Final Bearing Read online

  There was an even more urgent danger. Bullets were now flying at them from a new direction, from behind them, popping and singing as they struck the water near their heads. De Santiago could see the flicker of muzzle flashes from automatic weapons on the right-bank now.

  They were in a carefully planned crossfire. No way out and no way to fight back.

  The service revolver on his hip was no match for this barrage. Their AK-47s had sunk to the bottom already.

  He could hear the attackers shouting from the bank on both sides of the river.

  "We have him now! Keep shooting! Ten thousand pesos to the man who brings me an ear of the bastard de Santiago!"

  De Santiago pointed to the dugout. Guzman nodded and dove, just before he did. They surfaced together inside the meager protection of the overturned wooden boat. He could already see daylight in many places where the bullets had chipped through.

  De Santiago shouted, "We must dive deep and swim for the Rio Napo! It's our only chance. Stay under water until your lungs burst, my friend. For the revolution!"

  Guzman took several deep breaths and disappeared below the surface. De Santiago saw one of the bullets pop through the side of the dugout where his bodyguard had been.

  "Vaya con Dios, my friend," de Santiago mumbled. He filled his lungs and dove to the bottom after him.

  The leader of the revolution touched the muddy bottom with the toes of his boots. A tremendous explosion stunned him. The concussion left him senseless for a moment. He was aware enough not to try to breathe. He found himself floating helplessly toward the surface.

  Something deep in his inner mind, some primal will to survive to fight again, shook him back to full consciousness just before he broke the surface. He could see the bright yellow sunlight filtering down through the mud-brown water, tempting him to come to the surface for a brief gulp of cool, sweet air.

  He fought the impulse mightily. He rolled over and dove back to the deep, taking long slow strokes to conserve the precious air still left in his lungs. He had to put as much distance between himself and the ambush as he could.

  Only fifty yards to go. He could do it. Had to stay down. Don't think of the fire burning in the chest. Just keep swimming. Let the quickening current to deliver him from the devils.

  The searing in his lungs was near unendurable. Grayness started to slip in around the edges of his thoughts. He felt another blast now, behind him, not nearly as bad as the first, but disorienting nonetheless.

  Grenades! They were using grenades to force them up!

  And he knew he was fading, falling, losing the battle.

  Then Juan de Santiago had the strangest series of sensations. First, he thought of his mistress and he could almost feel the way she felt against him, hear her laugh, her cries when he entered her, the animal sounds she made as he took her. He heard the laughter of his latest children. The ones from her womb. He could feel their love for him like a glow in his heart. He could smell the flowers that grew around his compound. Hear the flutter of the wings of the hummingbirds.

  At that instant, he felt a powerful inner force take hold of him, a sense of purpose that was so strong he almost swooned.

  He realized what it was that he was truly placed on this earth to do. No longer was his goal merely to conquer the devils of El Presidente. To return the land to the people, to assure that he, as leader, would enjoy the lifestyle he had earned by reclaiming his land.

  His purpose from God was far greater. The devil he must destroy was much bigger than the clown in Bogota. El Presidente was merely the puppet. His strings pulled by an entity much farther north. A super-devil that would be far more difficult to defeat. A wonderful fact became so obvious to him. He already had the mechanism in place, in progress, to do that very bidding. He could see so clearly that the victory could be his.

  El Jefe could free far more than the peasants of his own small country. Achieve revenge for the pillaging of his Inca ancestors. He would soon have the mechanism to free the entire world! What sort of a lifestyle would he earn for himself by such a massive liberation?

  His body was at the point of forcing him to involuntarily inhale the thick muddy-brown river water. He felt the current shift noticeably, now hitting him from the side instead of shoving him from behind.

  The Rio Napo! He had made it!

  De Santiago bobbed to the surface, inhaling great gasps of pure, clean air, choking, gagging, but more or less breathing.

  He felt the stronger current of the larger river pushing him along, farther away from the ambush. There was no way the soldiers could navigate the vine-clogged riverbank as quickly as the river's current was carrying him. It would take a while to launch boats if that was how they had stalked him to here. He was safe from the government assassins.

