Spy (47 page)

“Khan did that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Top drew his sidearm and pointed it at the nearest controller. “Put it back. Go to manual override.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot do that, sir.”

He blew the man’s head off.

“Next?” he said, looking around wildly.

M
erde! Merde! Merde!”

Froggy felt no need to translate: Shit was shit in any language. His squad had been flanked. Somehow, the bastards had gotten behind them. He couldn’t see them yet, but they were coming. He could hear those fucking mini-tank engines revving as they approached, crashing through the underbrush. And the war cries of Xucuru Indians.

Indians? He thought
Stiletto’
s firepower had killed most of them upriver. They were determined bastards, he’d grant them that much. They were either on Top’s payroll or simply offended at the idea of uninvited guests in their pristine jungle. He hand-signaled Bassman and Boomer to spread out and get turned around; they needed to get the heavy M-60 machine guns into position for an attack from their rear.

“Hold your fire until my signal,” Froggy said into his lipmike when the squad was set.

It had all started when an arrow, five-feet long and, no doubt poison-tipped, had thunked into a tree a foot above Froggy’s head. He’d just looked down at his map. Now, he had seconds to reposition and fight a rear-guard action. And he needed to warn Stokely who was up in a treehouse a hundred feet above his head.

“Stoke, this is Frogman.”

“
Parlez,
Froggy.”

“You have the hostage?”

“I’ve got him. He’s alive, barely. Not mobile. I’m going to try and bring him down. We need to evac him to
Stiletto
pronto.”

“Negative! Negative! We’ve got tangos down here, approaching from the rear. Tanks and Indians.”

“Tanks and Indians?” Stoke said.

“You heard me, goddamn it!”

He let that go, thinking he’d misunderstood, and said, “Hawke’s ten minutes out, Froggy. Brock should be even closer. We need to get a perimeter around this tree and hold it until they get here. I’m coming down alone.”

Froggy waved his men to him with a circular hand signal, and they rapidly formed up around the fifteen-foot wide base of the tree. By the time Stokely stepped onto the platform and began his descent, the first wave of painted warriors was almost upon them in the heavy green stuff.

Froggy’s guys still hadn’t opened up.

Arrows whistled through the air, many of them aimed at Stokely. He was in plain sight on the slowly descending lift. He also had a perfect field of fire spread out below. He raised his CAR-15 and mowed down eight or nine war-painted archers who were stepping forward out of the thick green wall of undergrowth to launch their arrows.

“Fuck it, fire!” Froggy said, seeing Stokely’s predicament. The M-60s erupted in heavy, thumping fire. Now the indiscriminate barrage of lead ripped up vegetation and flesh with equal ferocity. Backs to the river, every man was unloading ammo on the enemy. But still the warriors came out of the jungle. And now the Trolls approached, four of the lead tanks spitting lead from their rapid-fire machine guns. One of Froggy’s men screamed and went down, cut in half by the vicious fire.

Stoke was halfway down the tree. He still had a good angle on the Trolls. He attached the grenade launcher and aimed at the nearest tank. Fired. Whoosh. A long trail of white smoke and the tank disintegrated in a massive ball of flame. Stoke fixed another RPG on his weapon’s muzzle and took out a second tank. He was down to his last grenade. He heard fire from the river and looked over to see three canoes bearing Harry Brock and his squad of fourteen commandoes. They were firing their weapons at the tangos they could see in the jungle.

“Merde diabolique!”
he heard Froggy cry in his headphones. “Holy shit!”

“Froggy?” Stoke said, “What’s up?”

“Zee fucking bridge,
mon ami!
Look over there!”

Armed troops poured out of the jungle compound barracks on the far side of the river. They formed up in a long column, ready to cross the bridge. In front of the troops, advancing slowly toward the bridge was a clanking monstrosity. It was a mechanized vehicle unlike anything Stoke had ever seen outside of a movie theatre.

