Choke Point

TWELVE

With trees now thrashing against one another, and the rain falling so fiercely that it felt more like pellets of titanium striking his back and shoulders, Kozak was at once surprised and shocked to find himself wearing one of the biggest shit-eating grins of his life.

No, he wasn’t a glutton for punishment.

He was a glutton for intel –

And boom! He’d hit the jackpot!

In fact, he was almost too excited to speak, but he made the report nonetheless. ‘Ghost Lead, the drone’s in place. And I think I’ve spotted the package!’

‘Good job, we’re moving in. Keep that drone quiet.’

‘Roger that.’

Kozak and 30K had found a cover position at the base of two long rows of bamboo that towered into the canopy like the bars of some colossal prison, the shoots groaning and creaking as they bowed in the gale. The mud smelled more pungent than ever because Kozak had spread some on his face and cheeks the way 30K had, a couple of ancient barbarians ready to pounce. They’d applied the bug spray liberally but didn’t trust the stuff in all this rain, which had probably washed it off. Easier to just grab mud and drag it across your face and neck, than blind yourself with the spray. So there they were, old-school low and good to go.

‘Hey, thanks again for spotting that wire,’ Kozak said.

‘Just another one you owe me, little brother.’

Kozak rolled his eyes and zoomed in once more with the drone’s camera, past an opening in the rear of the larger dry dock building through which they’d probably rolled out the completed submarine. There was no door here, with heavy chains hanging from the ceiling that had either suspended the entire craft or had been used to lower its diesel engine into place during construction. Worktables ran along both sides of the dry dock. Battery-operated power tools were stored in crates or lying near cutting stations. Cans of marine paint, sections of fiberglass and paintbrushes were piled high near one corner station, where a row of gas-powered generators sat beneath coils of extension cords. PVC pipe of various lengths and thicknesses hung from racks above the workbenches, and above them, cobwebs draped in dust spanned the rafters.

Kozak adjusted the drone’s camera angle so he had a clean view deep into the structure, where he once more spied the man who matched Delgado’s description: just over five feet, with dark, curly hair and a full beard. He didn’t look like a CIA paramilitary operations officer. Then again, what did those guys look like? A combination of James Bond and G. I. Joe? Or were they the wiry little guys with snake’s eyes, sunken cheeks and raspy voices you found behind the counter of a ghetto liquor store?

In point of fact, Delgado better resembled a rather nondescript drug mule from Colombia charged with swallowing seventy-five or so latex-and-wax-wrapped capsules of cocaine and praying he wasn’t X-rayed at the airport. The man’s wrists were bound behind his back with nylon cord, and a pair of FARC troops stood beside him. More troops, both FARC and Los Rastrojos men clutching their Galils, stood near the entrance closest to the dock, shielding themselves from the rain.

Kozak sent the images out to the Cross-Coms, and 30K offered his color commentary: ‘Well, there’s our little geek. Glad to know he’s here. He’s saying, “Oh, Mommy, please come get me from these bad guys. I wanna go home …” ’

‘Damn, here we go,’ said Kozak, panning with the drone’s camera to the dock and submarine.

‘What is it?’ asked 30K.

‘Looks like they’re done loading the drugs.’

‘Pepper and Captain Ahab better be ready.’

‘They’re not. Ghost Lead, this is Kozak. Are you getting this? That’s our package. They’re moving him now.’

It had all unfolded perfectly in Ross’s mind’s eye:

The AFEUR troops flanking and encompassing the perimeter …

He and Pepper slipping into the dry dock and, utilizing their optical camouflage, taking out as many thugs as possible before slipping away with the package — after not a single shot was fired …

And then, once they were clear of the dry docks. …

Ambush.

They’d trap the enemy soldiers in a gauntlet of fire so horrific, so impregnable, that all they could do was cower until a round finally silenced their hearts. And even if a few men posted on the perimeter pulled off the small miracle of escape, they would succumb to malaria or dehydration or the wildlife within a few days as they tried to reach the nearest town.

The AFEUR troops would move in and claim victory, the government would issue them medals, and the newspapers would report of their triumph. The Ghosts would take no credit. They, of course, were never there.

It was all so beautiful.

And it would’ve been –

If they weren’t late.

As in eleven seconds late.

Delgado was being dragged toward the submarine, and Ross had to make one of those imperfect choices in a universe that now laughed at him.

‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ he whispered loudly into his Cross-Com.

He and Pepper were inside the largest dry dock and hidden beneath one of the workbenches, their camouflage active. ‘Let them load the package into the submarine.’

‘Ghost Lead, 30K. Say again?’

‘I said, let him get on the submarine.’

‘And then what?’

Ross ground his teeth. ‘Stand by.’

He could almost feel the heat of Pepper’s gaze on his back, even though the man lay hidden beneath his camouflage.

Decision time. The entire team — along with Jiménez and his men — were now waiting for Ross to issue orders, to deliver a revised plan that would make them grunt, ‘Nice,’ and drive them on with a ferocity that would overwhelm these enemy troops.

But for a split second –

Despite all his years of experience.

Despite all the training.

All the medals and commendations.

All the situations just like this one …

Ross had nothing but a hollow feeling in his gut.

He took a deep breath, did a mental inventory of everything in his pack.

And then it came to him.