  He took a few feeble strokes out toward the middle of the river. He bumped into an unmoving, lifeless shape. Guzman, his bodyguard, floating face down.

  De Santiago grabbed his old friend by the collar and belt to roll him over. He struggled to hold Guzman's head out of the water. He fought to stay afloat himself. A few strong strokes and they reached the far bank of the Rio Napo, shielded from view by overhanging undergrowth. Standing in neck deep water, de Santiago felt Guzman's throat for a pulse.

  Yes, there it was. Very weak, but still there.

  He couldn't allow Guzman to slip away now. He had even greater need for the man now than ever before.

  He pinched Guzman's nose and floated him close enough that he could breathe into his mouth. He watched as Guzman's chest rose and lowered with the breath he was giving him. Again he breathed life into his old friend. Once more and Guzman started to spit and sputter. He vomited great gushes of brown water then finally started to breathe on his own.

  His eyes flickered open, his arms instinctively treading water as he realized he was not dead.

  "Welcome back, old friend. Did you enjoy your nap?" de Santiago asked.

  Before Guzman could answer, de Santiago pulled him closer to the bank and up onto a small patch of dry ground until his bodyguard could regain his strength. They would have to move soon. Float farther down the river to a safe pullout he knew. He had no idea how they might do that undetected, and especially with his bodyguard wounded and half-drowned

  "What happened?" Guzman asked, catching his breath.

  "Later, we still need to get out of here. El Presidente's troops will soon figure out that they didn't get us. We need to be long gone by then."

  "Ambush!" Guzman spat, his words hoarse, as much from anger as from the muddy water he had swallowed. "You know what that means? El Falcone is real. There was no way for those troops to know we would be coming this way. No way unless they had ears in the meeting room at the hacienda."

  "Of course, you are right my friend. And I have an idea on that subject. Wait, I think I see our ride now," de Santiago said, pointing at a small tree floating down river, uprooted by some storm far up in the Andes. De Santiago saw it as a gift from God, a sign that his revelation had, indeed, been a divine one. "Swim for it and hold on to the branches. Keep your head low."

  He watched as Guzman started out into the river, swimming mostly on his side like a wounded duck. The injured arm was hampering the bodyguard's already poor swimming stroke. He wouldn't be able to make it in the swift current. De Santiago dove in behind him, grabbed Guzman by the collar once more, and took long, sure strokes, strong enough to propel both men. Aiming well ahead of the floating tree, he swam on until they met up with it in the middle of the river.

  Safely hidden in the limbs, they allowed it to carry them downstream. De Santiago used his shirt to bandage the wound as best he could. At least he managed to stop the bleeding. Guzman would make it. He was far too tough to be killed in some silly little ambush.

  De Santiago began to make an eerie sound. A deep, guttural laugh that grew until it was almost dangerously loud. Guzman was startled by the burning, intense look in his leader's eyes.

  "What, El Jefe?" Guz
man asked him. "You have been almost shot, nearly drowned, you float down a river filled with crocodiles and water snakes, and still you laugh as if it is all a joke?"

  The look on Juan de Santiago's face grew even more intense. As dark as the deepest rainforest. As cold as the Andean snow. It wasn't the waters of the Rio Napo that caused Guzman to begin to shiver.

  "I have realized our purpose, mi amigo," de Santiago said, his voice the growl of a primordial animal. "In the throes of death, God revealed it all to me. Listen now, and if the crocodiles don't devour us first, I will explain to you how we, you and I, shall soon destroy the American devil once and for all."

  9

  Jonathan Ward charged up the hill, head down, feet pounding the pavement, a sheen of sweat on his body signifying that he was doing some good already. Inhaling the clean sea air in big gulps felt wonderful after the canned stuff he had been breathing on Spadefish. He loved the solid feel of the ground beneath his feet, the warm sun shining down on his back as he ran. These were the sensations of being on land that he missed when he was at sea. It was impossible to run on a submarine, of course. No way to simply jog away from the demands and worries of the boat and allow the exertion to unclench the tense knots in his muscles.