It was a tank, all right, a ridiculously oversized main battle tank, like an Abrams on major steroids, with what looked like two 120mm cannons. Eight-inch-diameter gun barrels were protruding from two turrets mounted on either side of an upright superstructure bolted to the chassis.

Stoke kept firing with his left hand, got his radio to his ear with his right. “
Stiletto! Stiletto!
Do you have GPS coordinates on the main bridge here at LZ Alpha? Copy?”

“Affirmative,” Fire Control Officer Dylan Allegria responded.

“I need a missile locked on that target now, copy?”

“Uh, roger that, sir. We, uh, yes. PAM missile is locked on.”

“Don’t fire…I want this thing on the bridge when we blow it.”

“What is the target, sir?”

“War of the Worlds,
Dylan. I wish you could see this mechanical monster before you destroy it…ready…Fire now!”

Stoke held his breath. The mammoth war machine was halfway across the bridge now. There were maybe twenty tangos trotting right behind it and more right behind them.

The PAM missile’s laser targeting device kept it on track after firing. It nosed over and hurtled toward the target. It struck a second later and the tank exploded violently. Through the black smoke and flame, Stoke could see the thing was not destroyed but certainly disabled. The men nearby on the bridge had been killed. Others retreated back down the road or melted into the jungle on the far side. Stoke didn’t wait for the platform, he jumped the last few feet.

He opened up on the few remaining jungle warriors who’d managed to survive the withering fire laid down by the two M-60 machine guns. Most of the Xucurus and uniformed troops had fled back into the jungle. Regrouping. They’d be back as soon as they got their shit together for another attack.

“
Blue Goose, Blue Goose,
where the hell are you, Mick?” Stoke said into his radio.

“
Blue Goose,
Stokely. What can I do for you, mate?”

“Mick. I’m in a hot LZ with a critically injured hostage. I need to exfil him
now
and
Stiletto
is not an option. What’s your location?”

“Five miles due East of the LZ. I can see smoke rising from the bridge.”

“Mick, I know the river here is too narrow for your wingspan. It widens out upriver. But Ambrose won’t survive a jungle trek to the plane.”

“Ambrose is the hostage?”

“Affirmative.”

“Who says it’s too narrow, mate?”

“I do. Can’t you see it? There’s no way, Mick.”

“I’ll do a flyby and take a look.”

“Watch out for bullets.”

“H
OLD YOUR FIRE
!” Froggy yelled.

At that moment, Stoke saw Alex Hawke swimming rapidly toward shore, then clawing his way up the riverbank. His canoe had been blown into pieces by fire from the opposite shore. The remains now lay floating on the top of the water, drifting with the current downriver. Two of Hawke’s four crewmen were swimming toward shore. Two men were floating face down.

“Stoke!” Hawke cried, running toward the little band at the base of the tree, “Where is he? Where the hell is Ambrose?”

“Up there,” Stoke said, “Climb aboard and watch your step.”

They swiftly rose to the top, Stokely pointing out all the scenic attractions of Top’s jungle compound. Hawke jumped off and raced inside to find his friend.

“Ambrose, it’s me,” Hawke said leaning over him, his face grave and full of worry.

“I’m sorry,” the girl named Caparina said. She could have passed for a man in her camos. But her face was lovely in the dim light.

“Has he spoken? Stokely asked her.

“You have to give him a minute,” Caparina said, “He’s coming around.”

She was holding Ambrose’s hand to her bosom, gazing at the old fellow. “I gave him something to counteract the truth drugs. Ten minutes ago. It should be—”

“Are you a doctor?” Hawke asked her.

“Just a night nurse from Manaus.”

“Will he be in much pain?”

“I’m afraid he will.”

“Alex,” Ambrose said, his eyelids fluttering.

“I’m here. Come to take you home.”

“Home,” he sighed. His eyelids closed again.

“Ambrose. Please. You have to stay awake for a few minutes.”

“So tired.”

“The code, Ambrose. Remember the code. When and where?”

“Top’s attack.”

“Yes. Where is Top going to attack?”

