Choke Point

FIFTY-SEVEN

At 0020 hours, Ross and the team were fast-roping down from one of the Seahawks, inserting into a clearing on the south side of the island. At one point all four were dangling from the same line, the rope running hotly through their gloved hands and between their boots as they maintained a three-meter gap from the next guy.

In addition to the team’s reconnaissance load out, the chopper crew lowered an F47 °Combat Rubber Raiding Craft (CRRC) with outboard engine. Within minutes, 30K and Kozak had the CRRC inflated via the CO₂ tank, and once they had the outboard attached, they dragged the rubber boat over to a river just twenty meters north of the drop zone. Technically, it wasn’t a river, just part of a heavily flooded tropical jungle, with mangroves that reminded Ross of Colombia, along with that oppressive humidity.

They climbed into the CRRC, and Kozak served as coxswain, switching on the battery-powered outboard, the engine humming quietly like a bass boat’s trolling motor. He clutched the tiller, steering them into the jungle, the course wide open for a few minutes until they were forced to groan and duck under a few low-hanging limbs and broad palm fronds.

Ross’s night vision turned the swamp into a pale green maze glowing on its edges, an almost photo negative perspective that made spotting what Pepper called ‘the creepy crawlies’ a bit more difficult. That twisted root was actually a reticulated python coiled around a tree, and that silhouette that seemed like a collection of branches was really a hornbill bird with his head tipped to one side.

Occasionally, Ross would motion to Kozak to take this path or that one, checking their bearing and GPS coordinates against Duman’s current position. That they’d doused themselves in bug spray and wore camouflage face paint that also contained DEET was fortunate; the constant buzzing of mosquitoes in Ross’s ears and the giant wood spiders that dropped down on to the boat, having been torn from their webs, were enough to make him and even a tough guy like 30K get the willies. 30K swatted away bugs with his rifle’s muzzle, whispering obscenities at their unwelcome hitchhikers. Ross had trained quite extensively in the jungle, and he’d learned that addressing the bug problem was a true priority. Swatting a mosquito could compromise your position and literally get you killed.

After the first five miles, Ross mused that they really had found the heart of darkness. He’d never been in a swamp this tight or remote. If any one of them got hurt, bitten, stung, what have you, it’d be hours before they could get him out of there for proper medical treatment. There were no clearings within which a chopper could land, and hauling a man up through the canopy was well-nigh impossible, at least in this region. They’d crossed the River Styx, traversed the valley of the shadow of death, and had laughed at the signpost marking the point of no return. Now the doormat read: ‘Welcome to the Underworld.’

They’d been heading due north, and at the first sound of the helicopter, Ross ordered Kozak to head northeast, toward the chopper and the distant flashes from the lighthouse.

Within an hour they had reached a muddy riverbank, which swallowed their boots up to their ankles as they hauled themselves out of the raft. Ross spat out the mosquito that had flown into his mouth and gave a hand signal to 30K, putting him on point. He whispered for Kozak to begin dropping markers so they could find their way back to the boat.

And with that, they trudged off, their boots squishing as they pushed farther northeast, the jungle beginning to thin a bit, the timpani roll of that helicopter much closer.

Some twenty minutes later, near a cluster of nipah palms whose fronds grew straight from the ground, making them appear like trunkless palm trees, 30K had his fist in the air, and they dropped to their haunches. His voice came softly over the team net: ‘Tree line ends just ahead. I see a very narrow dirt road, then another section of jungle, and then something, maybe another clearing, a little farther out.’

‘Roger that,’ said Ross. ‘Keep moving. We’ll cross the road together.’

A window opened in Ross’s Cross-Com, and Mitchell appeared. ‘No need to reply, Captain. Just an intel update from Maziq. Keyhole satellite got some good pictures of that chopper, an old Caracel transport/cargo bird deployed from the island. She’s offloading pallets of what we believe are your Grinch launchers from the Duman, taking them to coordinates about two kilometers from your position.’

Another window showed a map of Rupat with a glowing red overlay that marked the team’s current position, as well as the cargo ship’s and the chopper’s drop-off point.

Ross shared that map with the rest of the team, and Kozak said, ‘Maybe it’s some kind of weapons depot. They pick a remote island and hide the stuff here.’

‘Maybe so,’ Ross answered. ‘But I have a feeling it’s a lot more than that.’

After ensuring that the road was clear, 30K gave the signal, and they darted forward, Ross casting a look to the west, where the road stretched off in an almost perfectly straight line, all the way to the beach.

Just ahead, the second patch of jungle was noticeably thinner, the ground much firmer, and they made good time, weaving around the giant palms, ducking and turning, covering ground twice as fast as they had before — until 30K tripped and crashed on to his stomach.

‘Holy shit, bro, you all right?’ stage-whispered Kozak.

30K rolled over and sat up. ‘What the hell was that?’

Ross came forward and got on his haunches, staring down in disbelief over the obstacle in 30K’s path: railroad tracks.

They’d been constructed just within the tree line and wove out to the next clearing. As far as Ross could tell, they kept going, extending much farther north, and the beauty of their placement made them difficult if not impossible to see on a satellite photograph — if you didn’t know what you were looking for. They curved while in the clearing, then vanished again, the pattern haphazard, irregular.

‘Look at these ties and spikes,’ said Kozak. ‘They’re new. These tracks were just put in here.’

‘Why the hell do they need a train running along the coastline?’ asked Pepper.

‘30K, you all right?’ Ross asked.

‘Yeah, I guess I should’ve been looking out for F-ing railroad tracks in the middle of the jungle.’

Ross snorted. ‘Yeah, and if they’ve got railroad tracks, then they’ve got an engine,’ said Ross. ‘Wonder why …’

Five minutes later they reached the next clearing, and from there, crouched down at the edge, Ross marked a line of four lean-tos heavily camouflaged with more fronds. Beneath each one, perfectly hidden from satellites and other prying eyes, was a boxy APC, which Ross photographed and uploaded for identification.

‘This is Ghost Lead. Hold up,’ he ordered the others.

Barely thirty seconds later, the photos and schematics flashed across Ross’s HUD: Puma M26-15 Armored Personnel Carrier with mine and IED protection. Its main users were military, police, and security companies during peacekeeping operations. They were manufactured by OTT Technologies, a South African defense contractor.

‘Contacts,’ said 30K. ‘Four just behind the lean-tos. Probably guards for the APCs.’

‘Sir, check it out,’ said Pepper, pointing to their left, where the railroad tracks broke free of the trees.

Ross zoomed in with his night-vision lens, and for a moment, he had to wipe his eyes, blink hard, then stare again, wanting to make sure that the image was real, that his lens wasn’t out of focus, and that Hamid and his cronies had really gone this far.