection.

Mafana sidled up to him as Cabrillo sat and started to tie the molded plastic plate to his prosthetic foot.

The knots were tight, though not as strong as when he’d welded the two together, but for what he had in mind it didn’t need to be.

“Are you ready?” the former rebel asked. “Dawn is less than an hour away and we will need time to get into position.”

Juan stood. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With Mafana’s help, Cabrillo made his way awkwardly to the parachute. As per his instructions, Mafana’s men had stretched the black nylon across the desert and piled sand along its edges to keep the wind from getting under it and blowing it away. Before securing himself in the rig Juan slung a backpack loaded with rockets for the RPG over his shoulders so it hung across his chest. The tube for the launcher and his MP-5 were tied off below it. He’d already inspected the area where one of the Africans had sewn closed the cuts they had made to get him out of the chute, so there was nothing left for him to do but ignore the knot of apprehension tightening in his gut and strap himself in.

“We will wait for your signal,” Mafana said and shook Cabrillo’s hand. “Tonight you will help save a nation.”

The African rebels jogged back to their vehicles a quarter mile distant. The sound of their engine’s firing came a few moments later. Juan double-checked the knots as he waited and leaned back slightly in preparation for the jolt.

To his credit, the driver of the tow vehicle went easy on the acceleration. The two thousand feet of nylon line they’d cobbled together came taut as the truck inched forward. Cabrillo leaned back even further when the rope tied around his chest began to pull. The plastic insert he’d used to para-ski across the desert started hissing over the sand as the tow truck picked up speed. The parachute pulled clear of the dirt that had been piled on it and when they reached ten miles per hour air began to fill the foil. It shot off the desert floor and yanked at Cabrillo’s risers but they weren’t going fast enough to generate the lift needed to get him airborne.

Because the line was so long, Juan knew if he fell now the driver would never see he was down. He’d be dragged across the ground until he could somehow untie the rope. To keep his balance he had to bend deeply as the truck continued to accelerate, the tension on his risers increasing by the second.

Juan juked left to avoid a rock, almost hit another, and nearly fell backward when the plate skidded out from under him. He lifted both legs from the ground to get the ski back under him, relying on the partially inflated chute to give him a second’s reprieve. His actions nearly collapsed it, but he managed to stay on his feet and find his center of balance once again.

The truck hit twenty miles per hour, then twenty-five. Juan’s legs and knees were burning and then suddenly he felt nothing. He was airborne.

Enough air was flowing across the air foil to overcome his weight and the weight of his gear. The truck continued to pick up speed and Juan sailed ever higher. Soon the altimeter strapped to his wrist read nineteen hundred feet. The ride was exhilarating.

“Parachuting, para-skiing, para-sailing.” He laughed. “All in a day’s work.”

He used his pocket knife to cut away the ropes binding the plate he’d used to ski on his artificial leg. He wished he could have kept the olive-drab piece of plastic as a souvenir but he had no choice if he wanted to make a safe landing.

There was enough slack and give to the rope that his ride was relatively smooth, although not as steady had he been behind a boat where the sport of para-sailing had become popular at resorts all over the globe. The truck down below him would occasionally dip into a valley, jerking Juan like a kite at the end of a string, but it wasn’t too bad.

It was up to Cabrillo to decide when he’d detach himself from the tow line. Behind him the first molten blush of the coming dawn spread like cobalt-hued ink. He knew from their combat briefing on theOregon that sunrise was in fifteen minutes. But as colors spread across the desert he could just make out the blockhouse design of the Devil’s Oasis about a mile away. Without another thought, he untied the rope connected to a D ring on his combat harness. The line whipped out of his hands as the chute rose another hundred or more feet, no longer tethered to the truck.

One of Mafana’s men would be watching for it to tumble out of the sky and the convoy would come to a halt before it could be spotted by a sentry at the prison. The men had scant minutes to get into position.

Juan heaved down on the toggles to give himself the maximum amount of time aloft as the wind carried him toward the old penitentiary. It wasn’t the first occasion tonight that luck remained on his side.

Provided the wind held, he had more than enough height to glide to the prison’s roof.

If anything, the breeze freshened, bearing him along like a leaf. He worked the toggles, changing direction slightly to keep the prison centered between his dangling boots. The sky was still a deep indigo when he crossed over the top of the Devil’s Oasis and no alarms had been sounded. He spilled air from the chute in a controlled descent and touched down so lightly that it felt as if he’d just taken the last step of a flight of stairs.

