Jet 04: Reckoning, Page 2

  The sound of powerful truck engines revved from within the grounds as the night security force rallied, and he spotted two vehicles heading his way. Quickly calculating that he had no more than thirty seconds, he jogged five yards from the gate and withdrew three grenades from his bag, waiting for the trucks to come within range. When the headlights played across the bed of the truck he’d abandoned, he pulled the pin on the first orb and threw it as hard as he could, watching with satisfaction as it sailed beyond the truck and onto the road.

  The explosion slowed the approaching guards, and when he lobbed the second and third grenades they stopped, any appetite for engagement quashed by the blasts. He didn’t wait to see the results of the next detonations but instead ran to the blackened edge of the road that led down the mountain and made his way steadily into the darkness, the mine entrance receding behind him. His com line crackled into life again – his second-in-command quietly informed him that all the men were now at the rendezvous point. He acknowledged, then turned and withdrew a remote transmitter from his pocket as he faced the entrance. In a lightning motion he lifted it over his head as he flipped away a small plastic protective cover with his thumb and depressed the button.

  A shuddering blast shattered the night as the explosives were triggered simultaneously from locations around the complex. The sky over the mine became an inferno as fire sailed into the air from the eight carefully chosen areas. The pipeline that carried the precious ore was ruined in two different spots, the communications facility destroyed, and worst of all for the operation, the crushers were hopelessly mangled by the strategically placed charges. Secondary explosions from fuel tanks and flammable liquid drums sounded from further down the ridge, but he had already turned and resumed his run.

  They needed to get clear of the mine. The hard part was done. In a few minutes three more of his men would detonate their assigned targets nine miles down the mountain, further crippling the pipeline. He wasn’t worried short-term about pursuit from the mine’s remaining guards – his designated team members had placed spiked anti-tire countermeasures on the road to incapacitate any chase vehicles. When he reached the rendezvous spot two minutes later, the men were all accounted for, Neptune with a field dressing on his shoulder, and the engines of two dark-colored vans purred softly in the high-altitude atmosphere. All eyes followed him as he walked to the driver’s door of the lead van and shrugged off his backpack, then tossed it together with his rifle into the cargo area. He climbed behind the wheel and gestured to his men.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Two more explosions echoed from far down the mountain. The pipeline had been ruptured, right on schedule. The mercenaries clambered into the vehicles, requiring no further encouragement, and within seconds they were rolling down the road, lights extinguished, navigating through the drizzle using night vision goggles until they were five miles away, near the closest company town. Once in Tembagapura they’d ditch the vans and switch to motorcycles, then disappear, their work on the island done.

  Gravel crunched under the oversized tires as they headed away from the chaos they had caused, the glow of Tembagapura below them beckoning through the haze of light rain. Three other attacks had been launched against the Indonesian military’s nearby outposts, concurrent with their assault on the mine, ensuring confusion and mayhem to cover their escape. By the time the full extent of the damage was understood, they would be aboard the helicopters that awaited them in a secluded field and on their way to Mopah airport, where two prop planes would whisk them to the New Guinea side of the island, and from there onward to Australia, where they’d lie low in Sydney and await further orders – richer by five million dollars for a single night’s bloody work.

  Chapter 1

  Alan watched from his window seat as the jumbo jet lumbered through the rough air on final approach to the international airport in Buenos Aires. He rubbed a hand across the two-day growth on his face and stretched his arms overhead, trying to compensate for ten hours wedged into an economy seat on the red-eye flight from Mexico City. Sleep had been impossible, and he reconciled himself to another long day of travel; while delayed on the ground in Mexico, he’d booked a fare on the ferry from Buenos Aires to Montevideo, Uruguay, for later that day.

  The runway lights appeared below him and the wheels smoked on the tarmac as the huge plane rolled down the long strip, decelerating as the landscape rocketed by. A stewardess came over the public address system, welcomed them to Ministro Pistarini International Airport, and advised the passengers to remain seated. Alan checked his watch and reset it to local time, calculating how long it would take to get from the airport on the farthest outskirts of the sprawling city to the ferry terminal near the domestic airport on the waterfront. If customs wasn’t too much of a problem, he could make it. Just.

  The flight was three and a half hours late due to a mechanical problem before takeoff, and the uneasy, packed plane had been forced to return to the gate while a maintenance crew scrambled to fix a faulty warning sensor. Nobody had been allowed off, and every half hour the pilot had calmly assured them over the speakers that it wouldn’t be long now – a transparent lie that had increased everyone’s annoyance as each hour rolled into another. When the plane finally took off, the air was stagnant and the passengers restless, their already long flight turned into a marathon by a faulty piece of wiring.

  The big plane pulled into the gate and things moved faster, although Alan was at the rear of the cabin and so one of the last to disembark. Fortunately he only had his carry-on bag, and Argentine immigration was efficient, so within half an hour he was instructing a taxi driver to take him to the ferry as quickly as possible.

  A slum near the city fringes, constructed from tarpaper and old pallets, marred the landscape, and a cloud of exhaust and smoke lingered over the area like a noxious fog. The taxi raced past it on the modern highway, and soon they were in Buenos Aires proper, where a seemingly endless procession of dingy high-rise apartments cluttered the skyline, indifferently built to provide affordable housing in one of the world’s most populated cities.

