Eyes of the Hammer

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Roberto Ramirez was frustrated and mad. Events were swiftly moving against him but he didn't know who to strike out against. Despite his ranting and raving Friday, his sons had been able to come up with few answers. He looked up as Carlos, his youngest son and business manager, came in the door and sat in front of his desk. "What is it?"

Carlos looked worried. "Suarez was attacked last night in a manner similar to the attack on us."

Roberto's aged forehead wrinkled as he considered this new development. "That gives us one negative answer at least. We know now that Suarez wasn't behind it."

"There's more, Padre. Suarez was killed in the attack on his main lab outside Medellin."

The Shark was surprised. "Why was Suarez up there in the middle of the night? What is going on? First us and now Suarez. Is the Ring Man waging war?"

Carlos shook his head negatively. "Our informants indicate that the Ring Man's people here have been inactive the last several days. If he is behind it then he has brought in outsiders who have managed to stay well hidden."

"But what about his moves on the markets in the United States that we are getting reports on? It seems as if he knew what was going to happen. He is moving quickly."

His son leaned forward. "I have another theory."

The Shark waved his hand. "What is it?"

"The Americans."

"What! Impossible. How could they do it? How could they have found out where our main lab was? They wouldn't dare attack into Colombia without government approval."

Carlos offered his theory. "Maybe it is the CIA acting alone or through mercenaries. I don't know. But some of the facts point to the Americans. Although there were no survivors from the attack on our camp, the evidence points to heavy-caliber weapons being fired from the air and artillery being used. Perhaps helicopter gunships and artillery at the same time. We know our military didn't do it. Who else could? Who else could move such weapons so quickly?

"There were some survivors at a roadblock near Suarez's camp and they report that helicopters were used in the attack. Since we know they weren't Colombian, that points to American involvement. Maybe they are reacting to the slaying of Santia."

Roberto considered this. "Maybe. But that still leaves us with unanswered questions. How are the Americans getting their information? How did they manage to get Suarez at his lab? Our informants are telling us nothing. And how is the Ring Man involved? His moves on the distributors in the United States are too quick not to have been preplanned."

Roberto rubbed his chin. "We need to find out if the Americans are indeed behind all this. See what you can do about that. Also, contact our people in Medellin and see what we can salvage out of Suarez's operation. We cannot allow the Ring Man to get too strong."

The Ring Man was satisfied with the way things were going. Suarez's organization was crumbling. Already the man's former lieutenants were fighting like jackals over the carcass of the organization left in Medellin.

Ring Man would let them fight each other. He was going to cut them out at both ends. His people were prepared to outbid them on the supply end for the coca paste, and at the distribution end he was already gathering in the major East and West Coast American buyers. He expected more of Suarez's and Ramirez's American buyers and distributors to come around when they realized those sources were no longer able to keep up with the demand.

Ring Man lit a large cigar and leaned back in his chair. All in all a very profitable week. With a few bold strokes he had become the strongest man in Colombia. Now it was time to consolidate his winnings.

Hanks walked with Strom through the executive dining room. "What have you got?"

Strom laid it out in one sentence. "Alegre insists that we terminate the Ring Man for him."

Hanks paused on the way to his table and looked at his subordinate. "You're joking."

"No, sir. Montez contacted Jameson and passed the word. Alegre is threatening to expose the Hammer strikes unless we do it."

"How the hell is he going to do that? Alegre would be cutting his own throat."

Strom wasn't the type to disagree with his boss, but he had to point out the obvious. "We have no proof that Alegre sanctioned the missions and passed us the targeting information. Alegre could probably make it look like we did do this unilaterally, without permission."

Hanks pondered this as he sat at his reserved table in the corner of the room and ordered his meal. He waited until the waiter drifted out of earshot. "Have you contacted anyone over at State or the White House on this?"

"No, sir. I thought I'd better brief you first."

Hanks sighed. He always got the dirty deals. He thought out loud. "State will shit nails if we tell them about this, and I don't want to hit the president up with it either."

Hanks shook his head. That bastard Alegre had sure put them on the hot spot. Hanks had considered the possibility that they could use the raids as leverage against Alegre, but he hadn't considered the opposite. He hadn't taken the time to think this whole thing through completely and had trusted Strom to handle it. He was a little upset with Strom for not having considered this possibility and getting some hard evidence on Alegre, implicating him in the whole thing. "Did Jameson get any tapes of his exchanges with Montez? Any video or audio?"

"No, sir. Montez always set up the meets and that wasn't possible."

"Jesus Christ!" Hanks exploded. "Who the hell is running this op, Strom? Us or the Colombians?" He focused his glare on his subordinate. "You didn't do a very good job on this. Always get leverage material on the other guy."

Hanks paused until after the waiter had put his lunch on the table. "Did Montez give any indication of when they'd like this done?"

Strom was a much different man from the image he presented to Westland. His accent was gone and his confident air with it. "He wants the job done early this week. He's concerned about what will happen when the target finds out he's getting fingered, too."

Hanks considered that. "This is going to be a problem. We could just leave Alegre to take the heat, but the cartel would probably have him for lunch, and our friends across the river wouldn't like that too much." Making his decision, he shifted gears. "We can't have this traced back to us. Do we have any locals we can use down there?"

Strom shook his head. "I'd strongly advise against that, sir. Anyone we use from down there will talk. You know the kind of headlines we'll get out of that. 'CIA Pays Local Assassin.' Plus, you can't trust those beaners."

"Those beaners," Hanks flared, "outsmarted you pretty damn good on this, Strom." Hanks forced himself to calm down and pondered the situation. "We've got the same problem of being implicated, even worse, if we use one of our people. How about contracting a foreign free lance through a cutout?"

Strom shook his head again. "I've considered that, sir. Not enough time. No free lance worth his weight would take a job like this on such short notice."

Hanks was irritated. "You need to get someone. We can't afford to lose Alegre and we also can't afford to have him go public with the Hammer strikes."

Strom tried to throw some water on the fire. "You really think Alegre would do that? It could raise a lot of nasty questions for him."

