Ted Bell - Spy

Waves of canoes stretched back, maybe twenty, thirty rows deep. It was hard to see just how many were waiting in the evening light. The dugouts were decked out in all kind of exotic combat regalia, flaming torches hung at the bow and stern, each boat loaded to the gunnels with painted warriors ready to rumble in the jungle.

Right now they were just beating the drums. Soon, the whole concert would get under way. Seemed like they only knew one tune, stuck in a groove.

Kill you, kill you.

Hawke said, “What do you think, Stoke? We’re already two hours late for our scheduled pickup of Brock. If he thinks we’re not coming and bolts, we’re finished.”

“Slow down. But don’t shoot.”

“No? Why not?” Brownlow said, “We’re being attacked. We could blow through those dugouts like a knife through butter.”

“Not in these shoals, you can’t. Besides, it’s not necessary,” Stoke said. “As long as everybody stays locked inside the boat, what can they do? Bounce spears and poison darts off the windows all night, that’s about it. Let’s just keep moving. Slow.”

“He’s right, Brownie,” Hawke said. Then, into his mike, “Crew. Clear decks and batten her down. Everyone get below and stay there. Do not engage the enemy.”

It took a minute or two to get everyone shut down inside.

“Not a lot of water under our keel, Skipper,” Brownlow said, pointing at the monitor displaying a depth-sounder’s 3-D depiction of the river bottom ahead. Ugly shoals filled the screen, a narrow channel snaked forward. It was barely wide enough to accommodate their slender beam.

“Look at those bloody shoals,” Hawke said. “The Xucuru picked this location deliberately. We’ll go through them dead slow.”

“Yeah,” Stoke said, “Keep us moving, Brownie. Rule of tonnage. You get hit by a truck, you get run over, kemosabe. We just stay in the channel, let them do what they gotta do.”

“One problem with that idea,” Hawke said, eyes on the canoes a hundred yards ahead, “At this slow speed they’ll board us. They’ll be climbing all over the damn boat.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Stoke said, “Stop the boat.”

“Spit it out,” Hawke said, watching the Indians through the night vision binocs now. The sun went down in a hurry on the river. Stoke looked at him and smiled.

“First, we disable our deck guns, lock up the missile boxes. Not that these fellas could use them, but still.”

“This plan sounds bad so far,” Hawke said.

“Wait. Then, we break out the carpet tacks.”

Brownlow said, “Did he just say, ‘carpet tacks’?”

“He did,” Hawke said, looking carefully at his friend.

“Secret weapon,” Stoke said, “Little low-tech trick I picked up on the dock in Manaus. Back in a flash.”

Stoke left the bridge and disappeared below. While he was gone, Stiletto was locked down, all exterior weapons systems disabled, hatches closed and locked. A few minutes later Stoke reappeared on the bow, a heavy sack of carpet tacks on each shoulder. He was moving slowly, emptying the canvas sacks. He was laying down a thick carpet of tacks on the decks, all the way from bow to stern on the starboard side. Then he repeated the process on the port side, smiling through the window as he headed aft, spilling his tacks. When he was finished, he climbed the ladder and used the remaining tacks to cover the wheelhouse roof.

“That ought to do it,” Stoke said, dropping down into the wheelhouse a minute later. You may proceed whenever you’re ready, Cap’n Brownlow.”

“What the hell, Stoke?” Hawke asked and Stokely just smiled.

“Skipper?” Brownlow said, “Ready?”

“All ahead dead slow, Brownie,” Hawke said, “Easy as she goes, no course deviation.”

The waiting flotilla war party saw what Stiletto was doing. The otherworldly thing was advancing upon them, slowly, despite their blockade. Instantly, they unleashed the first wave of poison-tipped arrows toward the oncoming black boat. Those weapons expended, the archers gave way to a second force of warriors who stood and elevated their long blowguns.

Inside the wheelhouse, the noise was akin to being attacked by swarms of steel locusts, the incessant smacking noise of darts and arrows hitting carbon fiber. Stiletto had now sailed directly into the main force, encircled within the huge logjam of war canoes. The Xucuru were in full war cry, howling, giving vent to their frustration by banging with their fists on the sides of the sleek hull. Crude grappling lines made of twisted vines were thrown aboard the slowly moving powerboat. War canoes pulled alongside and warriors scrambled up the lines to the decks.

“They’re boarding us, Skipper,” Brownlow said under his breath. “Christ, they’re all over the damn boat.”

Screaming savages with torches appeared at the wheelhouse windows. The sounds coming from the howling Xucuru warriors were screams of anguish, not cries of war. The Xucuru appeared to be bouncing up and down beyond the windows; they hopped madly from one foot to the other on the carpet of tacks, grabbing their feet, howling and yipping in pain.

“Not staying long, I shouldn’t think,” Hawke said, grinning at Stokely.

“Look like they’re hopping mad out there,” Stoke said.

Most of the Xucuru, upon encountering Stoke’s unpleasant surprise, leapt immediately back into the river. Those few who remained, faces illuminated by torches, were yelping and beating angrily on the wheelhouse windows. Hawke thumbed a switch overhead and all the interior lights were doused. The deck lights remained on. Now they could see the attackers clearly.

Brownlow said, grinning, “We’ve got a million dollars worth of high-tech weaponry on this boat. But that was one hell of an idea, Stoke.”

“Best security system you can buy for four dollars a bag.”

A few seconds later, all the Xucurus were abandoning ship. Ten, fifteen, twenty leapt from the decks of Stiletto and into the Black River. No more boarded after that.

Brownlow looked at the surface of the river. The water was alive, frothing with darting and biting piranhas, swarms of them, lured by the sudden abundance of human blood in the water. The Xucuru, screaming, clawed the water, desperate to reach shore.

“Captain Brownlow, the river looks clear ahead,” Hawke said. “Let’s go get Mr. Brock. All ahead full.”

“All ahead full.”

Night had fallen in the jungle.

Soon, the torches of the war canoes and the cries of angry warriors were left astern, disappearing in the gloom.

Stiletto surged ahead, piercing the darkness, setting her course straight for the heart of the enemy.

72

WASHINGTON, DC

A ir Force One lands some where around here, doesn’t it? I’ve seen that on the news a few times.”

“Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing. Right over there, Sheriff,” Consuelo de los Reyes said, pointing out a large hangar complex across the wide, snow-covered tarmac to their left.

The Secretary of State and Sheriff Franklin W. Dixon were in the middle seat of the heavily armored black Chevy Suburban. There were two DSS agents from the Diplomatic Security Service up front and behind them three more. They were riding in one of six identical vehicles, their rooftops all bristling with antennas and sat dishes.

The convoy was just now exiting the main entry gate at Andrews Air Force Base in suburban Maryland. Consuelo de los Reyes had been one of the small group of people standing in the freezing cold on the tarmac when the FBI chopper transporting Sheriff Dixon had touched down at Andrews ten minutes earlier. She had greeted the sheriff warmly, and expressed her condolences about the death of his deputy, Homer Prudhomme, in the line of duty.