Ted Bell - Spy

Stoke had seen the worried look on Alex Hawke’s face a few hours ago. The rivers weren’t always where they were supposed to be. Every time it rained hard, the topography changed. The latest GPS positioning had the boat smack in the middle of a damn forest. So, he was feeling a little guilty, hanging out back here on the stern with Froggy, having fun.

The two men were sitting cross-legged on the deck in the cramped space between the PAM and LAM missile launching stations. A scattering of dog-eared playing cards lay face up on the deck between them; a game of Texas Hold ’Em had ended. For the last half hour they’d just been shooting the shit. That’s how the little Frenchman put it, now that he’d learned another useful American expression.

It was late afternoon on the river, and the light was soft and gold. Cooler, too, and not too many mosquitoes at their current boat speed. Temperature dropping, somebody said, barometer dropping like a rock; you could feel the evil-looking cold front moving in over the jungle from the west. Heavy rain, high winds. For now, the palm fronds of trees along the bank drooped low, not a breath of air to sway them.

Captain Brownlow and Hawke remained on the bridge deck, taking turns driving the boat. Navigation at this point was a full-time obsession. And they were constantly talking tactics and adjusting strategies to changing conditions. The ability to arrive undetected on a hostile shore is essential. There was little hope of that now they’d been sighted by that drone they’d shot down.

Gunners were stationed in the turrets fore and aft. Every man aboard was armed and keeping a weather eye on the twin shorelines. For the last couple of hours they’d been lucky. No Indians, no drones, no nothing. Stiletto was bristling with firepower.

A young guy named Llywd Ecclestone was manning the .23 mm cannon up on the roof of the wheelhouse. Just a kid, Stoke thought, but the ex-Ranger came highly recommended by Froggy. “Hey,” Stoke said when he’d met the kid in Key West and seen the name stencilled on his flak jacket, “Your parents forget to put an o in your name?” Turned out Llwyd was Welsh, people who didn’t go in for vowels much.

Froggy, barely five feet tall in combat boots, was one of the charter members of the infamous counterterrorist organization known as Thunder and Lightning. The former Foreign Legionnaire commanded the group of seven Spec Ops commandos who had come aboard at Key West. These warriors, all ex-Legionnaires, Gurkhas, and Rangers, were justly considered the best anti-terrorist combat team for hire. As an added bonus, Froggy and his squad were by far the most successful freelance hostage rescue team in the world.

Froggy, the HRT team’s beloved squad leader, was dressed in his typical pre-combat uniform: khaki shorts, a faded blue and gold U.S. Navy SEAL T-shirt, and a sterling silver bo’sun’s whistle hanging from the chain around his neck. He had his trademark white kepi perched atop his shaved head and his trademark cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

Froggy puffed out a cloud of pungent blue smoke and noisily spat the stinky Gauloise butt overboard.

“Dites-moi,” he said, and then added in his heavy French accent, “Tell me about these assholes we’re going to fight. Just don’t speak so fucking fast.”

“Okay. These people we’re dealing with down here, been psyching themselves up about this for years. You’ll hear all about it tonight from Harry Brock. What you’ve got down here is a lethal mix of guerillas, okay? You got bikers and bangers, dopers and fanatic voodoo jihadists. And old-style commies, too, all tied into one neat little bundle, right? Now, what does that tell you?”

“What?”

“They’ve all got one thing in common. What is it?”

“They suck?”

“Of course they suck. But, one other thing. They all hate America.”

“Join zee fucking club, eh?”

“People like this, all these scumbags hating your ass so bad, that tells you something, right?”

“Tells me what?”

“America must be a pretty great fuckin country.”

“Pfft. If you like this kind of country, perhaps. America is no France.”

“Thank God for small favors. Anyway, these crazy bastards hate our ass, Froggy. And, to make it worse, they’re filthy rich. Twisted ideology is one thing. You back it up with oil money, drug money, illegal arms money, white slavery, it’s something else. Brock says they’ve got robots. Drone aircraft, tanks. How do we kill robots?”

The demolitions expert grinned. “Anything can be blown up, mon ami, anything.”

“Chrome don’t bleed.”

“Mais non, but it melts.”

“I guess. Problem is, we got to get my man Ambrose Congreve out of there before we blow up one damn thing. I hope Brock’s got a plan. I’m still not seeing exactly how that’s going to happen.”

“I’ve been talking to my squad about this subject all morning. We have an idea.”

“Don’t be shy. We ain’t got a lot of time.”

“We want you to offload us late tonight. A stealth insertion into the jungle. All eight of us. Upriver from the target compound. Four or five miles. I’ll show you on the map, the precise spot I have chosen. We will hike to the target through the jungle. Standard Operating Procedures. Night-vision gear, hand signals. Locate the hostage. Rendezvous with the main force above the bridge. Deliver the hostage to the boat and get him out of the combat zone. Then destroy the enemy.”

“Yeah. Sounds simple enough. How you plan to do all that shit, Froggy?”

“Take out the perimeter guards first, of course. Swift and silent. Infiltrate the village. Do a search. House-to-house. We’ll find your friend Ambrose, I promise you. With or without Monsieur Brock.”

“Brock’s Brazilian girlfriend says the whole damn enemy village is built up in the damn trees. Like a goddamn Swiss Family Robinson.”

“What goes up must come down, Stokely. Boom.”

Stoke nodded in agreement. “Plant Semtex gift boxes at the base of all the trees. Bury the linked fuses between trees, all feeding one detonator.”

“Boom, boom, boom.”

“Plastique, n’est ce pas, Froggy? Tim-berrrr! But look at these trees around here. They’ve got to be two hundred feet tall.”

“So? Kiss-kiss-bang-bang. Et voilà! Victory is ours once more.”

“Froggy, listen. This ain’t going to be as easy as you seem to think. We’ve got to find out where they have Ambrose first, right? Let’s assume he’s up in one of the treehouses. We have to locate which one. Get him down safely and get him the hell out of there before the shooting starts and—What? Don’t look at me like that.”

“I am zee famous Froggy. Do not insult me.”

“Chill. I’m just talking out loud. Hear how it sounds.”

“If he can be found, we will find him.”

“You sound like you don’t think I’m coming with you.”

“You want to come?”

“Is Paris a city? Two four-man squads. You take one, I’ll take the other. Fan out, go in. Hop and pop, just like the good old days, mi Corazon.”

“We must talk now to Commander Hawke and tell him what we think.”

“Yeah. Holy shit. What was that?”

Stiletto had shuddered to a halt, mid-river.

“What is it? We run out of river?”

“Dead stop. Something’s wrong. Let’s get forward.”

Hawke and Brownlow stood at the helm.

“Stoke,” Hawke said as they entered, “Take a look at this.”

Stoke joined him. “Aw, shit. Blockade.”

He was looking at the Indian war party two hundred yards further downriver. A solid phalanx of war canoes was waiting for them. Had to be a hundred canoes, rafted up, row after row of them, twelve abreast, covering the entire width of the river at its narrowest point. Completely blocking the river.