Hanks snorted a laugh. "If we don't get the Ring Man off his ass, he isn't going to be alive. Alegre would rather be scorned and alive than noble and dead. That man is going to get desperate soon, once the Ring Man starts figuring out what's going on. Which will probably happen tomorrow night, if things go as planned."

Hanks considered another angle. "You know, if our target in Colombia was behind the Santia killing, we might be able to take him out without too much hassle, even if the cover gets blown. The media wouldn't crucify us then."

Hanks looked up. "Find somebody for the job. I don't want to use one of ours or anybody who can be traced back to the agency. We're going to keep this from the people across the river, so it's got to be kept tight."

The phone woke Davidson out of the tail end of his recovery sleep. It had been a hell of a night, partying at the officers' club into the morning hours.

Davidson searched for the intruding device under the pile of clothes that littered the floor. Recovering it, he lay back down and put the phone on his chest before answering. "Captain Davidson."

"Captain, this is Colonel Moore."

Shit, thought Davidson. It can't be good news. His battalion commander had never before called him at home just to say hello. "Yes, sir."

"I've got a mission for you to fly today. Are you fit to fly?"

Davidson cracked an eye and looked at the clock. The reg was that a pilot was supposed to have twelve hours after his last alcohol before flying. "What time would I be lifting, sir?"

"Approximately 1800."

Enough time, thought Davidson. "Yes, sir. I'm good to go."

"All right. Here's the deal. I know it sounds kind of strange, but this comes straight from SOUTHCOM headquarters. You're to take either tail number 546 or 907. Make sure you have the external tanks topped off, because the requirement is to be able to fly at least a thousand kilometers."

Christ, thought Davidson. Where the hell was he going to fly? The U.S. mainland? This sure screwed up what remained of his weekend. "Yes, sir."

"There will be a C-130 landing at 1700 at your location. Your cargo will be on that aircraft. You're to do whatever the man in charge says."

That's a bunch of bullshit if I ever heard it, Davidson thought. "What do you mean, do whatever this guy says, sir? Who is this person and what's the cargo?" And where's the destination, while we're at it.

"I know as much as I just told you. This comes straight from the commanding general. Just do what the man says and take him wherever he wants to go. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. By the way, sir, who's going to be the other pilot?"

"Chief Hobbes will be PIC."

Fuck, Davidson wanted to scream, not Hobbes. "Yes, sir."

"You'd better get your ass in gear and get whichever bird you're going to use preflighted."

"Yes, sir." The phone went dead and Davidson stared at it. What a bunch of bullshit.

Davidson drove up next to the ramp where the Blackhawks were parked. He scanned the line of aircraft as he grabbed his flight vest and helmet out of the trunk. He could see Chief Warrant Officer Hobbes already preflighting one of the two aircraft the colonel had specified. He smiled to himself as he wandered over. Although the colonel had said to get over to the flight line in a hurry, Davidson had deliberately taken a leisurely shower and grabbed some lunch before arriving. He knew that Hobbes would get here first and do the preflight. Davidson was damned if he would do it when a warrant officer could.

Hobbes looked up as Davidson approached. "Afternoon, sir."

"Afternoon." Davidson opened the door to the copilot's seat and collapsed into it. He waited while Hobbes completed the preflight. Besides having to work on a Sunday, the idea of flying with Hobbes really set his teeth on edge. He wondered if the battalion commander had done it to him deliberately.

Despite outranking the warrant officer, Davidson would be only the copilot. Hobbes had over seven hundred more hours in Blackhawks than Davidson and thus would be the PIC, or pilot in command, for the mission. Davidson didn't think it was right for a subordinate to ever be in charge. The killer though, as far as he was concerned, was that Hobbes was a woman.

Hobbes stuck her head in the door. "It looks good to go. I already looked at 546 and this one is in better shape and has a better maintenance record."

Davidson nodded glumly. Having to let a woman be in command of the flight irritated the hell out of him. He hated women in the army and he hated the idea of flying with one. They just didn't belong, in his opinion. Just looking at Hobbes in her uniform made him mad. At five foot four, she was just barely over the minimum height requirement to be a pilot, and she was so skinny she seemed to disappear in the flight suit. It further annoyed him that Hobbes had been here during the invasion of Panama a year and a half ago and had flown combat missions, whereas Davidson had flown back to the States on Christmas leave the day before the invasion and missed the whole thing. Every time he saw the combat patch on her right shoulder he saw red.

Hobbes had climbed into the cargo compartment in the back and was perusing flight charts. "Any idea where we're going, sir?"

"Nope."

Hobbes scratched her head. "This is the strangest thing I've ever heard. What did the colonel tell you, sir?"

"Be here. Load up on fuel. Wait for a C-130 at 1700. Take whoever gets off wherever they want to go." Davidson wasn't going to make any effort to be friendly.

"The Old Man told me to be ready to fly a thousand klicks." Hobbes shook her head. "We've got the fuel but it's going to be a long ride if we have to go that far. Over five hours in the air."

Davidson decided to ignore her. If she thought she was such hot shit as a Blackhawk PIC, he'd let her worry about things.

"Sir, are you all right?" Hobbes was looking at him strangely.

Davidson couldn't believe she had asked that. The bitch probably thought he was still drunk. He turned in his seat. "Listen. You let me worry about me, OK?" He realized he'd pushed her too far as she slowly put down the maps.

"Sir, with all due respect, I'm in charge of this aircraft and responsible for it and everyone who will be in it. That includes you. If you are under the time limit for alcohol, you need to let me know and I'll ask the colonel to get another pilot out here. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Davidson wanted to scream at her and put her in her place. Unfortunately, he knew she was within her rights as PIC to ground him if she thought that was best.

"I'm fine. I'm outside the twelve-hour window. There's nothing we can do until that 130 gets here, so I'm just relaxing. Is that all right with you?" Are you happy, bitch? he thought.

Hobbes nodded. "All right, sir. I'll take your word on it."

Davidson rolled his eyes. Oh, thank you so much.

