Payback (2 page)

Ensign Swartz scowled. “We move inland only to the point where it could endanger my boat. Then we back off.”

“Agreed,” DeWitt said. “Looks from here like we have a clear way a long way ahead.”

The driver nudged the long, thin boat through the channel, and the officers retreated into the cabin as the brush trailed almost to the water on both sides. It was a slow-moving stream that angled to the left, and they went with it. Trees and brush and vines grew on both sides, sometimes bridging over the top, turning the small waterway into a tunnel.

Ahead fifty yards the stream turned right. Inland, on the left, they saw an open space with a shack of a house, a rowboat tied to the small one-plank dock, and a half-dozen chickens scratching in the moist soil. No people showed.

“Hold it,” DeWitt said. The coxswain cut the motors. “Get us to that bank,” DeWitt said, pointing to the side where the shack stood. “Franklin, Victor. Go check out that place. Capture or waste anybody you see. Silenced weapons.”

The two men waited until the Pegasus nosed into the bank. Then they jumped off the bow to solid ground, parted, and came up on both sides of the shack. There was no window facing the water, only a door half open.

Franklin signaled to Victor he'd go first. He charged up to the cabin, pressed himself against the outer wall three feet from the door, and waited. No movement or noise from inside. He edged to the door and jolted through it, his MP-5 pointing the way. He swept the single room and grinned.

A few seconds later, Victor charged into the same room. They both snorted. The downriver lookout had slumped over a wreck of a table. One hand held a nearly empty bottle of rum, the other a sandwich with only one bite gone. A small two-way radio lay beside the sandwich. His Uzi submachine gun lay on the floor at his feet.

Victor grabbed the man and dropped him to the floor on his belly, then bound his hands behind him. The man grunted and frowned, but remained unconscious. Franklin bound his ankles together with the plastic cuffs.

“Skipper, we've got one lookout, drunk as a skunk, and a sandwich. He's bound up. I'll bring his weapon.”

“Roger that,” DeWitt said. “Return quickly.”

In less than a minute the two SEALs were on board, and the Pegasus moved slowly forward. The throb of its engine was low and guttural, but mostly eaten up by the sound-absorbing jungle.

“Let's stay alert, people,” DeWitt said softly into the Motorola. “Locked and loaded.”

The stream narrowed. Ensign Swartz bit his lip and kept watching the banks. At least they didn't have to worry about the screws hitting bottom. The craft was propelled with twin water jets.

Anther small turn, and the coxswain idled the engines so the Pegasus stood still in the gentle current. Ahead fifty yards DeWitt saw two buildings, both built facing the river on the left-hand side. He guessed they were for storage.

“We've got to clear those buildings,” DeWitt said. “Canzoneri, Franklin, and Jefferson, on me. The rest of you set up a perimeter around the sides of the boat. Coxswain, move us over to that little sandbar and we'll jump to it.”

The driver motored twenty feet upstream and to the left until the bow nudged the sandbar. The SEALs jumped off the bow onto the sand, stayed dry, and ran into the fringe of brush between them and the buildings.

They lay belly-down in the grass and weeds looking at the two structures forty yards ahead. Frame, one-story, maybe twenty feet square. No doors or windows in the back or on this side.

“On me, ten yards,” DeWitt said, and lifted up and ran through the brush crouched over until he could see the other side of the closer building. The three SEALs trailed him at ten-yard intervals. When all were around and down in the grass, they saw that there was a door and a window.

DeWitt pointed to Canzoneri, waved him forward, and then pointed to the building. They lifted up at the same time and sprinted for the side of the structure. DeWitt expected to hear the stutter of submachine guns at any time, but he made it there with no gunfire. Canzoneri hit the wall on the other side of the window. He lifted up and tried to look through the glass. He dropped down, moved his hand in front of his eyes, and shook his head.

So, the door. DeWitt moved silently to the door and tried
the knob. It was unlocked. He pulled it gently forward fearing a squeak. Nothing. He edged it out an inch and looked inside. At first he couldn't see a thing. Then, at the far side, he saw two chairs and a card table with a single lightbulb burning above them. Two men sat in the chairs, and a submachine gun and a small two-way radio lay on the table.

