The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) (29 page)

Richard Daniels saw it like a nightmare, in slow motion and unpreventable. The Blackhawk, its nose down, the right door opened as someone leaned out holding a tube, an RPG, Rocket Propelled Grenade launcher. As the helicopter approached, he recognized Hart at the control and Schmus holding the RPG, wearing unmarked jungle fatigues instead of the Deputy Sheriff uniform. Through the open door of the machine, Daniels also recognized the forms of the two men who had accosted him in the parking lot a few days ago.

Daniels came up on one knee, struggling to stand as John moved even farther from him. As the helicopter approached, the huge blades spread waves from the downward blast of air into the banks of the channel. John's alien bulky form had now moved some forty feet from Daniels.

Schmus must have guessed the greater danger was John's mutated form as he fired the RPG.

The grenade detonated just a couple of yards from John. Daniels was blown off his feet and felt the whistling shrapnel like angry buzzing demons. The concussion and heat of the blast knocked him back several feet and down into the mud. Darkness enveloped Daniels as he passed out for a moment.

* * *

Daniels opened his eyes. He felt like he was swathed in cotton, sluggish, unable to move. There was a dull flat feeling to his surroundings as if he was breathing molasses. Strangely he felt no pain as warm fluid ran down the side of his body and face. Through a red haze and the fluids that partially obscured his vision, he could see John's body. The bio soldier had been blown sideways so his legs were half in the shallow mud of the bank. His side was open and organs glistened red and pale in the opening between his ribs. The helicopter came down, hovering at about fifteen feet. Schmus had reloaded the launcher and was bringing it to his shoulder.

It took Daniels a while to comprehend what happened next. It must have been a sheer inhuman effort, John's last push of energy, and the final expansion of his entire life force. He seemed to suddenly come alive, springing with incredible speed. He leaped into the air, the huge leg muscles flexing, blood dripping from almost every part of him, pieces of his body coming off, falling into the mud in bloody chunks. He reached the lower skid of the helicopter, held it in one arm. The other arm moved in a blur toward the cockpit. Daniels saw Hart's face behind the controls, eyes open in uncomprehending shock and surprise as the arm crashed through the re-enforced glass side window and shattered his head.

As Hart died, his body pulled in reflex at the controls. The helicopter somersaulted backward as John's body dropped off. Daniels had a sudden flash of Schmus' terror filled face and the RPG dropping off into the waters of the channel.

The machine, now pilot less, almost did a complete loop until the whirring blades hit the trunk of a big palm on the other side of the channel. It came down in a tangle of spinning blades, exploding metal and burning fuel. Hissing steam, smoke and flames rose from the wreckage on the other side of the bank.

John's big mangled body was very still. Daniels knew at that moment he was dead. He'd somehow managed to save both him and Deeno at the price of his life.

At that moment, Daniels didn't believe they would make it out of there alive. Someone came toward him in the commando boat dropped by the helicopter before it crashed. Daniels tried to move but it was like a great weight, a paralyzing blanket of lead covering his every limb. He felt pain from almost every spot on his body as the boat rowed to the edge of the channel. The occupant stepped out, the water reaching nearly to his waist. Through a fog of pain and dizziness, Daniels recognized the man, a memory that had haunted him for a decade.

Rollie.

Rollie took an M-16 from the boat and stepped forward until the water swirled just below the crotch of his jungle fatigues, his dark face broke out in a triumphant smile.

"Well, well, Captain Richard Daniels. You just can't let it go can you. You are a lot of goddamn trouble. I should have capped your ass way back in Mexico."

Behind Rollie the wreckage of the helicopter burned as the water swirled around his tights. Daniels tried to get up. All he could manage was to move his head. It was useless, he was unable to move, and even if he could have moved, there were no weapons, no means of evading Rollie's M-16. A few yards away lay the mutilated body of John W. Gilbert Jr. as if the gods mocked his death as a useless gesture.

Spirit Wolf's dream is coming true, thought Daniels, as he lay among the roots of the Red Mangrove, his blood mixed with John's, staining the dark mud to a crimson satin patch.

"Fuck you, Rollie," Daniels whispered as Rollie raised the M-16.

Daniels felt strangely quiet, at peace. He had no concern for himself as he thought Spirit Wolf's dream had foretold this end. He tried to open his mouth, to cry out to Deeno to run. The black hole in the barrel of the gun pointing at Daniels seemed to be the center and the end of the universe at the moment. It's been a hell of a ride thought Daniels as Rollie slowly began to press the trigger.

Chapter 42

It's ancestry dated back millions of years when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Eighteen feet long, the creature weighted in at over a ton of ferocious reptilian muscle. It had no fears and no natural enemies—the rarest and the deadliest creature the Everglades had ever spawned. Most days it stayed just at the surface of the water, its clay-colored slitted eyes unblinking among the Mangrove roots, stained by the beginnings of the waterways just below the salty waters of the Gulf. This day it was hunting. It hadn't caught any prey large enough to satisfy its voracious bulk since an unfortunate deer came too close to the edge of the water.

That had been six days ago.

Highly aggressive, vicious and rare, the huge salt-water crocodile's sensors picked up the vibration of large prey. Enticing scents of blood wafted through the murky water to the receptors in its brain. A seemingly lazy, back and forth swish of the huge tail propelled it just below the surface of the water like a primitive living torpedo. As the vibrations grew with the proximity of the prey, the crocodile increased its speed. Long narrow powerful jaws, studded with four-inch teeth, opened as the membrane in its throat shut tight so it could attack fully submerged. With all the force of a pile driver the beast clamped down on its prey, dragging it under.

