Ted Bell - Spy

What was everybody so damn worried about? It was just a scratch. Problem was, the tourniquet wasn’t working too good. When you had arms the size of piano legs, normal-sized things didn’t fit too well.

Luis sliced another two-foot section and wrapped it tight around Stoke’s arm, cinching it in tight above the first tourniquet and tying it off. The blood flow instantly slowed way down.

“There you go, bossman, that’s better.”

“You got the pictures?” he asked Luis.

“Every angle. I even got the cockpit and the pilot. I told you, man. I told you I had something down here. You see those damn missiles?”

“Yeah. You got something worthwhile all right. Remind me to give you and your daddy a bonus when I get home. Now listen up, Sharkey. I need you to get on the VHF and talk to the Coast Guard. First, get me a GPS location to give to them. Tell them to send a chopper or a cutter out here immediately and—what’s your problem?”

“You look inside that pilothouse? The old man doesn’t exactly have the latest technology aboard this boat. I tried to give him a handheld GPS for his birthday and he nearly killed me. You crazy? he says, I never been lost a day in my life.”

“You got a radio, right? He’s got to have a VHF radio.”

“Yeah, yeah, we have a radio.”

“Good. Go get the chart. Let’s figure out exactly where we are. But get the Coast Guard on the radio and tell them what’s going on. National security, got that? Let me just lay here a minute and I’ll come in there and talk to them.”

“I’ll check the chart, then call,” Luis said, getting to his feet. “You stay right where you are for a few minutes. You don’t look good. Hey, you want some rum? I keep a pint in the fish box.”

“I don’t drink. But I’ll make an exception. Yeah, give me a hit of that stuff. Might help if you poured some on my arm.”

Sharkey reached inside the box and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Bacardi. Luis was handing it to Stoke when he got shot.

Stoke had heard the muffled crack of a serious gun. At the same time he looked up and saw Luis spin around, blood spraying from his right shoulder. What the hell? Luis kept spinning around, arms spread out like some wounded paraplegic ballet dancer, trying to figure out where the damn bullet had come from.

“Get down before he shoots you both in the head!” he screamed at Luis Sr. on the flying bridge.

Two more rounds thudded into the thick wooden topsides. Harmless, but for sure attention getting.

“Shit, man, I’m hit! My good arm!” Luis said, dropping back down to the deck. “Damn! Where is he? Where’d that shot come from? I didn’t see anybody.”

He started to raise his head above the gunwale, but Stoke grabbed his belt and yanked him back down, looking at his shoulder. Just a scratch, a little red furrow in his skin.

“Stay down, damn it! And tell your father to do the same!”

“Look at him, man, he’s a sitting duck up there on the bridge! If he comes down that ladder, he’s dead.”

“Yeah, so tell him to stay put and stay down. Maybe the shooter can’t see him up there because of the angle. Tell that old man to sit tight up there and keep his head down.”

Luis shouted words to that effect in Spanish. His father nodded his understanding and then smiled down at Sharkey.

“Courage, my son,” the old man said in English. “God helps those who trust in him. He can save us if he will. Nothing is impossible to him. But if he thinks it is good to call us to him, do not be afraid. We will not be separated.”

Stoke just looked up at the scrawny geezer and shook his head. You never knew.

“Where’s the shooter, boss?” Luis asked, the two of them peering over the gunwale.

“Got to be that little island over to port,” Stoke said. “See? Where all that debris is washed up. I thought I saw something moving over there just before we splashed. Shit! You got any weapons on this boat?”

“Yeah. We keep a gun up forward, under Papa’s berth.”

“Pistol or rifle? Say rifle.”

“We got semiautomatic rifle. It’s mine. Special stock and grip so I can fire it with one hand. A Ruger mini-14. Mags hold thirty rounds.”

“Perfect. I want you to go up there and get it. But you stay down below the gunwales, Luis. I don’t want any heroics here. Just go forward and get me that gun.”

Sharkey crawled on his belly toward the open door. Stoke hadn’t liked the look on his face. The kid was obviously scared shitless.

In case Luis needed any more incentive to keep his head down, the shooter fired two more rounds and took out the portside windows in the pilothouse, showering the two men with bits of glass. The shooter was either a lousy shot or he had a shitload of ammo and didn’t care. In any case, he had to be dealt with in a hurry. Stoke did not want to pass out and leave Luis and his father to deal with this alone.

Two minutes later, Luis was coming back with the rifle and a soggy cardboard box full of shells. His hand was shaking so bad, when he handed Stoke the ammo, the whole thing disintegrated and all the cartridges spilled out all over the damn deck. What were you going to do? Luis was his partner and he was getting some high-level on-the-job training, that’s all. Call this the live fire exercise. Stoke checked the chamber and the mag. Loaded.

“Hey, I got it,” Luis said. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. This way I don’t have to get shot again.”

“Think of what?”

“We just split, man!”

“Split?”

“Leave! Papa’s up there at the helm! He cranks her up and we split. Leave this bastard out here to rot in the sun. Fuck him, you know?”

“What about the hook?”

“You mean the anchor?”

“Yeah, I mean the anchor. Who gets to go up on the bow and stand there to haul up the anchor? Papa? You?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right, the anchor. Man, I forgot all about that.”

“You got to think this stuff through under pressure, Luis. Business you’re in now.”

“Right. So what do we do?”

“I’m thinking about that. Give me a second, I’ll come up with something.”

“Just keep me out of it,” Sharkey said.

23

LA SELVA NEGRA

S turdy hemp bridges had been built connecting the numerous roundhouses that comprised Muhammad Top’s domain. The largest of bridges was the one that spanned a ribbon of black mirror snaking through the middle of La Selva. This bridge spanned the river and was built of steel.

The river was named Igapo, Black Water, and it fed into the great Rio Negro. The Igapo divided the Top’s fortress compound neatly in half. It provided a natural boundary for the two discreet sections of the terrorist village. The river also formed a very necessary lifeline with the outside world. Save an isolated airstrip or two, camouflaged and hidden deep in the jungle, it was the only way in or out of his world. A vicious stretch of rapids protected the approach from the east. And seamines had been deployed to both east and west.

Top had chosen this site carefully. La Selva Negra had to be erected where no man would dare to venture, even if he were able. First, because of the canopy, it was completely invisible from the air by day. At night, strict blackout rules were enforced on the odd chance that an airplane would ever stray over this trackless expanse.

No drones or spy satellites would ever differentiate this green patch from the trackless millions of acres that surrounded it. Because of the great height of the trees, even thermal imaging could not accurately pick up the living creatures below. Yet here below the canopy lay another world entirely. A world of his own making.

A primary village, Centro, stood at the center of this hidden universe. Arrayed around it, over a span of many miles, like great orbiting moons, were the various camps. Military camps where his troops lived and worked. And also secret training camps and forced labor camps that sustained his armies and protected the center.