Riley felt the wheels touch down. The plane did a short bounce and then rolled to the end of the runway. The pilot turned the plane as the loadmaster began to open the ramp. Looking out, Riley could see a Blackhawk sitting on the tarmac about a hundred meters away. The plane jerked to a halt and the ramp went down all the way. Powers stood up. "Let's go. Rucks first, then the boat."

Each member of Eyes Three grabbed his rucksack and jogged off the ramp toward the helicopter. Riley could see two pilots waiting by the aircraft. He threw his ruck in front of the nose of the helicopter and went up to the two figures in flight suits. He looked them over quickly. A captain and a female warrant. They were looking at him strangely. He knew his appearance wasn't exactly what they were used to. Each member of the team wore a black wet suit with a combat vest over it. There was nothing to identify who they were, which Riley hoped wouldn't cause any trouble with the pilots.

He stuck out his hand to the captain and then the warrant. "Dave Riley. You all ready to go?"

"Captain Davidson." The captain seemed pissed off about something, but Riley didn't have time to worry about it.

The tiny woman draped in a flight suit took his hand briefly. "Chief Hobbes. We're topped off. Once you all get loaded, and tell us where we're going, we'll be ready."

"What the fuck is that?"

Riley looked over his shoulder at the object of the captain's remark. The other five members of the team were carrying the Zodiac off the ramp. They had already inflated the ten-man craft at Belvoir to save time down here. The black boat measured fifteen feet five inches long and over six feet wide and weighed 265 pounds. Adding the outboard motor and fuel bladders, which were tied down inside, boosted the weight to over 400 pounds. The men were glad to drop it on the ground in front of the bird.

"That's a Zodiac, a rubber boat."

"I can see that," the captain replied snippishly. "What I want to know is where you think you're going to put it. It won't fit into the aircraft. And we're not going to fly a thousand miles with it sling-loaded. We'll lose too much speed and fuel."

"We're going to put it under your aircraft."

The female pilot seemed interested. "How're you going to do that?"

Riley pointed as Powers began directing the movement of the boat between the two front wheels of the Blackhawk. "We've got something called a Boltz rig."

"Never heard of it," the captain snapped.

Riley decided to ignore him. "The rig is a series of straps that go around the entire boat, both directions. We run the straps through the cargo bay and crank down on them. The rubber boat kind of melds along the bottom of the aircraft."

Hobbes walked over closer to watch what they were doing to her aircraft. "How do we release it if we have to, or when we get wherever it is you're going?"

Riley pointed. "Single point release inside the aircraft. Just like a sling load but the boat will almost seem like part of the airframe and won't slow you down or eat fuel. You can fly with the cargo doors closed. The engine will be inside the boat."

Davidson was shaking his head. "I've never heard of this here Boltz rig"

"It was invented by, and named after, a team sergeant in 5th Special Forces Group." Riley decided he'd better reassure the pilots. "It's already been evaluated and tested by the aviation board. It's been approved by them for use. The 5th Group pilots have flown quite a bit like this."

Hobbes looked at Riley. "I'll have to take your word on that. Can you tell me where we're going?"

"You got a chart of the Caribbean?" She nodded and pulled one out of her map case. Riley pointed. "Right there."

The captain exploded upon seeing the location. "Bullshit! What the hell is this? You guys come waltzing off this plane like you own the goddamn place. No uniforms. You introduce yourself without any rank. You're carrying weapons and equipment I've never seen before. You start rigging up our aircraft with some piece of shit I've never heard of. And now you want us to fly you to just off the coast of Colombia? No way. I'm not going to fly with that thing under the bird. Something will go wrong with it and it'll kill us all. I'm going to call the colonel and tell him what's going on."

Powers had wandered over during the exchange, leaving Partusi in charge of the rigging. Riley looked at the team sergeant, who shook his head slightly. Riley stepped in front of the captain. "I'm sorry. For security reasons we can't let you talk to anyone now. I believe your orders were to do what I said. I understand that this is very unusual, but all you have to do is fly us to that point and drop us off."

Riley sighed when he saw that reason wasn't going to work with this officer. That was all he needed right now — some asshole to get stupid. The captain grabbed his hat from out of the aircraft and turned for the base ops building, only to find Powers standing in front of him.

"You ain't going nowhere."

Hobbes quickly tried to defuse the situation. "Everyone calm down." She looked at Powers. "It takes two of us to fly and if you hurt him we aren't going anywhere."

Powers shrugged. "I didn't say anything about hurting him. I just said he wasn't going anywhere — and he isn't."

She turned to Davidson. "Sir, the colonel told us to do what these men say. As PIC I'm willing to give it a shot, flying with the boat." She turned to Riley. "Would it be all right if we tried lifting here, so we can check out how the aircraft feels and reacts with that thing under it?"

Riley was willing to be reasonable. "Sure. You're the pilot."

Hobbes went over to the captain and Riley smiled when he overheard what she whispered to him. At least she had some common sense. "Sir, in case you haven't noticed, these guys have magazines in their weapons and they don't have any blank adapters. Those are live grenades on their harnesses. This is the real thing and I for one don't want to stand here arguing with them."

Davidson gave in. "Fine. Fine. Let's get the show on the road."

Hobbes came back over to Riley. "There will be no trouble."

Riley gestured at the captain. "What's his problem?"

Hobbes leaned closer so Davidson wouldn't overhear. "His dick gets shorter when he has to fly with a woman. He loses an inch or so of his manliness. Makes him irritable."

Maria was in the shower getting ready to leave for work and Rich Stevens was relaxing, lying on his bed, when the noise of someone knocking on the door disturbed his reverie. Stevens was irritated. Who the hell could that be? Tonight was his night off. He had told everyone on the staff that he didn't want to be disturbed today because he needed to rest after all the night work he'd been doing.

Stevens glanced toward the partly open bathroom door. The knocking came again, more insistent. He jumped up and closed the bathroom door all the way. He grimaced as he realized the noise of the shower still came through. He threw on a robe and went over to his door and opened it a crack. "Yeah?"

One of the staffers from the embassy communications room stood there. "You got a call from the States."

"So what? I left word not to be disturbed. I've been busting my ass working all these nights and you wake me up to tell me I got a phone call? Couldn't you have just taken a message?"

