Chapter 82
Present Day
Amonth after the sinking of the Fuzhou and the Baktun, the Oregon crew finally got its hard-earned vacation at their private island in the eastern Caribbean.
It had been touch-and-go for a moment. Juan’s strict orders were to not fire on the Chinese nor sink the Baktun, and Cabrillo’s explanation that he had technically done neither didn’t sit well with Overholt or the director of national intelligence.
But the few surviving Chinese sailors rescued by the Oregon all confirmed their ship was sunk by the bandit ship Baktun in an unprovoked attack and not by the Americans.
In fact, they even praised the Americans’ heroic rescue efforts, superlative medical care, and respectful treatment.
Their testimonies completely exonerated the Oregon in the eyes of the Chinese authorities.
If the Fuzhou had been recording the events of that day, they never got the data files transferred.
The death of Dr. Bose and the loss of the Baktun kept AGI out of China’s hands, which was to Cabrillo’s credit.
The denial of the same to the American AGI program was counted against him.
But Cabrillo’s rescue of the young Thai neurobiologist and her treasure trove of Project Q materials, along with dozens of other surviving techs, ultimately put him in good stead with both Overholt and the federal government.
What still perplexed everyone was the question of the Hwasong-17. Who had hijacked the Korean ICBM and, more important, used it to destroy the Baktun? The Russians? The Iranians? The American intelligence community was in a lather. It was a problem Cabrillo couldn’t be bothered with.
Besides Project Q, the Oregon had completed all of her other assignments.
First, thanks to Linc and Raven’s indomitable efforts to find the base, the Quds Force threat had been eliminated by a combined American-Israeli off-the-books operation.
The predawn raid by a mixed unit of Delta Force and Sayeret Matkal operators began with jamming the Iranians’ comms. As they approached the camp by foot, snipers took out sentries with suppressed, subsonic rounds before the rest of the team swarmed in silently, tossing grenades into the command tent and cutting loose with automatic fire on the rest of the compound.
Within minutes, the entire Quds Force had been either captured or killed, the survivors frog-marched out of the jungle and into waiting Black Hawk helicopters several miles away.
The elimination of the Quds Force unit was a real coup.
An active Iranian special forces outfit would have given the ayatollahs an important strategic foothold in Latin America.
Besides the fact they could have been used to cross over into the U.S.
to engage in terrorist acts, the Quds Force would have bolstered anti-American regimes like Nicaragua, Cuba, and Venezuela.
The Iranians could have also joined forces with Hezbollah or other terrorist organizations operating in the region.
All of those ambitions died with the destruction of the smoldering Quds Force camp.
Next, the demon ship mystery had concluded with the sinking of the Baktun. And finally, President Olmedo was not only alive but had formally broken ties with the Chinese government and was now counted as America’s most important ally in Central America.
“Just another day on the job,” Juan told Overholt. “All that’s left to do is cash your checks.”
Overholt gladly transferred Cabrillo’s customary fees along with a hefty reimbursement for a long list of itemized expenses. The windfall profits would be divided proportionately among the crew as active shareholders in the Corporation.
The vacation island arrival was uneventful and the weather was heaven-sent.
By the third day, the crew had feasted, played, and partied like well-mannered pirates.
The tightly bonded ship grew even closer under the sunny Caribbean sky and the windy, starlit nights.
The crew all worked hard, fought valiantly, and served selflessly.
Cabrillo believed they deserved every sun-kissed moment of rest and relaxation.
He didn’t mind putting his own toes in the sand, either.
★
It was late morning on the fourth day of their vacation island sojourn.
Cabrillo rocked gently in a hammock strung between two palm trees rereading one of his favorite Louis L’Amour novels, The Walking Drum.
Unlike L’Amour’s classic Westerns, this was the swashbuckling epic of an adventurous warrior-scholar set in the turbulent worlds of the twelfth century. In other words, right up Juan’s alley.
Cabrillo was making the last stand with Kerbouchard against the Petchenegs in the novel when his phone vibrated.
He grunted, irritated by the interruption of a great read.
