Piranha Assignment (12 page)

“You look cold. Come here.”

“Well for one thing, he had a pass key for the house,” she said, stepping across the colorful oval rug to lean back on the bed and curl up under Morgan's right arm while she talked. “The only reason Matthews would have that key would be to explore other rooms in the house uninvited. Maybe someone caught him at it. And then there's the gun. Now, why would the man leave his gun behind? I figure either he wasn't expecting any trouble, or he was thinking that somebody suspected him, and carrying a gun would give him away.”

Morgan listened without interruption, and she enjoying his body's warmth without carnal reaction. She drew comfort from the depth of their friendship, and knew he did too. When stopped he remained still, considering her words for a moment before reacting.

“Matthews was pretty thorough from the sound of things. What makes you think something's wrong?”

“Well, I'm thinking he was trying to figure out where Bastidas is taking the sub. Now, I'll admit I don't see the danger in that, but the files are another thing. We're talking about one hundred consecutive clean slates. That's a bit much for me to accept. I mean, it just doesn't happen.”

“These people must have been selected pretty carefully,” Morgan said.

“Right. And have your encounters with Varilla led you
to believe he's led the life of a model citizen?”

“Hmm. You've got a point there,” Morgan said, grinning. “You think something shady's going on here?”

“I don't know,” Felicity said, staring out at the stars. “This guy does cons for a hobby. Maybe he's just bilking your Uncle Sam out of a few million dollars. Maybe he's just got his whole family on the payroll.”

“Yeah, that could be. I don't think the seven dwarves are using their real names.”

Felicity cocked an eye up at Morgan. “Why not? They've all got common Panamanian surnames, haven't they?”

“Sure. Too common if you know local history. Pizarro led the Spanish in the conquest of the Incas in Peru. A General named Omar Torrijos Herrera took over Panama in the late sixties. They've all got the names of guys who were significant in Panamanian history, and that's just too big a coincidence.”

“I know you think Bastidas is pretty solid,” Felicity said, “but what about the others? There could be a conspiracy in his camp.”

“Let's get a message to Roberts,” Morgan said, standing and pacing the room. “Tell him to redo those guys' background checks.”

“That might be premature.” Felicity got up and leaned back against the window sill. “Let's take a day to just poke around. We've got five days. If we can gather some hard evidence of trouble, then we contact the CIA through their inside man.”

“I get the feeling you want to contact him anyway.”

“That Cro-Magnon? Give the girl a little credit. I'm going to bed if you're going to insult me.” With that, Felicity reached out the window and disappeared.

Morgan stared into the darkness after her. After a
moment, he started shaking his head, smiling. He mumbled to himself before he went back inside, but Felicity caught his words on the night breeze.

“Smart girl,” Morgan said, “but she never sees it coming.”

It seemed to Morgan that sunlight was stabbing into his eyes right through the pillow over his head. With a long stretch and a wide yawn, he finally accepted that sleep time was over. A glance at the Breitling Old Navitimer on his left wrist confirmed that. It was two minutes before seven, and breakfast for the house crew was served at eight. He swung his feet to the floor and shook the cobwebs from his brain. If he moved quickly, he could run a few miles before eating.

Morgan never had trouble staying alert during a mission, but this didn't feel like a mission. He had no feeling that someone might shoot at him at any time. He was neither attacking nor defending, and for a soldier, that meant he was unemployed. Not a good frame of mind. He pulled on jogging shorts, socks and running shoes, and padded quietly down the stairs.

It was already muggy out, and pushing eighty degrees. The sun staring down through the haze seemed to have singled him out for a personal attack. Musty jungle smells jammed into his nostrils as he walked away from the house. He remembered the warning he had received about animals in the woods, but did not think a daytime attack was likely. With a deep breath, he launched himself down a narrow beaten path between the palms.

Morgan was a strong distance runner. His body set a natural pace which would sort itself out to about seven
minutes per mile. He could hold it without much effort for five or six miles, and quite a bit longer if he really pushed himself. Right then, he only cared to maintain his training heart rate for thirty minutes or so.