The man was trying to see past him and was obviously confused by the sound of the shower in the background. Stevens had tried to be as careful as possible about having Maria in his room, although the fact that he had to sign her in and out of the embassy compound precluded him from being totally discreet. He didn't need someone prying into his personal life. He knew Washington would take a dim view of a married agent sleeping around, although Stevens found that superior attitude ridiculously hypocritical based on his observations of the marital merry-go-round in Washington.

The office clerk rolled his eyes. "Hey, don't get on my case. No, I couldn't just take a message. Not on a Flash priority call over the STU-III. The caller is still on hold, waiting for you, so you'd better get your ass in gear." The man turned and walked away.

Stevens shut the door and quickly put his pants on, his mind working as he tried to figure out why he'd be getting a Flash call today on the secure phone. It had to be about the hit the next night. He hadn't even told Maria that he would have to work the next evening. He had been waiting until she got ready to go to work this evening. As he finished dressing, she came out of the bathroom, drying herself. As always the sight of her naked took his breath away. He couldn't believe his luck in finding her.

"What is it?"

Stevens strode over to the door. "I've got to take a priority call from the States. I'll be right back." He opened the door and left.

Five minutes later he was back and in an even worse mood. Maria was dressed and ready to leave. She nuzzled up to him as he came in. "I must go to work now but I will be back early, say at eleven tonight?"

Stevens shook his head. "I'm sorry. Something just came up. I won't be able to see you tonight."

Maria looked surprised. "Why not?"

"I have to work again. Just like last night."

Maria seemed confused. "But I thought you were done with that."

Stevens glanced up in surprise. Why would she say a thing like that? "Why did you think I was done working at night?"

Maria seemed flustered. "Well, I, well, you did not tell me that you work at night again, so I thought you not work anymore at night." She looked concerned. "You not going to do anything dangerous are you? Not like on "Miami Vice" show. What do you call it — undercover?"

Stevens laughed. "No. I'm not going undercover. All I do is sit right here in the embassy and listen to radios. Just like I've done the last two nights I worked."

Stevens appreciated Maria's concern. He was edgy about having the schedule moved up one night and being notified at the last minute. They must have known about the change all day, yet they had held off on calling him until now. He was trying to sort out the reasons for that as he said goodbye to Maria.

Once she was gone, Stevens went back into the main embassy building to the communications room. The NSA communications specialist acting as duty officer spoke up as Stevens came in. "Don't tell me you're going to be here all night again."

Stevens nodded glumly. "Yep." He handed the comm man a list. "Could you punch me up that frequency and azimuth and direction on the SATCOM? Hook it into booth one. I'll work out of there again."

The man twirled the dials on one of the many machines set up in the room. He looked up. "You got the KAK?"

Stevens pulled out of his pocket the small metal plug holding the encryption and decryption codes that he had just retrieved from the embassy vault and handed it to the man. The comm specialist took it and checked to see that it was labeled for the proper time period. Then he plugged it into a small black scrambler. He pushed a button and the machine hummed. He pulled the KAK back out and handed it to Stevens. "All right. You're all set to go. Freq'd on the radio and coded on the scrambler. Have fun."

Stevens went into booth one and turned on the terminal. He put on his headset and keyed the mike. "Hammer Base, this is Lantern. Over." He waited a few seconds and then the answer came.

"This is Hammer Base. Over." Stevens recognized Westland's voice. Damn bitch was probably the one who cut me out, he thought. Goddamn Clowns In Action and their paranoia.

"I'm ready down at this end. Could you fill me in on what the hell is going on? Why the move up?" Stevens released the send button and waited. When no answer was forthcoming he remembered that he had forgotten to give the obligatory "over." Goddamn military and their radio games. He keyed the mike again. "Over."

The answer came back. "It's for security reasons. We've been concerned about a leak so we thought it best to keep it in tight and move things forward. Over."

Figures, Stevens thought. Goddamn paranoia. He keyed the mike again. "Is the target still the same or am I not authorized to know that either? Over."

"Target's the same and hit time is the same, just twenty-four hours earlier. Just relax. We've got a long night ahead. Out."

Just great, Stevens muttered to himself.

The trial run with the boat attached had gone well. Hobbes and Davidson had topped off the tanks again and then planned their flight route. Since the majority of the route would be over water, they would use the Doppler internal navigational device to direct them, in combination with following an azimuth and monitoring their speed. Hobbes had been frank with Riley about her lack of faith in the Doppler's accuracy, especially over water.

Riley had told her that all she had to do was get them within thirty kilometers of the indicated drop-off point, which was sixty kilometers due east of Barranquilla. She said she could do that. The whine of the turbine engines increased. Hobbes pulled in collective and the aircraft shuddered as it picked up.

The six members of Eyes Three sat on the floor inside the cargo bay and watched the ground fall away below them as the Blackhawk lifted and turned east, flitting over the Panamanian jungle toward the Caribbean. They were on their way.

Ring Man looked up from the pool table, where he had just been ready to make a shot. "What line?"

His chief aide and bodyguard, Ponte, indicated the phone near the door. "Line two."

Ring Man went over and picked up the phone. Ponte noted that the Ring Man's body became rigid as he talked into the phone. Not a good sign. He listened to his boss's end of the conversation.

"Talk."

"Just like the other two?"

"Tonight?"

"How long ago?"

"Do you know when?"

"Stay there. I'll get back to you."

Ring Man hung up the phone. He looked across at Ponte. His eyes seemed clouded over. Ponte waited patiently. He'd seen that look before. It meant his boss was thinking. Finally he seemed to come down to earth.

Ring Man looked at his watch and then at Ponte. "There's a job you have to do. It must be done quickly. Time is of the essence. Here is what I want done. Get a hold of… "

Stevens was a quarter of the way through the book he had brought with him to help the night pass, when he was interrupted by the duty officer rapping on the door of the booth he was in. He cracked the door open. "Yeah, what's up?"

"You got a local phone call."

Stevens frowned. Who would be calling him? He got up, left the booth, and went to the phone on the wall.

"Stevens here."

