Clive Cussler - Poseidon's Arrow

Pitt saw the scared look in the eyes of the other commandos, none of whom had ever witnessed actual combat. He immediately stepped forward.

“We need to suppress the rooftop fire to get the men from boat 2 off the beach. Follow me to the house.”

When their hull touched bottom, Pitt leaped over the side and sprinted into the jungle. Inspired by his show of fearlessness, the commandos tore after him.

“I’ll stay here and look after Jorge,” Summer said to Dirk as she rummaged for a medical kit. “Go help Dad.”

Dirk nodded, thumbing off the safety of his pistol, and leaping from the boat. He quickly caught up with the others as they snaked their way through the jungle. Pitt stopped them at the fringe of a clearing that surrounded the house. Several gunmen were visible on the roof, waiting for them to emerge from the brush.

Pitt studied the residence, noticing an exterior side stairwell that led to the roof. He turned to a young man crouched next to him. “Do you have any grenades?”

“Only smoke grenades.”

“Give me what you have.”

After collecting four smoke grenades, Pitt lined the men in a picket.

“On my signal, spray the rooftop to give me cover. When I get to the stairs, I’ll lob the grenades onto the roof. Move in quickly and secure it.”

Pitt slithered to a position closer to the house and then yelled, “Now!” The jungle exploded with gunfire, targeting the rooftop guards. Pitt took off running as the guards ducked for cover. But they regrouped quickly and returned fire. Sprinting to the house, Pitt saw the rooftop gunners were obscured by the residence’s front porch, and he angled toward the entry. He was nearing the porch steps when the front door burst open and two guards charged out. In their wake followed Bolcke, like a running back behind his blockers. The trio dashed down the first steps, then froze at the sight of Pitt a few feet away.

Bolcke’s eyes flared in shock. But there was no hesitation in his voice as he spoke over the background gunfire.

“Kill him!”

68

BOLCKE’S GUARDS SWUNG THEIR RIFLES TOWARD Pitt and readied to fire. But Pitt was a step ahead. He popped the pin on one of the smoke grenades and tossed it on the steps. The grenade skidded across the carved stone and stopped at Bolcke’s feet.

The guards dropped their weapons, grabbed Bolcke, and heaved him over the far balustrade. One guard dove after him, but the other hesitated. He’d heard the grenade hissing and noticed a first wisp of smoke spurting from it. Realizing it was not an explosive, he kicked it off the steps, and a gray cloud erupted over the lawn. He turned back to Pitt, who stood, exposed, at the corner wall a few feet away.

The guard raised his rifle and took a bead on Pitt. But before he found the trigger, two red splotches appeared on his chest, and he staggered back on his heels. The guard teetered, then collapsed on the steps and rolled to the ground.

Pitt saw his son kneeling on the lawn, the SIG Sauer held outstretched in his hands. Dirk jumped up and ran to the side of the house as a salvo of bullets stitched the ground beside him.

“Thanks for the backup,” Pitt said.

Dirk smiled. “Smoke is no match for lead.”

Pitt motioned toward the porch steps. “Bolcke.”

Dirk took the lead as they crept across the porch, but Bolcke and the other guard had already vanished down a jungle path. Reversing course, Pitt led his son up the side stairwell, halting a few feet from the top. He heaved the remaining grenades onto the rooftop, engulfing it in a thick cloud of smoke. Ground fire ceased as the boat 3 commandos streamed out of the jungle and raced up the stairs. A few seconds later, the remaining boat 2 commandos broke from the shore and joined the assault. The combined forces quickly overran the guards, sweeping the roof as the smoke cleared.

As the residence fell silent, they could still hear sporadic gunfire from the dock area.

“Has anyone heard from Alvarez?” Pitt asked, as the commandos reassembled on the roof.

“I’ve had no response,” said the leader of boat 2. “We better move to the dock.”

“I’ll show you the way,” Pitt said.

The commandos rushed back down the stairs. A small contingent peeled off to secure the interior of the house while the rest followed Pitt down the same path Bolcke had taken. When the commandos arrived at the dock, a half dozen security guards were scattered about it, firing into the water. They had been joined by two armed crewmen on the bow of the Adelaide , firing from above.

The Canal Authority commandos opened fire, catching several guards without cover and dropping them quickly. The rest of the dock guards fell back, retreating into the jungle for cover. But the crewmen on the ship held their position and returned fire. An extended firefight ensued, until the better-trained commandos picked off both men.

Over the clatter of gunfire, Pitt had detected a revving motor. He caught a quick glimpse of a small crew boat exiting the mouth of the inlet, the white-haired figure of Bolcke visible next to the pilot.

Pitt turned to the boat 2 commander, who was kneeling behind a rubber tree, reloading his rifle. “Bolcke has escaped in a small boat. Call Madrid on the Coletta and have them pick him up.”

The commando nodded. Snapping a magazine into place, he hit the transmit button on his radio and called the support boat.

Aboard the Coletta , Madrid had been using binoculars to watch a small containership approach when he received the call. He turned to see Bolcke’s crew boat surging out of the inlet and he brought his patrol boat to bear. “Gunner, prepare for a warning shot ahead of the approaching boat,” he said. “Fire!”

A man let loose a blast from the 20mm deck gun, ripping a fountain of water ahead of the crew boat. The fleeing boat reduced speed but held its course across the Coletta ’s bow. Focused on stopping Bolcke’s boat, Madrid had ignored the containership, which was approaching off his stern quarter.

“Gunner, prepare for a burst into the motor. Fire!”

The gunner took aim, but before he could fire he fell to the deck and began flailing his arms as if attacked by a swarm of bees. Screaming, he rolled to the rail and hurled himself over the side to find relief in the lake’s waters.

Inside the wheelhouse, Madrid suddenly found his skin inflamed with a searing pain. He danced away from the helm, unable to grip the controls. Screaming in pain, he looked out the window to see the containership bearing down on him.

The ship plowed into the Coletta at slow speed, its lumbering mass easily crushing the patrol boat’s bow. The smaller boat was kicked backward, as its interior filled with water. In seconds, its stern rose, and the boat plunged underwater.

Bolcke watched the patrol boat disappear as his own boat tied up alongside the containership. He sprinted up the ship’s accommodation ladder with his guard in tow, crossed the deck, and climbed to the bridge. Panting, he staggered to the helm, where Pablo stood admiring the modified Active Denial System on the ship’s bow.

“We seem to have made a timely arrival,” Pablo said.

“They’ve . . . attacked . . . the facility,” Bolcke said.

“Who has?”

“One of the prisoners. He escaped yesterday.”

“They would have to be from the Canal Authority. I thought that was their boat. I’m sure Johansson will take good care of them ashore.”

“No, Johansson was killed. By the man who escaped.”

“Can they know of the deal?”