* * *

Rollie felt a sudden unbearable pressure on his legs as the snout bit down on both ankles, the teeth digging into the flesh, the powerful bite crushing the legs to the bone. He felt himself pulled under the water with irresistible force. The M-16 flew out of his hands, discharging a three round burst into the air. It felt as if a tractor had crushed his legs and was pulling him under. He managed to pop his head out of the water for less than a dizzying second before the beast dragged him to deeper water. He tried to claw the bottom, tried to hold on, but he might as well have attempted to hold back a Mack truck. Another second and already in deeper water, air expelled from his lungs in a silent scream as bitter acrid water entered his mouth, lungs and sinus cavity.

Roland Fournier Washington died, his brain filled with the mind numbing primitive terror of the prey being consumed, eaten alive.

* * *

Richard Daniels would never be quite sure what had just happened. One moment he was staring down the barrel of Rollie's M-16, watching with amazing clarity the slow movement of the trigger finger that would soon mark the end of his life. The next moment, it seemed as if a trap door had opened under Rollie, sucking him under the waist deep water. He thought he saw his head pop up again, maybe once, maybe not. Daniels tried to stand but the world became a whirling, spinning darkness and
he fell back against the soft mud at the base of the Mangrove roots.

Deeno came out from the underbrush where John had thrown him moments before the RPG detonated. He moved slowly, cautiously, like a small animal sniffing the air for predators. What had just happened was beyond his comprehension, but the primitive natural instinctive process of his mind took over. Perhaps because of the Downs Syndrome, perhaps because of his environment in the Everglades, or maybe both, Deeno's instincts were honed to a well-developed edge.

Deeno sat for long moments by the body of John W. Gilbert Jr. He stroked the grotesque face, closed the eyes with a gentle brush of his hand. A soft moan escaped from his lips as he moved to Richard Daniels. He lifted Daniels' head and patted some water on his cheeks. Daniels opened his eyes and sat up with a groan.

The Catamaran was lying on its side, partially out of the channel. Daniels tried to help but could barely stand. Using several long branches for leverage, Deeno managed to right the boat and push it back into the channel, inch by painful inch. He brought John Gilbert's body and wrestled it into the boat. He helped a bleeding and dazed Richard Daniels onto the rear seat of the back section. He tried to start the engine without success. Something must have been knocked out of commission by the exploding rocket.

Deeno took the axe from the boat and chopped a long, straight Mangrove branch. He poled the boat from the rear. Each push was aching agonizing work as the pole stuck in the soft mud of the channel. He struggled hour after hour among the buzzing, biting insects. Sweat rolled from him like his body was outfitted with thousands of tiny faucets.

The humid hot atmosphere of the Everglades hung about him like a steaming blanket in the late afternoon. Deeno knew that more of the bad people would come soon. They would search in those machines, those helicopters, looking from the air for Deeno and Richard Daniels and John Gilbert.

The sun was going down when he poled the boat into a small side channel, the edges crowded and choked by thrusting forests of young hardwood. The branches, leaves and vines closed overhead like the interior of a deep emerald tunnel. In the distance Deeno heard the rhythmic
whomp-whomp-whomp
of circling helicopters. He gathered handfuls of the lush Ferns and layered them on top of the boat, covering every spot in case a square inch or so of red hull peeked out of the cover of greenery.

He opened the first aid kit in the forward compartment of the boat and smeared antibiotic salve on Daniels' wounds and made him drink some water. He prepared dry rations that Daniels had stored in the boat and fed him as distant searchlights pierced the night sky. They stayed through the night and the next day as air traffic continued passing overhead and Deeno cared for Daniels. Once they heard the sound of airboats approaching, but it never got close. The natural tunnel of dense vegetation provided an impenetrable cover.

They set out before first light the next morning, putting as much distance from the wreck site as Deeno's efforts allowed. By the time the sun rose, they were in a series of hundreds of interconnected waterways among a jungle of tropical trees; smooth red-brown Gumbo Limbos, Satinwoods, Mastics and poisonous Machineels. Overhead, their limbs intertwined with oily dark green strangler's leaves, shutting out the sun like a shroud.

Daniels took a small tent packed in the forward compartment of the boat and created an improvised body bag for Gilbert, lashing it tightly in the waterproof layers of nylons. Decomposition occurred rapidly in the tropical heat of the Everglades.

Deeno ran his hand slowly over the nylon-wrapped body. "Deeno thinks John will be in heaven," he said.

Daniels nodded and winced as he eased his injured leg.

"Deeno thinks he will be there with Grammy and Donny," the young man continued.

"Yes, Deeno, I believe he will be there with them," Daniels said quietly.

It was another day before they reached Spirit Wolf's cabin at the junction of the heavy tropical forest and the sea of saw grass. They helped Daniels into the cabin as the panther stalked beside them like a dark guardian angel. Carlos had just about recovered and paced nervously around them. They almost had to restraint Daniels from getting up and going out again. In the end he had to settle for giving terse instructions to Carlos.

They made a pyre and placed the body of John W. Gilbert Jr. on it. The flames rose and burned most of the night in the mud cauldron. When the ashes had cooled, they sifted the remains and placed them in a black marble box that Daniels covered with a small American flag. Someday, vowed Daniels, he would bring the story of this brave man into the light of day.

Chapter 43