"Rich, this is Maria."

Shit, she wasn't ever supposed to call him at work. Stevens glanced around nervously. The duty man was playing games on his desk computer. Stevens hissed into the phone. "I can't talk now. I'm busy."

"Don't hang up, Rich. I'm in trouble. I need your help right away."

Christ! Stevens thought. Women. "I'm on duty. I'll see you tomorrow."

"It cannot wait until tomorrow. Only for five minutes. That's all I need you for."

She sounded like she really was in trouble. Like she had just been crying. "What's the matter? What do you need me for?"

"I cannot tell you on the phone. Just come to my uncle's bar. Around back. I will be waiting for you there. It will only take five minutes. I need your help very much."

Stevens calculated. The team hadn't even infiltrated yet. Hell, no one would miss him. On the last two missions no one had even talked to him until it was over. At that time it had only been Westland calling to verify that he had copied the team's final report on target destruction so he could relay it to Alegre. He could have had a heart attack and no one would have noticed. He pictured Maria without clothes on. "All right. I'll be there in a couple of minutes. But I can't stay longer than five minutes, then I have to get back."

"Oh, thank you, Rich. Thank you."

Stevens hung up the phone and went over to the duty officer. "I need you to cover for me for a little while. I have to go take care of something."

The duty officer winked knowingly. "Yeah, sure. You want me to monitor your net?"

Stevens shook his head. The man wasn't cleared for it. "No. Nothing's going to be happening in there for a while. I'll be back before then."

Stevens left the embassy and went across the street. He looked in the front door of the cafe. Everything looked all right. He wondered what the hell was the matter with Maria. Goddamn women. They got upset at the stupidest things. He hoped she wasn't going to pull some sort of "marry me" bullshit. Christ, he thought suddenly, she'd better not be pregnant. He'd be damned if he would take responsibility for that. She'd told him she was on the pill.

Stevens headed around to the back and stopped as another thought hit him. Maybe her uncle had found out about the two of them and was waiting back there to beat the crap out of the Yankee who was porking his niece. Stevens smiled grimly to himself. If that was the case then the guy had another thing coming. He loosened his snub nose revolver in his waist holster and strode around the corner. He peered into the dark trying to see.

He started as a figure came out of the shadows. It was Maria. She looked very anxious. Stevens relaxed a little.

"Rich! I am happy you come. Follow me."

"Whoa! Where're we going and what's the problem?"

"Just come here and I will tell you."

Stevens allowed her to lead him farther into the alley. Suddenly he had the feeling they weren't alone. His worries about her uncle resurfaced. He wheeled. Two men stood there holding nasty-looking submachine guns.

Jesus Christ, thought Stevens. That's a hell of a lot of firepower to bring to bear on a guy just for going out with a girl. He forgot any thought he might have had about pulling his revolver. He turned to Maria. "What's going on? Who are these guys?"

She stepped forward, reached calmly under his jacket, and removed his revolver. "Shut up, gringo, and come this way."

Riley heard Hobbes through the headset. "This is it. As close as I can figure to where you want."

"Roger. Get down to ten and ten. Drop on my thumbs-up. Thanks." Riley liked that this target was just in from the coast, so they could infiltrate and exfiltrate by water. He felt it was much safer than either parachuting or going in direct with helicopters. Plus, by using the regular Blackhawk with no advance warning for infiltration, they had cut out a lot of people knowing where the target was or even that an operation was being mounted.

The two pilots would know the general area, but they had an almost three-hour flight back to Panama and they would be met by military police when they landed. Pike had arranged with the SOUTHCOM commander for the MPs to hold the two pilots for the night. Riley felt sorry for the warrant but he wished the captain could be held for a couple extra days.

"Roger. Good luck," Hobbes offered. The captain said nothing.

Riley took off the headset. The helicopter began flying about ten feet above the water, with a forward speed of ten knots. Riley slid open the right cargo door while Powers opened the left.

The men sat on the edge, three to a side, their waterproofed rucksacks in their laps. Riley turned back toward the pilots. Hobbes was looking at him over her shoulder. Riley gave her a thumbs-up and she hit the release on her cyclic.

The Zodiac dropped away from the aircraft and hit the water. Two at a time, one from each side, the members of Eyes Three quickly followed. The first pair, Partusi and Holder, landed within five meters of the boat. Riley was the last one off the right side. He threw out his ruck and shoved himself off the deck. As he descended he twisted in the air so that his back faced the flight direction. He put his hands behind his neck, interlacing his fingers, and touched his elbows together in front of his face. The ten-knot forward speed and the fall combined to slam him into the water, causing him to lose his breath momentarily. He popped to the surface and looked around. With a last flyby, the Blackhawk disappeared into the night sky, leaving him with the sound of the waves.

Riley put on his fins in the water and then headed for the Zodiac. Reaching it he clambered on board. Partusi, as first man on the raft, had already checked for gas fumes to make sure the fuel bladders had not leaked during the trip or drop.

As soon as everyone was on board, Riley broke out the MANPADS and checked their position.

Powers looked over his shoulder. "How we doing?"

Riley nodded. "Good. We're only about eight klicks west of where we should be." He pulled out a chart and a red-lens flashlight and plotted, confirming the readout from the MANPADS. "We go that way."

While Riley had been plotting, Partusi had locked the engine onto the rear. At Riley's direction, Partusi fired it up. Riley sat on one side of the rear and navigated while Partusi drove. The forty-horsepower short-shaft engine initially lifted the bow of the Zodiac, but as the boat picked up speed it flattened out and planed across the waves.

It didn't take a large leap of imagination on Rich Stevens's part to realize that he was in big trouble. The fact that he had been blindfolded, thrown in the back of a car, and driven for twenty minutes to his present location was only the beginning. Now he was tied to a chair in the middle of a warehouse. His arms were bound flat down on the arms of the chair and his chest was against the back. The chair itself was bolted to the concrete floor. Stevens knew he wasn't going anywhere without permission.

The two men guarding him looked as if they'd like nothing better than to empty their submachine guns into him. The DEA agent had been in some hairy situations in his career but never one where he felt so afraid and helpless.