“Washington.”

“When?”

“The president. All of them. The government.”

“When, Ambrose?”

“January the…twentieth”

“That’s today,” the beautiful girl said. “Holy Mother of Mary.”

“Ambrose, listen carefully,” Hawke said, “What time is the attack? Do you know?”

“Swear on the bible. Don’t let him,” Ambrose croaked.

Hawke looked at Stokely and said, “Swear on a bible? The Inauguration. They’re going to attack the Amercian government on the steps of the Capitol. What time is it?”

“Almost noon, boss. I don’t’ know how much time we’ve got.”

Hawke shook his head and put a gentle hand on Congreve’s shoulder. “Ambrose. The code, what is it?”

“The code.”

“Yes. What is the code? Those numbers we worked so hard on? That bloody book?”

Ambrose smiled weakly, “The da Zimmermann code?”

“Yes, Ambrose. That’s it.”

“Numbers make letters, Alex. Will of Allah. Da Vinci.”

“What?” Hawke said, his mind racing, looking at Stoke for help.

“Will of Allah,” Stoke said, “That sounds like a password. So what’s Da Vinci?”

Ambrose nodded.

“He shouldn’t talk anymore,” Caparina said, looking at Hawke.

Stoke grabbed Hawke’s arm. “We got to go, boss. Caparina will take good care of him till we get back. Let’s go.”

“I want him out of here. Now.
Stiletto’
s not even close! Where the hell is that seaplane?”

Stoke shook his head and handed Hawke his radio.

“Mick! It’s Hawke. Copy?”

“Copy, Hawke.”

“Can you land that bloody thing? Here? Now? I’m about to lose him!”

“No worries, sir. I’ll splash sideways.”

“Sideways?”

“Little trick I learned in the bush. I’m coming in now.”

Hawke looked at Caparina. “You stay with him. Someone’s coming.”

H
AWKE AND
S
TOKELY
stepped onto the platform and began their descent. For the moment, Froggy’s men seemed to have staunched the flow of troops. A few were still using the bridge, climbing over the blown tank. There’d been a brief effort to maneuver sponson pontoons across the river, but the M-60s were discouraging a lot of that kind of activity.

They heard a loud engine roar to the right, just above the bridge. The
Blue Goose
swept in low through the thick black smoke, just a few feet above the smoldering tank hulk on the bridge. Mick Hocking’s wingtips were catching clumps of foliage on either side of the river. For a moment, both men thought he’d surely catch a wing and go down.

He mangaged to keep the the
Goose
on course, God alone knew how, and flared up for a landing. At the last possible moment, Mick lowered one flap and spun the big plane a few degrees on its axis. The slight angle was enough to clear the heavily wooded banks. The
Blue Goose
splashed down on the river.

It came to a very quick stop. Mick opened the door and climbed down onto the pontoon, a machine gun cradled in one arm. He swung an anchor, tossed an anchor line into the trees, and started hauling the airplane close to the bank.

“Cover that seaplane!” Stoke shouted in his radio. “Form up! Don’t let anyone near it.” Hawke was reassured by the sight of two men with M-60 heavy machine guns racing along the bank, headed for the waiting seaplane. There was sporadic gunfire from the bridge and the M-60s opened up, silencing it.

Froggy was at the bottom of the tree, waiting for them.

“Froggy,” Hawke said to the little Frenchman, as he and Stoke stepped off the platform.

“Mon ami,”
Froggy said to Hawke, bowing from the waist. Hawke smiled and squeezed his old comrade’s shoulder.

“Froggy, get two men up there immediately. Ambrose is badly hurt. Tell your men to be very careful bringing him down. Soon as he’s safely loaded inside the plane, tell Hocking to fly back downriver to
Stiletto
and get him to sick bay.”

“It is done, Monsieur Hawke,” Froggy said, already on the radio to two of the biggest guys he had.

“Let me borrow that satphone, Froggy,” Hawke said when he signed off, “We might need it.”