  He had to thank Joe Glass for this one. The XO insisted that Ward leave the boat for a bit, go out and run until he worked up a good sweat and a better attitude. Everything else would take care of itself. He still had a couple of hours to kill before Admiral Donnegan's plane was scheduled to land. Commodore Desseaux made it plain in their brief meeting at the pier that he didn't want to talk about the situation at hand until the Admiral was there to hear all sides of the story. The greetings at the pier were mechanical at best, a quick exchange of forced pleasantries and little more. The Commodore quickly departed, Hunsucker following closely behind, yipping at his heels like an eager-to-please puppy.

  Ward's breath was already rasping a bit as he rounded the curves on the steep hill that made up McClelland Road, stretching to the Cabrillo Gate at the top. Despite the slight burn in his lungs, he felt good, the run already serving its purpose, purging his body and soul.

  The XO was right, as usual. His captain needed this in the worst way.

  Now a gentle breeze brought the scent of eucalyptus down the hill. The soft sandstone cliffs, sculpted smooth and round by eons of wind and rain, rose on his left, hiding little valleys filled with ice plant and sage. As he wound up the ever-steeper hill, Ward could gaze out on this side of Point Loma and down on Shelter Island. Whether it was the view, the freshened blood pumping through his veins, or the warm, fragrant air, Jon Ward felt a sudden burst of optimism about his situation and upped the pace to match his new disposition.

  “Hell, they can’t shoot me!” he said aloud as he picked up the pace. He was right on this one. What was it his dad always said? “Be sure you’re right, then go ahead?” The man dutifully attributed the motto to Davy Crockett, but he still took it as a mantra he always lived by.

  Ward was smiling now, thinking of his dad, and was startled by the gruff voice coming up the hill behind him.

  "Hey, old man! Step it up or get out of the way!"

  He instinctively moved aside. He looked quickly over his shoulder to see who it was that was so rudely challenging him. He felt the good mood he had jogged himself into fading. The sun behind the newcomer made his face hard to see, but the voice was familiar.

  It was a tall, younger man striding easily up the hill toward him, not even breathing hard from the climb. Ward slowed a bit to allow him to catch up.

  "You wanna race this ‘old man,’ I’ll give you fifty meters and still beat you!” Ward said in mock seriousness. Bill Beaman pulled up alongside him and the two men slapped palms. "What’s the deal, B.B.? The SEALs send you over this way for a real challenge?"

  The two fell into the easy rhythm of two athletes who had run together many times before. Matching strides, they rounded the final turn and waved at the guard standing by the upper gate. They ran past the Navy Station firehouse and turned left onto Cabrillo Drive, neither man talking for a stretch as they set a pace.

  Lieutenant Commander Bill Beaman commanded SEAL Team Three over at the Coronado Amphib Base. He and Ward had worked together on several operations. Theirs was a mutual respect that came from each man having seen the other perform at his best under pressure. The bond of friendship was further strengthened by their love for running. It was a camaraderie that was combined with a healthy dose of competition. Even now, as they ran along, each could feel the other pushing the pace slightly.

  Beaman finally glanced over at Ward.

  "Where you headed?"

  "Thought I'd run out around the lighthouse and back. Think you can keep up that long?"

  "Should I plan on stopping at the firehouse here and grabbing some oxygen for you?" the SEAL retorted.

  Ward laughed easily.

  "Missed these runs. Sure feels good to climb these hills again. You getting ready for the San Diego Marathon?"

  Beaman picked up the pace a tiny bit more.

  "Depends on when I get back from my next trip,” he said. “Looks like JDIA has us slated for an op down south. Should be an in-and-out, but there is no way of telling with those guys."

  "So you're playing the anti-drug game now?" Ward asked.

  "Well, it's a combination anti-drug, anti-terrorist operation. Fine line with some of these bastards. Most likely we’ll be training Colombian troops on spec-ops.” He glanced over at Ward. “Say, you're back early, aren't you? Didn’t expect to see you huffin’ and puffin’ along here for another couple of weeks."