He heard footsteps behind him, and three people walked around into his field of vision. Stevens stared at Maria, who was trailing two other men. She stared back with the hint of a smile on her face. The lead man stood in front of him. Stevens noted that the man had rings on every finger. Suddenly one of those hands flew out and struck him on the side of the face. Stevens tasted blood.

"Where and when is the raid coming tonight?"

Stevens stared at the man in confusion. How could the man know there was an attack tonight? The man must have interpreted his hesitation as defiance, because he reached forward, grabbed Stevens's face with one hand, and tilted his head up so he looked into his eyes.

"You will talk to me, pig. You will tell me what I want to know. The stupider you act, the more it will hurt, but you will eventually talk. Everyone does."

The man let go of him and nodded to the other man who accompanied him. This man, a short, squat, ugly fellow, pulled a meat cleaver out of the gym bag he had carried in. Stevens watched in confusion and growing fear as the man calmly walked over. He talked to one of the guards in Spanish. The guard grabbed Stevens's left hand and curled in all the fingers except the ring finger. Stevens stared in mesmerized horror as the cleaver flashed down and severed his finger. He was initially too shocked to feel the pain. He watched the blood squirt out of the stump. Then he screamed as the pain hit him.

The man with the rings grabbed his face again. "Where and when will the raid occur?"

Stevens was still too stunned to reply. It was all moving too fast. His mind hadn't caught up to the reality of his predicament. It seemed like a terrible dream, but the pain from his missing finger convinced him that it wasn't. The man with the cleaver moved forward and nodded at the other guard. Stevens futilely tried fighting as the man grabbed his hand and extended the middle finger.

"No!" The man in charge stepped forward. Stevens felt a moment of relief. They had finally come to their senses. "We do not have time to waste. We need the information now."

A soft voice spoke up. "I know what to do."

Stevens watched as Maria stepped forward. "Untie him and hold him up." The two guards did as instructed. She reached forward, undid his belt, and unzipped his pants. She pulled down his pants and underpants and grabbed him between the legs.

Maria smiled at him, a smile full of malice. "Why are you not growing hard like you always did when I grabbed you here before?" She turned to the man who had cut off Stevens's finger. "Give me the cleaver."

Stevens's fear overflowed his dike of professionalism. "Barranquilla! They'll be in position by one in the morning. The attack is supposed to occur at three."

Maria let go of him and stepped back. The two guards threw Stevens back in the chair. The man in apparent command came forward. "I need more information. How many men? How are they coming in and leaving? How will they destroy the lab?"

Stevens slumped down in the chair, staring numbly at his severed finger lying on the floor. "Six men. I don't know how they are getting in and out. Probably helicopter. They'll use either helicopter gunships or an air force gunship to destroy the target."

"How did your people find out the lab's location?"

Stevens shrugged. "Some contact through the CIA."

The man with the rings grabbed Stevens's face again. "That can't be. Don't lie to me."

Stevens protested weakly. "All I know is that someone contacts the CIA through a cutout down here, and they forward the information to Washington. It's been the same for all three missions."

Peter Dotson, the communications man on watch duty for the embassy, looked at the clock on the wall with growing concern and irritation. Stevens should have been back an hour ago. What the hell happens if someone calls booth one and Stevens isn't there to answer?

Dotson swore to himself. He sure as hell wasn't going to cover for the drunken asshole. The guy was probably out with that local woman from the Embassy Cafe. Dotson had seen the two of them talking in the cafe. He wondered what the hell she saw in the old DEA agent. He pictured the two together. He could easily see what Stevens saw in the woman.

Dotson looked at the clock again. He'd give it another thirty minutes. Then he'd have to do something about the net Stevens was supposed to be monitoring.

Dotson looked at the clock again. His self-imposed deadline had passed almost twenty minutes ago and he had done nothing. His stomach was churning. He didn't like the idea of raising the red flag, even if he thought Stevens was a jerk. Leaving a top secret net was a serious violation, especially when it looked as though it had been for unofficial reasons. Dotson didn't like the idea of destroying someone's career. Still…

He looked at the clock again. He forced himself to change his nervousness to anger. Stevens knew better. He had put his own ass in the crack and it wasn't Dotson's fault if he had to report him. Hell, it was his job.

Despite his resolution to grow angry, Dotson approached the comm booth reluctantly. The shit was going to hit the fan. He opened the door and sat down, then he put the boom mike on his head and keyed it. "Any station this net, this is Echo Oscar Five. Over."

He waited a few seconds and then repeated. "Any station this net, this is Echo Oscar Five. Over."

"Echo Oscar Five, this is Hammer Base. Am I correct in your call sign? Are you the comm duty officer in Bogota? Where's Lantern? Over."

"Roger on my call sign. This is the duty officer. If by Lantern you mean Stevens, he left here about two hours ago. That's why I'm coming up on this net. It's been left unmonitored for that time period. Over."

Westland looked across the room at Pike. He had heard the last broadcast and the surprised look on his face echoed what Westland was feeling. "Where is Stevens? Over."

"I don't know. He received a phone call just before he left. Said he would be back in a little while. That was almost two hours ago. Over."

Westland keyed the mike. "Wait one. Over." She turned to Pike. "What do we do now?"

The general rubbed his hand over his chin. "I don't know. We can abort, but I'd hate to do that right now. They're already on their way in and have left the helicopter by now." A thought seemed to strike him. "Shit! We can't even contact them now anyway. They're in the water and won't come up on the SATCOM until they cross the beach and radio in their initial entry report."

Westland nodded. "Let's see if we can track down Stevens before then." She turned to the radio. "Echo Oscar Five, this is Hammer Base. Get Jameson. I want him on this net in five mikes. Over."

"Roger that. Jameson in five mikes. Over."

Pike grabbed his STU-III classified phone. "I'm going to get the gunship in the air now," he said as he dialed Panama.