DeWitt took a breath, motioned Canzoneri over, and let him look through the inch-wide slot. He motioned to the SEAL to jerk the door open. DeWitt would be in first. He held a silenced MP-5 set on three-round bursts.

DeWitt took one more look. The men were playing cards. He nodded. Canzoneri jerked the door open and DeWitt charged forward across the wooden floor, his boots sounding like thunderclaps as he brought up the sub gun.

“Don't try for it or you're dead,” DeWitt brayed. One man grabbed the submachine gun and dove to the floor. DeWitt tracked him with the MP-5 and sprayed six rounds into him before he could get the weapon around to fire. The second man froze in his chair, and then silently lifted his hands high over his head.

Canzoneri was right behind DeWitt. He checked the throat on the man on the floor. He shook his head. The man in the chair mumbled something, and DeWitt pushed the MP-5 into his belly.

“What did you say?”

“Hablo español. Hablo español.”

Canzoneri waved at DeWitt. “I'll go get Fernandez.”

Five minutes later the Spanish-speaking Fernandez had all the information the downriver guard knew. They were hired to stay there and guard the river. Nobody ever came up there. It was an easy job. He didn't even think his gun was loaded. Yes, the radio connected them with the first guard in the shack. If he said somebody was coming upstream, they were alerted.

DeWitt checked the live guard's weapon. It was loaded with a full magazine, and a round was in the chamber with the safety off.

“That's about it, Lieutenant,” said Fernandez. “He said the boat went upstream about half an hour ago and they all waved. Most of the men on the boat were drunk. He said the
camp is upstream another mile, but the motorboat can go only half that distance.”

“Tie up this one and bring his sub gun,” DeWitt said. He used the Motorola. “Ensign Swartz, tie up the Peg there. We'll move on up by foot. SEALs, get your asses up here to the buildings. This one is clear. Canzoneri and Fernandez, clear that other building. Then we'll be ready to haul ass out of here.” The two SEALs rushed out the door and approached the other structure. There was no light inside. They crept up to the door that sagged on one hinge and looked inside. One room, some boxes, and a large rat that scurried away. Nobody else in the place.

Five minutes later the SEALs had assembled, checked weapons, and moved up the left-hand side of the stream. The prisoner had said that was the side the camp was on, a mile ahead. The SEALs left the lookout tied hand and foot on the floor.

“There will be someone with the boat, so we take them down silently,” DeWitt said. He sent Colt Franklin out in front as point, and they moved out ten yards apart.

Franklin had always wanted to be scout, and now was his chance. He moved as silently as he knew how, keeping a hundred yards ahead of the main body. The closer he came to where the boat should be, the slower, more deliberate, and more careful his movements. He faded from one tree to the next, skirted a spot of brush, and always kept near the river so its gurgling and bouncing down rocks would cover any sounds he made.

Ten minutes later he edged up to a clearing, parted some heavy grass, and stared at a dock on the river. It was solid, made of four-by-sixes and built to last. The floating pier would rise and fall with the water level. Tied to the pier was the boat they had chased. Two men worked on it. One was scrubbing it down with fresh water and a sudsy brush. Franklin saw a second man working inside. Both men had sub guns slung over their backs.

“Lieutenant, you need to take a look,” Franklin whispered into his Motorola mike. A few moments later, DeWitt bellied up to where Franklin lay.

“Oh, yeah. Just two. We take them out, then move on up.
Fernandez, get up here with that sniper. We need you.”

When all of the SEALs had lined up along the edge of the brush facing the boat, DeWitt gave Fernandez the go. He sighted in on the man washing down the boat, who was on the dock now with a swab and a bucket of soapy water. Just as he started the next swipe with the swab, Fernandez nailed him in the middle of the back with a silenced 7.62 NATO round. The pirate crumpled without a sound and didn't move.

They heard the other man call out. Then when he had no response, he came out of the cabin to the rail looking for his buddy. Fernandez let him lean over the rail, then shot him in the chest with one round. He added a second one, and the inside man tumbled over the rail and hit hard on the wooden dock. He never moved again.