  The two were running along the ridgeline now. To their left, the expansive view of Coronado Island and San Diego stretched all the way down to the hills of Tijuana. To their right was the broad, blue Pacific, and nothing but water all the way past Hawaii to Micronesia. A hawk drifted lazily on the updrafts coming off the steep sea-cliff face. Both sides of the roadway were lined with white crosses, and the manicured lawn of Fort Rosecrans National Military Cemetery stretched away in each direction. It was always a stark reminder of the sacrifice their chosen profession could possibly require.

  Ward didn’t answer until they had passed the cemetery. His words were carefully measured.

  "Had a little problem. Came in to discuss it with SUBPAC."

  Beaman knew his friend too well to not pick up the tone in Ward's voice.

  "Take it you don't want to discuss it?"

  "No, not really." Ward picked up the pace this time, striving for a level where elaboration would be more difficult, and the two men ran in silence for a few more minutes.

  Beaman pulled up and stopped unexpectedly. They were alongside a bunker burrowed into the hillside to seaward just before the Cabrillo Road turned off to drop down to the Coast Guard lighthouse. Ward recognized the structure for what it was, one of the remnants of the World War II coastal defense gun system. These bunkers had served to house a multitude of tenants over the decades, most of them very highly classified. There was no sign at the guarded gate, but that was not unusual when whatever went on behind the cement walls was so top secret.

  "Got to stop here, I’m afraid.” Beaman waved a thumb toward the gate. “This is my office for a while. Welcome to JDIA Headquarters." Beaman offered Ward his hand. "Sorry I couldn’t give you a decent workout this afternoon. Run tomorrow?"

  Ward returned the handshake.

  "Don't know. Give me a call at the boat."

  Beaman looked his friend directly in the eye.

  “Good luck with SUBPAC.”

  Ward winked and jogged away. Turning around at the entrance to the Lighthouse Park, he started back, increasing his already punishing gait until he was doing a brutally fast race-pace run. Sweat was pouring from his body and his breath was coming in great, raspy gulps as he finally pulled to a stop at the brow to Spadefish. His body felt good from the exercise, but, as soon as he saw the outline of his boat at the pier, the trouble returned to
his mind once again as if it had never left.

  Ward crossed the brow to the round main deck of the boat he knew and loved so well. God, he would hate to have to give her up! And if it came to that, they might just as likely decommission the old girl at the same time. What a shame. What a damned shame that would be.

  Acknowledging the salute of the Quarterdeck Watch with a nod, he walked to the Weapons Shipping Hatch. He heard the 1MC blare, "Spadefish returning," as he dropped through the hatch and slid down the ladder.

  The ladder dropped to the deck in the passageway right outside the XO's stateroom. Joe Glass jumped up to greet Ward.

  "There you are, Skipper. Just about ready to send the cavalry out to find you. Squadron Secretary just called. Admiral Donnegan's plane was early. Just touched down. You're to be in the Commodore's office in half an hour. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, you smell sort’a like an Army mule."

  "Anything else?" Ward asked, grabbing the towel Glass handed to him.

  "No, not really," the Executive Officer answered. "You know how they are over there nowadays. Very officious, solving all the Navy's problems with paperwork and procedure."

  Ward stepped down the passageway to his stateroom.

  "Yeah, I know. And all those problems are caused by those of us out here on the boats. Their job would be a lot easier without us around to complicate things, wouldn’t it, Joe?"

  The XO shared his Commander’s laugh but Ward knew that was precisely the crux of the problem. He didn’t even whistle as he usually did as he showered away the honest sweat of his fine afternoon run.

  Jonathan Ward’s timing was perfect. As he stepped up to the door of the Maintenance Facilities Building, he spied a black Chevy with blue flags flying from each front fender, just pulling up to the security gate. The guard snapped to attention, saluted, and immediately waved the car through. It rolled to a stop right beside the door Ward was about to enter.

  He stopped and saluted the tall black man who climbed out of the back of the official car. Tom Donnegan returned the greeting smartly, stepped quickly to where Ward stood, then smiled and shook the Commander's hand.