Turning, he quickly bundled the chute into his arms to keep it from blowing into the prison’s inner courtyard. He shucked off the harness and the backpack of rocket shells and temporarily used them as dead weight to keep the chute in check. He hefted the MP-5 and did a fast reconnoiter of the parapet.

He noted where his team had earlier secured lines to descend into the prison. The ropes had been cut away, but the eyebolts were still drilled into the thick wooden roof. Peering over the outside wall he saw that the sand had been scratched up and he recognized the trails where the bikes had been ridden off.

Two of them looped around toward the main gate while the third, Linc’s, vanished into the wasteland.

There was another set of tracks, a truck’s, judging by their size, that disappeared into the east.

After tying his parachute to one of the eyebolts, Cabrillo quickly designated his targets and found the best vantage point for his attack. He had seven rockets for the RPG-7 and four targets, but he figured that after so many years a couple of the projectiles would be duds. Still, he liked his odds.

He called theOregon . Though Hali Kasim was the ship’s communications director, Linda Ross was coordinating the assault. She answered the call before the first ring had ended. “Linda’s house of pleasure and pain,” she said by way of greeting.

“Put me down for some of the former,” Juan whispered. “I’m in.”

“We expected nothing less. Of course, I’ve seen seventy-year-old grandmothers para-sailing at Cabo, so I’m not all that impressed.” Her light tone vanished. “Tiny took off about fifteen minutes ago. He’ll stay out of range until fifteen minutes after sunup. After that you should be able to talk to Linc over your tactical net.”

There was no need for Cabrillo to further compromise his location by speaking so he said nothing.

“Just want to say good luck,” Linda added, “and get our boys out of there.Oregon out.”

Juan clicked off the phone and settled it in its hard case at his hip.

The three guards lazing by the front gate suddenly came, if not to attention, at least a bit more alert as a door opened directly under where Juan was perched. Ringed by stone crenellations like a medieval castle, Juan had ample cover as he watched a lone figure cross the courtyard, a flashlight clutched in his hand. He spoke to one of the guards for a moment, then retreated the way he’d come.

The full glare of the sun struck Juan’s back as it finally climbed over the horizon. Despite the long shadows he could see three wooden stakes had been driven into the ground against the wall to the left of the main gate. Before light could bathe the enclosed quad Juan plucked his little buck knife from his pocket and with an easy toss threw it toward the execution stakes. It landed and skidded right up against the middle post. It had been the grandfather who’d given him that first knife who’d also taught him horseshoes.

As Juan readied the rocket launcher, men began to trickle onto the parade ground, in ones and twos at first, but soon there were dozens streaming in. He could tell by body language and how they horsed around that the soldiers were eager for the execution. He estimated there were about a hundred. And unfortunately, more than half of them had kept their weapons with them. The buzz of conversation and rough laughter drifted up from below until another door was slammed open.

Juan had to crane his neck to see a pair of escorts leading Eddie, Mike, and Ski from within the prison.

He felt a squeeze of pride in his chest. His crew walked with their shoulders back and heads high, and had their hands not been bound behind their backs he knew their arms would be swinging in step. They were going to their deaths as men.

He clicked on his machine pistol’s laser sight.

EDDIE Seng had seen more than a few executions while under deep cover in China and while those had been carried out with quiet efficiency, the guard commander here was turning this into a show for his men, inspired no doubt by some movie he’d seen on how such things were done.

If he hadn’t been the one trussed up and about to face the firing squad he would have chuckled at the absurdity.

He was a brave man, braver than most, but he also didn’t want to die, not like this—powerless. His thoughts turned to his family. Although his parents had been dead for a couple of years, there were dozens of aunts and uncles in New York, and more cousins than he could count. None of them knew what he did for a living nor would any ask on his infrequent trips home. They simply welcomed him into the fold for as long as he stayed, plied him with more food than he could possibly eat, and made sure he met the children born since his last visit.

He would miss them more than he realized. But they wouldn’t know he was gone, not until Juan showed up with a seven-or eight-digit check, the value of Eddie’s share of the Corporation. No matter what the chairman said to explain how Eddie had amassed such a fortune, he knew they wouldn’t believe him.