Holding his rucksack, Riley fell backward off the side of the low-lying boat. Once in the water, he let go of the ruck and allowed it to float behind him on a six-foot line. Five of the members of Eyes Three gathered in the water and hooked together using a safety line and snap links. Powers was still on board. He turned all the valves in the boat to open, allowing air to pass between the five chambers. He then opened up a one-way bleed valve. Air rushed out of the boat as Powers slid overboard and joined the rest of the team.

The boat settled lower and lower in the water; finally the engine pulled it under and it sank. The only thing that remained where the boat had been was a small black float. It was attached to the Zodiac with a length of line and marked the boat's grave on the bottom, fifteen feet below the surface.

The safety line tied around Riley's waist tugged gently as the rest of the team floated behind him. Riley turned back seaward and tapped the man next to him, gesturing toward the shore. Holder nodded and, with Lane, unhooked from the safety line and started finning toward the shore, two hundred meters away.

Riley lost sight of the two men when they were only ten meters away. With just their masked heads above the surface of the water, the swimmers were virtually invisible. Riley patiently finned in place, using the silhouettes of the mountains behind the beach to judge his relative position. The run in had gone faster than expected. After the two-man security team had reconnoitered the landing site, they could move in.

Finally, after ten minutes, Riley spotted the brief flash of a green chem light coming from the wood line across from the beach. All clear. He tugged on the safety line and the remaining four members of Eyes Three started finning in toward the light.

Fifty meters from shore Riley turned over and started swimming slowly on his stomach, careful not to allow his fins to break the surface. Despite the security team's safe signal he was still cautious. When he felt the sand of the bottom come up he allowed the waves to slide him as far forward as they could onto the beach. The other three members beached themselves to his right. Riley slid back into the water and removed the fins from the man to his right, slipping the back loops over his wrist. He crawled forward and let that man do the same for him. Then Riley put his ruck on his back.

Carefully, Riley slid the hood down from around his head and listened to the night air. Nothing but the sounds of surf and the night creatures in the wood line ahead. Three hundred meters off to his left, he could see the small wooden dock that was the reference point. They had landed in the proper spot.

Riley received a nudge from the right telling him all were ready. With a careful glance each way down the beach, he stood up quickly and sprinted across the sand toward the wood line. The rest of the team followed. He broke into the trees and was immediately grabbed by Lane, one of the two security men who had swum in earlier. "We're clear to fifty meters. No sign of anything."

Riley nodded and quickly stuffed the fins into his backpack. He removed the night-vision goggles and his MP5 submachine gun from their waterproof wrappings, strapped on a shoulder holster, and replaced the .45 Colt automatic he had been carrying in his hand. He waited patiently as each man prepared his weapon. Powers was still carrying his trademark AK-47. Lane bolted together the massive Haskins .50-caliber sniper rifle. While they were doing this, the two security men had gone back out on the beach and obscured the trail across the sand.

All was ready. Riley checked the glowing dial of his watch: 2223. Another hour to target.

"I've got marines in civvies checking all the local places where Stevens could be. We're getting nothing out of the bartender from the Embassy Cafe where the girl Stevens was with works. He's saying nothing and we really can't put too much heat on him considering we're in his country. Over."

Westland stared at the radio in frustration. Jameson's words only reinforced the growing bad feeling she had in her stomach. "Where do you think Stevens is then? Over."

Westland could almost see Jameson shrug as the reply came back. "He probably went out to catch a quick snort and maybe a quick piece of ass, if you'll pardon the expression. Never should have had a goddamn alcoholic on this mission in the first place. Over."

Westland shook her head. She looked at Pike, who angrily gestured at the radio. "Tell them to find him."

She keyed the mike again. "Keep looking. We need to find him. You stay on this net and monitor for him. Out." She turned to Pike. "What do you suggest, General?"

Pike sighed. "I don't like it. We all knew Stevens had problems but I didn't think he'd do something like this. We abort. If it's nothing, we can try again later, but if it isn't, they're in big trouble."

Westland was relieved to find that Pike was thinking the same way she was. "I agree. As soon as we get their initial entry report, we'll tell them to abort."

Riley slowly edged forward through the dense vegetation, moving one stealthy step at a time toward the target, which should be just over the next piece of slightly higher ground. Since leaving the beach, their route had taken them through swampland interspersed with small areas of higher dry ground.

They moved another two hundred meters inland. Powers, acting as the point man, signaled a halt, and Riley crept forward to the team sergeant. In the glow of arc lights he could see their target. "Shit!" he muttered.

Activity and lots of it. Riley scanned the compound and felt worse the more he saw. At least thirty personnel were up and moving around. They were off-loading weapons from trucks and on-loading cocaine. Riley didn't need to be clairvoyant to realize what this meant.

"Keep an eye on it," he whispered to Powers as he slid back to where the rest of the team waited.

He crawled next to Marzan, who had just set out the SATCOM satellite minidisk antenna. "You set?" he whispered. Marzan nodded. Riley turned down the volume on the radio to minimum and picked up the handset.

"Hammer Base, this is Eyes Three. Over."

The answer was almost instantaneous. "Eyes Three, this is Hammer Base. Over."

At least they were awake up there. "We've got a shitload of activity down here. They're moving weapons in and cocaine out. What's the status of Hammer? Over."

"Hammer is en route. Listen closely. The mission is an abort. I say again, the mission is an abort. Hammer will be on station in forty-five minutes. Use only if needed to cover your exfiltration. Over."

Shit, Riley cursed again. "What happened? Over."

Riley heard Pike's voice come on, replacing Westland's. "Don't worry about that right now, just get the hell out of there. Over."

"Roger." Riley handed the headset back to Marzan. He quickly considered their options. Hell, there were no options. They had to go back the way they came. Riley's thoughts were interrupted by Powers inching back from the tree line.

"We got company coming. About ten sicarios are coming in this direction from the camp and they're loaded for bear. They got patrols heading out in all directions. It's like they were expecting us. I also spotted two Redeye missiles getting off-loaded."

Riley thought rapidly. If they were unloading antiaircraft missiles up there, the sicarios were definitely expecting something. It wouldn't do any good to wait for Hammer's covering fire. Plus they'd probably be found by then. He turned to the team and hissed, "Time to vamoose. Pike just gave me an abort. Let's go!"