Three silenced shots, like a huff or a puff, and it was over. They left the dead men where they had fallen and moved up the river. There was a good trail here, much used. Franklin kept a fifty-yard interval now in front of the troops. Things were tightening up. He'd seen Lam do it a dozen times. Move and watch, all eyes and ears. Every bit of him. Observe and work ahead if it was clear.

Franklin stopped after a quarter of a mile and asked DeWitt to come up for a look. Not a lot to see except trees and brush and vines and a few wildflowers. Green on green. Then DeWitt found it. Thirty yards ahead along this open stretch of trail a lone lookout leaned against a thick tree trunk smoking. He wore jungle fatigues to blend in with the foliage, and held a radio in one hand and the end of a smoke in the other.

“Can't risk a silenced shot,” De Witt said. “Too damn close to where there must be others. Keep the rest of our guys here. I'll go up and shake hands with him.”

“How about Lam?” Then Franklin realized. “Oh, yeah, he ain't here. Lieutenant, you be careful. I'll be up about halfway with my MP-5 if you get in trouble.”

DeWitt slung his MP-5 across his back, and a moment later had vanished into the thick brush. Time to shit or get off the pot. Never ask one of the men to do something that he wouldn't do. Yeah, now was the time. De Witt moved with more caution than he had ever done, working slowly, never
putting weight on one foot until he was sure nothing would go swish or snap. He angled slightly toward the river. At the higher elevation it was much shallower now, and the gurgle and splash as it came down mini rapids gave him some sound cover.

He worked forward for five minutes, then took a break and relaxed all the muscles in his body a pair at a time. The process took two minutes; then he was on his feet and moving again. He drew his KA-BAR fighting knife. He'd honed the blade last night so it was far, far sharper than it ever had been. He bent back to the left toward the trail. Yes. There it was. The smoker?

The sentry had put out the cigarette, and held a sub gun in both hands as he looked up the trail toward the camp. Why was he looking that way? Then he turned and stared down the trail, then relaxed against the large trunk of his favorite tree.

Twenty feet.

Almost no cover.

How would he do it? The old distraction trick? A rock the other way to make the sentry look that way? Could he take a half-dozen steps silently, then charge toward the man before he realized someone was coming? Maybe. How about a knife throw? DeWitt vetoed that one at once. He could throw a knife and hit a target, but he wasn't going to bet his life on it. He came back to the rock.

Twice more the sentry turned and looked toward the camp. Maybe a replacement was coming. Wait for the next turn. It took two or three minutes. As soon as the sentry turned again, DeWitt came upright and took six running, almost silent steps toward the man. Just as the guard was due to look down the trail, the lieutenant threw a fist-sized rock beyond where the guard had been looking. The pirate jolted his gaze that way for another two seconds.

It was long enough. DeWitt kept up his charge at the sentry, holding the knife straight in front of him like a lance, gaining four feet of distance and precious tenths of a second.

The sentry never even started to turn. Instead he pulled up his weapon and aimed it at the rock sound. DeWitt's KA-BAR sliced through the man's shirt on the side, missed his
ribs, and slanted through half a lung and stabbed two inches into his heart, killing him instantly. DeWitt caught him before he fell, pressed the sub gun against his chest, and dragged him off the trail into the brush.

By the time De Witt had returned to the trail, Franklin knelt there looking upstream. He flashed the officer a grin and gave him a thumbs-up, then waved his arm forward and the rest of the SEALs moved silently up the trail with five-yard intervals.

“Out twenty yards, Franklin,” DeWitt whispered, and the scout moved forward with caution. DeWitt and the rest of the squad followed. Franklin found no more guards, and five minutes later he and the rest of the SEALs stared at the group of buildings ahead from a fringe of brush that bordered a cleared area. DeWitt scanned the structures and decided there were three houses, a large garage, and two outbuildings that could be used for storage. It was still daylight, and he could see electric wires strung around, so they had power.

“Could be thirty guns in there, Lieutenant,” Franklin said. “We got any help coming land side?”

“Supposed to be. The spotter plane man said as soon as our boat vanished into the woods, they would get land troops out and cover all roads, buildings, and houses in our general area. Let's hope that they do.”

“Hey, Cap. How about a small diversion?” It was Mahanani.

“Like what?”