He’d told the rest of his crew to stay off the electronic stuff unless absolutely necessary.
The whole point of a private island, he’d told them, was privacy.
Social media only invited a world of troubles into their idyllic island paradise.
But with a crew as large as the Oregon’s, Juan knew he needed to be available to them, especially when he wasn’t on board the ship.
He picked up the phone. The caller ID read “Unknown,” which was odd.
He thought about dismissing it, but chances were that some federal agency yahoo working a government desk needed to follow up with him about recent events.
“Cabrillo here.”
There was silence on the other end. Then a ding as a video file popped onto his text messenger. He opened it.
His heart sank.
Two nuns dressed in habits were handcuffed by their wrists and ankles to a large crucifix inside a brightly lit cave. They were obviously alive but in great discomfort.
A young nun faced the camera, struggling to keep her composure. Cabrillo couldn’t see the other nun’s face. She was chained on the opposite side facing the back wall of the cave.
The video read “Live” in the left-hand corner of his smartphone window. Juan leaped out of his hammock.
A large man limped into the camera frame, holding a flamethrower in his hands and carrying a napalm pack on his back. He was clearly struggling as if he had been injured.
The nuns squirmed, but didn’t cry out. Cabrillo saw the young nun’s faith in her stoic demeanor.
The man turned and approached the camera until his face filled the frame.
“Recognize me, Cabrillo?”
“You’re the puke that tried to kill President Olmedo.”
The man darkened. “Olmedo got lucky.”
“So did you, apparently. My drone operator put a couple of bullets in you. You should be dead.”
“You can’t kill a ghost.”
“I’m happy to try again.”
“We met before once, Cabrillo. Many years ago.”
Murph had grabbed a screenshot of the guy, but Eric never could ID him. Still, he seemed somehow familiar. He couldn’t pull up a name.
“I see you’re struggling. I had plastic surgery, though I had the same problem recognizing you, at first.”
“What’s wrong? Did I forget to sign your high school yearbook? Steal your girlfriend?”
“You were flippant that night, too.” The man spat on the ground.
“What’s this about? And who in the hell are you?”
“Do you remember the name Nadia?”
A cold shot of pure terror seized Cabrillo. The memory of the woman flooded back over him like a waking nightmare. It was the Colombian snatch-and-grab mission that had gone sideways. Nadia’s screams had cried out to him over the years.
“I can see by the look on your face you do remember my beautiful Nadia. I think maybe you even dream about her as I do.”
Cabrillo watched the man’s face twist into a maudlin grimace even as his eyes flared with rage.
“She suffered terribly. So will you.”
While Suárez spoke, Juan secretly sent a link of the live video to Linda, who was officer of the day, standing watch in the op center.
“It wasn’t intentional, Suárez. I told you that a long time ago. I thought she was dead or I never would have left her there.”
“And yet you did—and she burned alive. Can you imagine a worse death? She was such a beauty. It was as if you set fire to the Louvre that night. Humanity can never forgive you for her loss, nor can I forgive you for her suffering.”
Suárez turned around and approached the two bound women, holding up his fiery weapon. His gloved hand turned the ignition valve and a thin blue cone of flame like from a welding torch arced to life at the tip of the pilot assembly. He stepped closer to the young nun.
Juan tensed, fearing the worst was about to happen.
“Suárez! Don’t!”
Suárez raised the old Soviet-era flamethrower to the young nun’s face. She cringed as the scorching blue flame licked her skin. She refused to cry out, but finally fainted with a shuddering whimper as a huge red blister bloomed on her cheek.
Suárez pulled the flamethrower away and killed the pilot light, ignoring the other nun’s fervent prayers.
Suárez turned back to the camera, unaware that Ross had just sent Juan a text.
Crew notified. Recording video. Horrible. Please advise.
“So what do you want, Suárez?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for the CIA man?”
“What are your terms?”
Suárez unshouldered the heavy pack with great difficulty, his face pinched with pain. The Colombian assassin approached his smartphone perched on a tripod broadcasting the horror show.