Marzan was packing up the primary radio. Riley had the backup SATCOM in his ruck. He pulled out one of the Claymores in there and hung its carrying bag around his neck, as did the other members of the team. Once everyone was ready, Riley started to lead the team back toward the shore. He could hear the sicarios breaking brush behind them.

Riley's mind raced with various thoughts: wondering how the mission could have been compromised; judging the distance to the shore and how long it would take; considering how they would get across the beach; hoping it wasn't guarded.

Despite Riley's night-vision goggles, the dense vegetation cut visibility down to only a few feet. It was probably that, plus his lack of concentration, that allowed Riley to almost walk on top of the Colombian sicarios coming in from the north.

The surprised sicarios' point man called out as he practically collided with Riley. It was hard to say who was the more startled, but Riley's reactions were swifter. He swung up his MP5, firing a silenced burst into the sicario. The man flew back, screaming. Instantly all hell broke loose as tracers split the night.

The man Riley had killed was obviously the point man for a larger party. His partners in crime were now firing blindly into the dark. Riley tore off his goggles, which had blanked out from the light of the muzzle flashes.

"Break left! Break left!" Riley screamed as he blindly gave covering fire. He could hear Powers yelling as the team sergeant led the rest of the men off ninety degrees to the left in an attempt to break contact.

Riley followed in that direction, occasionally firing a quick burst to the rear. He changed magazines as he ran, branches slapping him in the face. He couldn't see well, since his eyes were still adjusting from the goggles to the moonlight. Strings of tracers flying through the trees let him know the sicarios were still following. Riley could hear yelling in Spanish from other sides as more patrols closed in.

Riley sprinted in the direction the team had gone. As he circumvented a dense thicket of thornbushes, a hand reached out and grabbed his upper right arm. Riley swung the muzzle of his weapon in that direction but halted a split second before firing as he heard Powers's voice. "I got a Claymore on a wire in front of you."

Powers guided Riley over the trip wire he had just strung out across the path. The wire ran to a Claymore mine the team sergeant had quickly attached with a few wraps of electrical tape to a small tree at chest height. Riley followed his team sergeant.

Riley knew that the other four team members were not too far ahead. The SOP was for the team to go 300 meters in the break direction, then turn back on the original azimuth they had been on prior to contact. Riley estimated they had already gone 250 meters, although he sure as hell hadn't been keeping a pace count.

The crash of the rigged Claymore behind them was followed by screams from those not killed outright. As it exploded, the mine sprayed the jungle with thousands of tiny ball bearings.

Riley stepped out behind Powers into a sparsely treed area. Twenty meters ahead, the rest of the team was just about to go into the far wood line.

Riley dove for cover as the roar of automatic weapons seared the night. He heard Marzan cry out, screaming for Partusi, the medic. Riley poked his head up. The four other members of the team had gone to ground just short of the wood line. They were taking fire from their right front. Riley could see muzzle flashes in the far trees. He fired off a sustained burst in that direction, giving the men some covering fire. Powers, lying next to him, also emptied a magazine.

Riley glanced over at his four teammates as he changed magazines. Partusi was the only one moving, still trying to drag Marzan back toward the tree line that Powers and Riley had just exited. Lane and Holder were giving them covering fire. Even as he watched, Riley saw Partusi punched down with the impact of rounds. The medic didn't move again. An explosion seared the night in the vicinity of Lane and Holder. When Riley's eyes cleared, he could barely make out those men's crumpled forms.

A group of sicarios burst from the wood line, firing wildly. Riley and Powers raked the group in concert, mowing them down. Riley attempted to move forward to check out his men but was grabbed by Powers and slammed into the ground. A line of tracers reached out at an angle from the far tree line and probed the ground, running over the prone bodies of Riley's men.

"They're all dead!" Powers yelled at him over the sound of the firing. "We got to get out of here."

Riley was torn. He didn't want to leave his men, even if they were dead. He fired another burst toward the source of the tracers. He was rewarded by the deadly stream of bullets turning his way, joined by several others.

Powers grabbed him by the arm and started pulling him away. "Let's go! You can't do anything for them."

Riley allowed himself to be led away. Initially the crackle of rounds in the air around them diminished, but Riley knew it wouldn't be long before the chase would be on again. He calculated rapidly as Powers led him on a northwest course, directly toward the ocean. They were probably only three hundred meters from the water. If they could get there and get in the water without being seen, they could make it. He felt the sweat pouring down his body underneath the rubber of his wet suit. Not far now.

Riley could hear the sound of pursuit pick up behind them. All he could hope was that they didn't run into anyone on their way to the beach. As if in answer to that thought, Riley heard voices off to their left front. The Colombians were yelling to each other, trying to coordinate their search.

Riley contented himself with following Powers, as the veteran wove his way toward the coast, using the noise the patrols were making to avoid them. Faintly, and then growing stronger, the pounding of the surf could be heard. Powers came to a halt at the edge of the tree line and peered out.

"Fuck," Powers muttered. A group of five sicarios stood on the beach looking toward the tree line, weapons at the ready. Powers turned to Riley. "Here's what we do — and I don't want any bullshit arguments from you. I'm going to head south, away from the city. Give me two minutes to move and then I'm going to blow a grenade and pop some tracers across the beach. That ought to draw these guys down my way. You hit the water and head for the boat.

"I'll keep running to the south and stay about four hundred meters from the shore. You get to the boat, bring it up, and then come up on the spare SATCOM. Get Hammer to circle. I'll tie an infrared chem light to my hood and they can track me with that, and the bad guys using thermals. With Hammer giving me covering fire I can make it to the beach, and Hammer can guide you in to pick me up."

Riley's brain spun as he listened to this desperate plan. The situation called for extreme measures, but he'd be damned if he was going to leave his team sergeant holding the bag. "Sounds good, but I'll run the diversion and you swim out."

Powers grabbed Riley by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Listen, asshole, we ain't got no time to argue. It will take me twice as long as you to swim out to the boat. Also, I'm a hell of a lot better at surviving in the woods than you are. GO!" With that, Powers turned and disappeared into the darkness.