  Alan found his cell phone and powered it on, and once it acquired service he saw he had seven missed calls. He checked his voice mail and there were two messages from Jet: brief, as was her style, the second tinged with concern that he hadn’t picked up yet. He checked the timing – the last attempt had been twenty-five minutes ago, but when he pressed redial, the line just buzzed faintly, with no ringing. It could take a while for his phone to be able to place international calls, he knew from experience, and he made a mental note to try Jet one last time before he got on the boat – her flight should be just taking off, but if it had been delayed it was possible she would still have her phone on, and he could check in and verify that everything was okay.

  It wound up taking over an hour to arrive at the ferry building, by which time Alan’s stomach was rumbling – the food on the plane had been marginal, at best, and it had been all he could do to force himself to choke it down. He looked at his watch again and hoped he would have enough time to grab lunch; even the worst Argentine diner would be light years ahead of the plane’s fare.

  He handed the driver a wad of local currency, walked quickly to the ticket windows, and claimed his place on the ship with another slug of bills. The attendant advised him that the ferry was boarding – that he should hurry – it would be taking off in twenty minutes, and the late afternoon run was especially crowded, even though the company was running a much larger boat than usual while the smaller catamaran that ordinarily did the trip underwent maintenance.

  Alan moved to the line and stood patiently with the rest of the crowd waiting to go through security and embark the huge vessel. As he shifted from foot to foot, he had a distinctly uneasy feeling, and he swung around to scan the boarding area. On the far side of the long main hall two men turned to look at the ship, but not before Alan caught one staring at him.

  The shorter of the two said som
ething to his partner, who laughed and then pointed at the boat. Alan’s eyes continued roving over the crowd, aware that after so much time in the air, sleep deprived, his sensory warning system could be misfiring. A woman near the magazine stand was looking at him, then glanced away as his eyes caught hers. She returned the copy of Vogue she’d been browsing through before selecting another and going to pay.

  “Hey, buddy. Move up, eh?”

  The man behind him, stocky, dressed in a cheap suit, gestured with his head at Alan, who was now ten feet from the person in front of him in the boarding line. Alan met his gaze with red eyes and mumbled an apology before shuffling forward. Another scan of the salon, and the woman was gone, as were the two men by the window.

  Alan sighed and scratched his face. His mind was playing tricks on him. Nobody knew he was in Buenos Aires, much less traveling to Uruguay via boat. The stress of the last forty-eight hours was messing with his head – and the blow to his skull wasn’t helping. It was still hurting, and he reflexively touched it, then winced. The Russian mystery man had clobbered him with his pistol butt, and when he’d dropped to the ground, he’d hit his head again. The examining doctor had advised Alan to stay in bed for a week – counsel he’d immediately ignored, preferring to get as far from Los Angeles as possible.

  The line proceeded forward, and he placed his carry-on bag and phone onto the conveyor belt so security could be reassured he wasn’t smuggling guns or heroin to Montevideo. The process was cursory and superficial, more for show than anything. If he’d wanted, he knew from experience that he could have carried on a carbon fiber knife that would have never shown up. What he would have done with it on the ferry was a different story – it wasn’t like a plane, which could be used as a flying weapon.

  Once aboard he found a seat by a window and looked back at the terminal. The two men had returned and were looking at the ship. A tingle of apprehension tickled his stomach, and he fought down the anxiety. He needed sleep, not paranoia. So there were two men watching the ferry. There were probably hundreds throughout the day, waiting for passengers to get off, or to wave at departing loved ones.

  As if sensing his thoughts, both men turned and walked away from the oversized glass windows. The engines increased in volume once the lines were detached from the dock and secured onboard.

  Then they were underway, the steady thrumming of the engines at idle turning into a dull roar as the revs increased, heading out to what appeared to be open ocean but was in reality a huge bay created by the Rio de Plata meeting the Atlantic. A hundred and twenty miles north across the water, Montevideo, their destination, awaited his arrival.

  He fished his phone from his pocket and placed another call. This time it rang, but then a message announced that the recipient was out of the service area – so Jet was now in the air, winging her way to Buenos Aires. He texted her that he’d gone on to Uruguay, and then sent a brief email to her blind account to the same effect, asking her to call his cell once she arrived in Argentina and explaining that he’d meet up with her in Montevideo.

  The boat gathered speed, and soon it was flying across the bay at over thirty knots. Alan watched Buenos Aires recede into the distance as they headed northeast, parallel to the coast, the current in their favor in this direction as the river’s contents spilled towards the sea. The ride was nearly flat, and once the snack bar was open he bought a sandwich and soda and took a seat near another window.

  His intention was to get a hotel in Montevideo and sleep overnight, and then the next day meet with Jet once she’d made the trip...and then what? The truth was that he didn’t have a plan beyond that. He’d decided spontaneously to leave Los Angeles after the terrorist strike and turn in his retirement notice to the Mossad once he understood what his future held. Beyond getting to South America and waiting for Jet, he hadn’t thought through the rest of it. A lot depended upon Jet and what she wanted to do. They’d need to find someplace new in which to start over with Hannah after disappearing off the radar...but after that, the future became cloudy.