“Terms? Here are my terms. You have exactly ninety minutes to turn yourself over to my custody. You will trade your life for the lives of these two Sisters of Divine Mercy. I will release them upon your arrival. You will come to the cave alone. I’ll send the GPS coordinates as soon as I end the call and that’s when your countdown begins. ”
“You know I’ll be there.”
“Of course you will. And you’ll try to bring in your operatives, and free the women and kill me.
Well, let me save you the trouble. I don’t care if I die.
In fact, I would consider it a favor.” Suárez hacked with a phlegmy cough.
He pulled his ungloved hand away from his mouth.
It was bloody. He showed it to the camera.
“You see? I haven’t much longer to live anyway. ” He wiped his hand on his pants.
“You also need to know I have cameras located all over this little island. If you jam them, these women will be burned alive. If anyone approaches the cave other than you, the women will be burned alive. Do anything other than what I tell you, and these nuns will be soaked in napalm gel and lit up like Nero’s torches. Am I completely understood?”
“Understood.”
“I will be broadcasting this event live for your crew. I want them to see your suffering. I want your screams lodged in their brains for the rest of their lives. Hasta luego, cabrón.”
Suárez killed the call.
Cabrillo was already sprinting toward the Oregon when the GPS coordinates arrived on his phone five seconds later.
★
Cabrillo was shocked to find two dozen crew crowded into the op center, where Linda had played the live feed and then replayed the recording when the others arrived. Every face was tense with either fear or anger or both, none more so than Juan’s.
“So this mook, Suárez, blames you for his wife’s death?” Linda asked. “What happened?”
“No time to explain.”
No one paid attention to Eric tapping furiously on his computer keyboard, searching for whatever intel he could find on Suárez and his wife.
“I’ve already loaded the coordinates into the AW’s nav computer,” Gomez said. “We need to get going.”
“Roger that.” Juan turned to Max. “You have the helm until I get back.”
Max could hardly speak. “Copy that.”
“We’re not going to let this guy get away with this are we?” Eddie Seng said. He and his Gundogs were ready to pounce.
“You heard the man. He’s got this thing wired shut.”
“There’s gotta be another option,” Linda said.
“Maybe there is but we don’t have the time to come up with it. Right now, this is my only play.”
The other crew began to protest, some even began to weep.
But Juan threw up his hands and said, “I need to get to my cabin to take care of some things. If you’re the praying type, I can use it—and so can those nuns. Otherwise, I’ll see you on the flip side.”
★
Cabrillo dashed into his cabin and ran straight to his biometric safe.
He placed his hand on the lock and it popped open.
He pulled out a manila envelope. Tucked inside was a newly drafted but unsigned will along with specific instructions.
He’d been putting off signing it for weeks.
If he really was going to die, the last thing he wanted to do was leave the Corporation in a state of legal and financial limbo.
Cabrillo pulled out the papers and grabbed a pen. Standing at his desk, he flipped pages as fast as he could, signing where he needed to. His door popped open. He glanced up.
“Kinda busy right now, Kevin.”
Nixon stood in the doorway, his hand gripping a canvas utility bag.
“Chairman—”
“Save your breath. You’re not stopping me and you’re not going with me. But I appreciate the gesture.”
“I just…”
Cabrillo signed the last page and tossed the pen aside.
“Do you remember what I told you when you joined the crew?”
“Yeah, I sure do. ‘We do what’s right, no matter the cost.’ ”
Cabrillo nodded. “That’s right. It’ll all work out. You watch.”
Kevin smiled. “You’re right. It will.”
★
Cabrillo sent a text from his cabin and ordered the crew to remain belowdecks. He didn’t want to make any kind of a scene.
The crew remained assembled in the op center or crowded into the conference room.
They all watched Juan on the monitors scrambling into the AW tilt-rotor, his face grimly set on the task at hand.
He wore a ball cap, loose fitting slacks, and a breezy cotton shirt instead of the cargo shorts and tank top he’d been in earlier.
Cabrillo threw a jaunty salute at the deck camera as he shut the door and the AW roared off the deck.
And just like that, Juan Cabrillo was gone.