Ted Bell - Spy

Froggy, the designated PL, was maybe 20 or 30 yards behind him. He was carrying a GPS handheld as backup navigation; his job right now was to keep them moving in the right direction. The Frogman also had a CAR-15 with grenade launcher. Like every man, he was carrying an NVD or Night Vision Device. As the PL on this mission, he was trying to use it sparingly so as to give his eyes time to maintain his natural night sight.

Stoke was the true eyes and ears of the squad. It was up to him to alert the squad of impending danger. Not that he could see much of anything in this shit. The combination of rain, fog, and foliage made it so you couldn’t see your nose in front of your goddamn face.

“Alors,” he heard Froggy say in his headphones, “Merde and merde again!”

Well said, Froggy. Shit and double shit.

It was a good thing he’d stopped the squad in their tracks. He heard something mechanical, caught a glimpse of a foot patrol of heavily armed guards approaching at double time along a narrow trail just below the ridge that the squad was descending. Looked like maybe an eight-man squad. They were preceded on the trail by two of the weirdest looking war machines Stoke had ever seen. Had to be the Trolls, remote controlled tanks Brock had told them about. Moving slowly, just in front of the enemy patrol. Out looking for his squad probably.

Stoke made a slashing motion across his throat and stepped lightly as he could over the tripwire. The men behind him carefully did the same and began moving down the hillside sloping down to the twisting trail. The darkness, foggy rain and thick vegetation provided all the cover they needed. Stoke’s flat hand shot into the air again when they reached a spot twenty yards above the muddy trail.

“Get down,” he said, dropping to one knee and pulling two grenades from his belt. He set the timers on sixty seconds, checked his sweep second hand, and heaved the grenades underhanded. Plop-plop, into the muddy center of the trail. The two robot vehicles and the goon squad were still double-timing toward them. Using hand signals, Stoke directed his guys to move into ambush formation.

Thirty seconds remained on his dive watch. The Troll tanks were advancing rapidly now, the barrels of the twin machine guns up front swiveling toward the incline where Stoke and his men waited, low in the undergrowth. Had they been seen? Sensors, maybe, on the jungle floor. Stoke moved the selector on his assault rifle to full auto and waited. He saw the first tank come around the bend, treads slogging through the thick brownish mud.

C’mon, c’mon.

Stoke’s two grenades exploded almost simultaneously. The two tanks were blown off their treads and over-turned. The enemy patrol scattered, diving into the thick underbrush on either side of the trail.

“Boomer! Bassman!” Stoke shouted to the two machine gunners, “Move up!”

The M-60 is a very heavy weapon and each man carried nearly a thousand rounds of linked 7.62 ammunition adding to his burden. Normally, they don’t move too quickly because of that load. This time they did. Boomer and Bassman, both seasoned veterans and ex-Navy SEALs, raced to the position indicated by Stokely and laid down a murderous wall of fire on both sides of the trail. There was no possibility that anything had survived. The vegetation, shredded and smoking, showed no signs of life.

“Move out,” Stoke said when he was satisfied no further threat existed. The squad moved down the hill and onto the muddy trail where the enemy had just died.

Froggy, paused at Stoke’s side, looked at his compass and GPS handheld.

“Allons vite, mes enfants, allons vite!” Froggy said, “Quickly, children, quickly!”

“ALL BACK ONE THIRD,” Brownlow said, eyes on the narrowed river ahead. It was raining so hard it was difficult to make out the vine-shrouded banks on either side. Only radar kept him on course. His depth-sounder depicted nearly impassable shoals and less than ten feet of water beneath his keel. Stiletto slowed to idle speed, barely moving, churning muddy black water at her stern. Any advantage afforded by the boat’s power and speed was long over.

The twisting stretch of river that lay just beyond these shoals was mined. If they could even reach that stretch of water. Any time now, they’d be deploying the two minesweeper probes. According to Brock’s chart, the heavily mined portion of the Black River lay only two miles distant.

These small minesweeper sensors had been developed by the Royal Navy’s Admiralty Mining Establishment, a quaint name for one of the most technically advanced mine countermeasures departments on earth. MCM had developed the two probes now aboard Stiletto. Mounted at the bow, launched underwater much like a torpedo, the probe raced ahead of the boat and sent back a detailed visualization of the minefield. The drone’s electro-optic system provided very high resolution 3-D images for positive mine identification and location.

On paper, AME had shown a vessel could successfully navigate a minefield, even in littoral zones, confined straits, or choke points. But that was on paper. It had never been attempted in the field or under combat conditions. Hawke had readily agreed to be the guinea pig when C had suggested he try the damn things out.

Hawke and Brock appeared moments after the boat slowed, both men outfitted for night jungle operations.

“Talk to us, Cap,” Hawke said, “Are you ready to deploy the probes?”

“We’ve got another problem, sir. We’ve run out of water.” Brownlow tapped his index finger on the 3-D depiction of the river bottom.

“Christ,” Brock muttered.

Hawke leaned over Brownlow’s shoulder and studied the monitor.

“I see what you mean.”

“Whitewater rapids ahead, sir. Judging by the bottom, this is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. I’d say we’re looking at maybe a mile of very rocky whitewater before it opens up again.”

“Any ideas, Harry?” Hawke said.

“Keeps raining like this, the river keeps rising at this rate, we just might be able to get through.”

“Praying for rain is not an option. We’ll take the bloody canoes.”

“What? And leave all these expensive weapons systems behind?” Brock grinned and cocked an eye.

“We’ve got no choice. Skipper, all stop.”

“Aye, sir. All stop.” Brownlow hauled back the throttles and Stiletto ghosted to a stop.

“Mr. Brock, tell the crew on deck to launch all four canoes. Then go forward and inform our team to check their weapons. We shove off in fifteen minutes.”

Hawke headed below to his tiny cabin to retrieve his weapons and ammunition.

“Sir?” the radioman said, sticking his head out into the companion-way just after Hawke passed.

“What is it, Sparks?”

“Call for you, sir. On the scrambled line.”

“Who?”

“Washington, sir. State Department. Urgent.”

“Put it through to my quarters,” Hawke said and went two doors down into his cabin.

“Alex?”

“Hello, Conch.”

“Alex, listen carefully. This is the deep shit call. Where are you now?”

“Still on the bloody river. It’s impossible to go further. We’re launching canoes for the final leg. Weather is socked in. Good, because it keeps the drones from pestering us. Bad, because you can’t see a bloody thing. And how are you doing on this lovely January evening?”

“Insane. The president walks down the steps of the Capitol to be sworn in at noon, less than twelve hours from now. Rumors of some kind of attack are flying so fast you can’t keep track. The Secret Service’s Joint Operations Command has assigned a threat level of most serious and credible. Your idea is only one of many we are running down right now.”