  His thoughts turned to Jet. His brother’s ex-girlfriend, the mother to his brother’s child, as beautiful as any woman he’d seen, and as deadly as nightshade. Alan shared that quality with her; he was an expert at only a couple of things – search-and-destroy missions and undercover operations where he was in constant peril. What would he do now that he had quit the Mossad? Open a convenience store? Get a factory job? Sell insurance?

  Alan wasn’t too worried about his immediate financial future; he’d managed to sock away a fair amount of money in his operational accounts while he was in Yemen, and never spent any of his salary, so he was okay for a few years. And of course, Jet was loaded now – but that wasn’t his money, and he was conflicted over being dependent upon her. One way or another, he’d need to find a way to earn a living. But that would take care of itself, he supposed. First he needed to understand where he would be in a week; then he’d worry about long term.

  There was definitely chemistry between them. She was an intoxicating collection of contradictions, and after years of being alone he was powerfully drawn to her. It seemed like the attraction was mutual, but he wasn’t going to force anything. Whatever happened, if anything, would happen at its own pace.

  His food eaten, he returned to his seat and dozed, the gentle rocking of the ship bringing the fatigue from all the travel home. He was just beginning to dream about captivating emerald eyes when a hand shook his shoulder. He started, and instinctively grabbed the shaker’s wrist and prepared to deliver a strike, then relaxed when he saw it was one of the crew.

  Alan released him and forced himself to full awareness.

  “What is it?” he demanded groggily.

  “I’m sorry, sir...we’re looking for Angel Perozzi,” the crewman asked.

  “And?”

  “Are you Señor Perozzi?”

  “No. Why are you looking for him?”

  The crew member looked conflicted, then shrugged. “We’re matching up travelers with vehicles, and he’s the only one unaccounted for – his truck is onboard, but he hasn’t submitted his paperwork. It’s not a big deal. Thank you for your time,” he said, turning to go to the next row of seats.

  “Oh, okay. What kind of vehicle?”

  The crewman checked his clipboard. “Just says a truck.”

  “Do you often have this kind of thing happen?” Alan asked, the tickle of apprehension returning.

  “Actually, it’s my first time. I’ve only been working here for six months, though.”

  “Well, good luck. Where are the cars located, anyway?”

  “They’re on the lowest level, but the area is locked until just a few minutes before we get into port, so nobody can go down there. Company rules.”

  “Ah. It’s not like he could go for a swim, so you’ll find him. Why don’t you just announce something over the public address system?”

  “It’s on the blink. Oh, well, have a good nap, sir. Again, sorry I disturbed you.”

  “No problem,” Alan said, then closed his eyes again, his brain racing.

  It was probably nothing. The driver was in the bathroom or asleep somewhere on the huge ferry. Still, a buzz of anxiety did a gymnastics routine in his stomach. His operational training had taught him to never overlook even the smallest anomalies. They could be the difference between life and death.

  But you’re not on a mission anymore. You’re done, out of the game. This is just residual tension from the terrorist near miss, or a by-product of being slammed in the head.

  He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He shifted to get comfortable, but his thoughts were whirring, playing out scenarios. What did it mean? Could there be danger? If so, from whom and why?

  After ten minutes of fruitless non-sleep, he resigned himself to the restless fugue state that now defined his reality and cracked an eye open. The steward was returning, having completed his search of that level. Alan caught his glance, and the man sho
ok his head with another shrug, then approached the stairs to the next level and ascended.

  Alarm was now more prominent in Alan’s awareness. Maybe everything was fine. Or maybe something was badly wrong.

  He groaned audibly, then made his decision.

  One way or another, he needed to get to the lower decks and find the truck belonging to the missing driver. Just to reassure himself. That was all. It was probably nothing, and he was just projecting, looking for an emergency, a threat where none existed. He knew that was a side effect of living in constant danger, undercover in the field, as he had for years with the terrorist cell in Yemen. You got home and were mowing the lawn, and then became convinced that the neighbor had you under surveillance, or that every car rolling down the street carried gunmen out to terminate you. It went with the territory.

  Still, it couldn’t hurt to look.

  Alan stood, shouldered his bag, and moved to the stairs that led down to the main deck level. He checked his watch – they’d been underway for a little over an hour, so he still had two and a half to go before they arrived in Uruguay.

  A little peek would take hardly any time at all.

  Just a glance. Nothing more.

  To put his mind at ease.

  He just needed to figure out how to get into a locked cargo hold, possibly under guard, on a boat plowing through the water at high speed, so he could chase phantoms.

  Piece of cake.

  Chapter 2

  On the main deck, Alan wandered the length of the boat, trying to get a sense for the traffic as well as the number of crew members patrolling the area. At the halfway point he spotted the stairwell leading to the car transport area, but it had a chain across it. Fortunately, almost all the passengers were on the upper levels watching the distant shoreline race by, so after a few moments of skulking nearby, he ducked beneath the chain and made his way silently down the steps.