Dale Brown - Act of War

It was an immense relief to all of them to see the CID unit pulled from the ocean. He was unceremoniously laid facedown into a pile of garbage, and Ariadna was beside him immediately. “That round hit him right in the damaged power pack access door,” she said. “He lost the entire hydraulic system.” She used a Leatherman pocket tool to open a tiny access panel on the unit’s waist, punched in a code on a keypad, and the entry hatch opened up on the CID unit’s back. “Help me get him out of there.”

But it wasn’t necessary, because just then Jason pulled himself out of the flooded CID unit. He coughed, then vomited seawater, looking as white as a sheet, rattled but unhurt. “Shit, what was that?” he said after they took him away from the worst of the tear gas still wafting around the wharf. “I feel like I got hit by a train.”

“It was a LAWS rocket fired from about fifteen meters,” Ari said. “We thought you were toast. Then you got run over by a bulldozer and pushed into the ocean.”

“The sensors went blank when the rocket hit—all I got were warning messages about the hydraulic, electrical, and environmental systems failing,” Jason said. “I had just enough power to lift the blade or whatever was on top of me, then everything went out. I was okay until the water covered my face. Thirty more seconds and I was a goner.” He looked up at Jefferson and raised a hand, and the Ranger shook it. “Thank you for saving my life, Sergeant Major.”

“Don’t mention it, Major,” Jefferson said. “I’m glad you’re in one piece. I saw that LAWS round hit and thought we’d be spending the next few days picking up all the pieces. That’s one hell of a machine you built.”

They went back to look for Pereira. The Brazilian was trying to get away in the confusion and battle, but he couldn’t move very fast while still handcuffed and with an injured boy in his arms. They found him a few minutes later, hiding in some wooden shipping pallets. “Relaxe,relaxe,” Kristen Skyy said in English-accented Portuguese. She pressed a handkerchief over the boy’s facial injuries while Jefferson found a handcuff key and released them both. “The boy is hurt.”

“Quem esta? Pode me ajudar?”

“I’m a reporter. Televisao,” she replied. She was wearing a dark blue bulletproof vest with the letters “TV” in white cloth tape on both front and back; a blue Kevlar helmet with similar letters front and back; yellow-lensed goggles; a gas mask hanging under her chin; blue jeans and combat boots. “Yes, we can help you.”

Through his watery vision, Pereira could see four persons carrying the immobile robot to a waiting PME panel van. “Quem é aquele? O deus, o que é ele?”

“Amigo,” Kristen said. She put his hands back on his son’s face. “Help the boy.” She went over to the van and watched as they loaded the machine into the back. Her cameraman and soundman were right behind her, recording everything.

“Is that him?” Jason asked after the CID unit was loaded up.

“Yes,” Kristen said. “Manuel Pereira, former Brazilian army commando, GAMMA second in command. His family lives somewhere in this shantytown. I assume that’s his son—he’s supposed to have at least one son around that age.”

“Who was trying to kill him?”

“The men in uniform are PME officers,” Kristen replied. “Manuel Pereira is wanted by the PME—more accurately, he’s wanted by TransGlobal Energy, and that’s good enough for the Brazilian government.” She motioned toward an unidentified man in civilian clothing lying unconscious on the wharf. “But these guys, the ones not in uniform and the one who fired that LAWS rocket and drove you into the drink—I don’t know who they are. They might be Atividade de Inteligencia do Brasil, the Brazilian Intelligence Agency, which reports to the President of Brazil, or maybe they’re CIA.”

“That’s easy enough to check,” Jefferson said, pulling out his cell phone.

Jason, Kristen, and her crew went over to Pereira. “Fala Ingles, Manuel?”

“Um pouco. A little.”

“Quem o atacou? Who attacked you?” Pereira paused, still ethnically and morally hesitant to rat on anyone even after everything that had happened. Kristen motioned to the boy and asked in broken Portuguese, “Quem atacou seu filho, Manuel?”

Rephrasing the question to include his son changed everything—one look down at his son’s deeply scarred, blood-covered face, and the hesitation was gone. “Captain Pavel Khalimov,” Pereira said. “He is soldier with Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, GAMMA’s second in command.”

“I thought you were second in command of GAMMA?”

“No more. Zakharov is military leader now.”

“What about Jorge Ruiz?”

“I think Zakharov in charge now,” Pereira said. “Jorge want only to warn of poluicao, of corrupcao—Zakharov, nao. He is violencia, guerra, poder. GAMMA is no more.”

Kristen looked at Jason in surprise; then, after making sure her cameras were rolling, asked, “Did Zakharov have something to do with Kingman City, Manuel? Did Yegor Zakharov plan and carry out the nuclear attack in the United States?”

Pereira closed his eyes, lowered his head, then nodded. “Sim,” he said. “Terrivel. Desventurado. He must be stopped. He is very powerful, importante.” He swallowed hard, then looked away. “Desculpe. I am sorry. Zakharov is not GAMMA, GAMMA is not Zakharov. Jorge wants only paz, respeito, esperanca. Zakharov wants only violencia. I never trust Zakharov. Jorge only trust him.”

“Onde e Zakharov agora?”

“Nao sabe,” Pereira replied. “After we attack Repressa Kingman, we hide, move around.”

“Pode falar Jorge Ruiz?”

Pereira’s eyes returned to Kristen’s. “Sim,” he replied. “I can call. Telefone segredo.”

“Does Zakharov know this secret phone number?”

“Sim,” Pereira said. “We must hurry. Pressa.Jorgeestánoperigogrande.”

Pereira, his son, wife, and baby were taken away with Richter, Vega, Skyy, her film crew, and Jefferson into their waiting PME armored van. As they sped off to their waiting helicopter at São Paulo International Airport, Pereira called their secret drop number. “Nao resposta,” he said. “Eu comecei somente sua máquina da mensagem. He will call this number when he receives my message.”

“If Zakharov doesn’t get to him first,” Jefferson said. “His assassin Khalimov found Pereira—Zakharov might know where Jorge is hiding.”

“Onde esta Jorge Ruiz?” Kristen asked Pereira.

“Hiding. We move many times.”

“But do you know where he might be most of the time?”

Pereira hesitated, then nodded. “Sua quinta, his farm, em Abaete, Minas Gerais,” he said finally.

“I know where it is,” Kristen said excitedly. “I covered Ruiz during one of his human rights rallies there. Abaete is where GAMMA was started. It’s less than two hours north of here by jet.”

“The government seize his farm, move his family’s gravesite, and sold it, but the new owners allow him to visit and hide there. He…como você diz…torna-se re-energizado…strong, refreshed, there. Maybe he go there.”

“We need to get there as quickly as possible, Sergeant Major…”

“We’re going to need authorization to operate outside São Paulo state first,” Jefferson said. “I’m not going to start a war down here.”

“We’re working with the PME to…”

“Don’t even go there, Major,” Jefferson said. “I’ve seen how the PME operates: each officer hires himself out to the highest bidder, and no one even thinks twice about switching sides whenever it suits them. I was authorized to travel to Brazil to assist the authorities to capture and question Manuel Pereira, not to fly around the entire country getting into gunfights with government troops. We’re not going anywhere else except back to the States.”