Trees flew past him as he settled into a steady tempo, and he kept a close eye on the path. It wouldn't do for him to step on a sharp upturned stick, or a jaguar's tail for that matter. To occupy his mind, he also started picking out the unique jungle flowers as they passed. Amid the intense green, he saw odd pinks, blues and even bright reds.

Parrots made their bizarre natural clicks and whistles, unaltered by human meddling to make their noises imitate words. He could hear chimpanzees screeching above him, complaining about this new animal crashing through their territory. Their yelling almost drowned out the sound of his feet, crushing vegetation into the soft earth.

But now that sound was getting louder, and Morgan slowly became aware that he was not alone. Another pair of human feet was on the path. Their pounding rhythm was closing on him. He slowed down a little to allow his fellow runner to come up even with him. He could see a widening area on the path ahead. They could run abreast there for a while, in that self abusive camaraderie joggers often developed. He wondered if it was anyone he had met.

The other runner held a strong pace, and what sounded like a long stride. He did not want to wait for the wider path. Five meters before the open area, Morgan was jostled aside. He recognized those impossible shoulders, those narrow hips in ridiculous leopard skin pants. Herrera turned just long enough to make a mocking face. Then, he pulled away like the roadrunner dusting off the coyote.

Like hell, Morgan thought. He bared his teeth and opened up the throttle. Herrera hit any overhanging leaves, clearing the path. Morgan bore down, focusing on his
quarry's slick black hair. His legs pumped hard, and his heart pounded in his chest, but he was closing the gap. Herrera didn't react. Morgan figured he never dreamed anyone might catch him. Morgan was within arm's reach before Herrera glanced over his shoulder. Morgan couldn't read the expression on that mustachioed face, but Herrera raised his own power level a notch.

Morgan was running full out, but Herrera hung just out of reach. Morgan was near his limit, but his heart would not accept the message his body was sending. His lungs ached from trying to drag more and more humid air into themselves. But there simply was not enough oxygen in all Panama to power his legs. Sweat ran down the center of his back. His legs threatened to knot up and cease to function. Yet he continued, knowing that if he could hold out just one more step, one more moment, Herrera would have to give up.

Then he heard it for the first time. Herrera's breathing. He was panting also, gasping for breath in the tropical heat. Morgan was pushing him. He was dripping with sweat and his arms pumped hard, pulling him along. He would have to stop soon.

But then, Morgan's throat seemed to close and an invisible knife thrust into his left side ribs. He thought his heart would burst, and he could force no more air into his abused lungs. His mad sprint faded to a slow jog. He had to face it. He could not catch Herrera through force of will. He staggered on, eyes closed for a few steps, self anger helping him ignore the pain. But when he looked up, he saw Herrera ahead, just about holding a walking pace, but no more. Morgan had not overtaken him, but he had certainly pushed the giant to his limit.

Mixed emotions filled his slow trot back to the main house. Morgan had to admire a man with such abilities. He
wondered why he had never seen or heard of Herrera before. He was Olympic material in a small country that would find every talented young athlete. Or, he had the potential to be the super mercenary many dictators dream about. Another part of Morgan still tried to deny the evidence of his senses. Nobody was both that strong and that fast. God did not give mere mortals that much endurance plus those muscles and those reflexes. There was only one possible answer. One of his parents must not have been human.

Back in his room, Morgan punished himself with the hottest shower he could stand and a good scrubbing with the course soap he used. Then he pulled on a pair of jeans and a knit shirt. Even in boots, he would look fresh and energetic at breakfast.

This time he reached the table last, but Felicity had saved his seat. Positions had shifted so this time Barton sat across the table from him. Felicity was still on Bastidas' left, facing Herrera. The two runners eyed each other over spicy fried eggs and potatoes.

“You are quite a runner,” Herrera said near the end of the meal. Morgan just smiled and nodded. Felicity seemed oblivious to any by-play between Morgan and Herrera. She was deep in conversation with Chuck Barton, who seemed to have a lock on her deep green eyes. Morgan wondered why the agent's broken nose and swarthy complexion seemed so attractive to her.

“So you're going to check the sea side security this morning?” Barton asked.

“Not much else to do except the motor pool area,” Felicity said. We'll explore that right after lunch. How about you?”

“Got to soothe some feathers in the Panamanian government,” Barton said. “The powers that be aren't
feeling too cool toward Americans right now. I'll reinforce another thousand times that this is not a government run facility. They like private enterprise around here, as long as it's spreading the good old Yankee green stuff around.”

Morgan tapped Felicity's arm with his elbow to get her attention. “If we've got some extra time this afternoon, I've got something I want us to do together. That is, if they've got a place to shoot around here.”

“Of course we have a practice range,” Bastidas said. He seemed to be waiting for a chance to enter their conversation. “It is little used now that we are within a week of the Piranha's launch. I'll have one of my people show you to it.”

After an uneventful breakfast, the small team of experts moved off to perform their various functions. Felicity, again in her jump suit, rode with Morgan to the hidden docks. The Piranha was not nearly as forbidding in daylight, but it was still huge. Beyond it, they could see a small spur of land jutting into the sea. They saw a town there, but were too far away to determine its size.

Several patrol boats crisscrossed the ocean around the bay. They looked like inflated motor rafts, about twentytwo feet long. Each carried a two man crew, and sported a pintel mounted fifty caliber machine gun. The crewman not driving stood at the gun, swiveling it back and forth on its post.

“They're impressive,” Felicity said, “but aren't rafts like that vulnerable to puncture?”

“They're called RIBs, for Rigid Inflatable Boats,” Morgan said, raising field glasses to his eyes. “Below the water line there's a hard, V-section hull. These are Avon Seariders. Good choice for fast attack or patrol.”

“Okay. How about their patrol pattern?”

“Looks good to me,” Morgan said. “Nothing short of a
major naval invasion could penetrate their defenses.”

“What about a small group of scuba divers coming from that far peninsula?” Felicity asked.

“The defense plan they gave me indicates a net across the bay mouth below the surface,” Morgan said. “There are also undersea sensors to detect movement. I'm not worried about outside attack. My only concern now is internal sabotage.”

They escaped the sun briefly by climbing into the Piranha. As they entered the control room, a security officer snapped to his feet, gun barrel first.

“Sorry to startle you,” Morgan said. “Don't think we've met. We're…”

“I know who you are,” the guard said, lowering his gun. “How can we help you here?”

“We wanted to look more closely at internal security. To do that, we need a schematic of The Piranha,” Felicity said.

“I'm afraid the only place you'll find a decent schematic is navigation.”

“Great,” Felicity said, rolling her eyes. “I just love all this climbing ladders and opening hatches.”

Felicity's irritation aside, they proceeded into the belly of the beast. Navigation was in the sub's lowest level. The small room's sole occupant was Mister Franciscus, whom Felicity had jokingly dubbed Bashful. He sat on a tall stool staring at a large illuminated map of the Atlantic. His long white lab coat seemed covered with pockets and they were stuffed with pens, pencils, and tools Felicity could not identify. He scratched at his forehead where his hair was receding. When Felicity cleared her throat Franciscus nearly dropped his pad.

“We were told you could show us a schematic of the ship,” Morgan said. “We have to guard against sabotage, so
I need to see where a person might go to hurt her.”

Franciscus pointed to a blue drawing, two by three feet, clipped to a drafting table. Felicity stared at it, but it was not really clear to her. She wasn't sure if Morgan understood the symbolism but, after some puzzling, she felt the need to ask her questions.

“I'm not sure what these things are,” Felicity said, pointing at the drawing. “And how about these lines?”

Morgan consulted the legend at the bottom of the diagram. “This red group is electrical conduits. This bunch looks like hydraulic lines. These things here appear to be the steam pipes.”

“Steam pipes? I thought this thing was nuclear powered.”