Ortiz was momentarily confused. Where was the helo? Why was Zimmer next to him? Why wasn’t he covered with mud like himself?
“You fucking pendejo,” Ortiz hissed. He straightened up, nearly tore the night goggles off his head, and wiped the mud and whatever else was there off his face. “You mean to tell me that I stuck my whole body in shit to prevent the enemy from spotting us and you just stood there? I saw you, carbon. You were on the clearing like me. Why didn’t you—”
“Tito, you overreacted, man. I saw the helo above the trees and then I saw you going in. I was about to dive in also when it turned around and left, man, so I kept on walking in your direction.” He motioned for them to move toward the tree line.
Ortiz went first, reaching the safety of the trees in under a minute. He grabbed the hand-held, waterproof radio on his belt.
“All is clear to the tree line, jefe. Over.”
“Roger, Tito. Proceeding to meet you single file. Five-minute intervals per cross, over.”
“Over ‘n’ out.” Ortiz turned to Zimmer, who stood a few feet behind him.
“Mierda. I can’t believe I did this shit for nothing,” Ortiz whispered as he lay the Colt over a branch and grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket. He could barely stand the smell. “It’s bad enough to be walking in this shit, but to have it up your nostrils… yech.”
“Sorry, man. I wish I could… oh, man,” Zimmer said the moment Ortiz finished wiping off most of the mud from his face and neck. “Look at you, man.”
“What about?”
“Leeches, man.”
“Don’t screw around. I ain’t in no mood to…” Ortiz stopped talking the moment his fingers came into contact with a slimy-feeling object on the side of his neck. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to control his initial impulse to vomit. “Get the fuckers off. Get them off!”
“All right, all right, but keep it down. Don’t move.” Zimmer slung his Colt across his back and pulled out a double-edge, black-painted hunting knife from his belt sheath.
Ortiz shut his eyes and held his breath the moment he felt the cold steel pressed flat against the skin of his neck. Slowly, the blade moved upward, almost as if he were shaving. In that short period of time the leech had already managed to attach itself strongly enough to leave behind a patch of bloody skin on Ortiz’s neck.
“Got one. Fat little bastard.”
Ortiz opened his eyes and stared at the disgusting-looking creature crawling on Zimmer’s knife. Zimmer simply threw it back in the swamp. “Two to go. Guess you won’t have to shave tomorrow, man.”
“Just get them off, man.”
Zimmer grinned and pressed the knife against Ortiz’s neck, removing a second leech along with a chunk of skin. The third one had partially attached itself to Ortiz’s right ear. Zimmer removed it with his fingers.
“All right. You’re back to your pretty self.”
Ortiz managed a thin smile. “Thanks, hermano.”
Zimmer smiled back. “Anytime.”
“You think this thing still works?” Ortiz pointed to the night goggles.
“They fuckin’ better.”
Ortiz cleaned the thermal-imaging system as best he could, put it back on, and activated it.
“Well?” Zimmer asked.
“It’ll do,” Ortiz responded as he scanned the area and satisfactorily noted the dark-green surroundings… shit!
He moved against a tree and motioned Zimmer to do the same.
“What’s going…” Zimmer stopped talking when he noticed Ortiz putting a finger to his lips. Zimmer quickly reached cover behind an adjacent tree.
Ortiz moved to the left and briefly checked the area directly ahead of them. He saw two — no — three sentries. Their light-green silhouettes shone beautifully against the stark background. He looked at Zimmer, also wearing night goggles. Zimmer nodded his head.
Ortiz reached for the radio and turned the volume down.
“Found three sentries. One hundred feet ahead. Permission for silent engagement, over?”
“Careful, Tito. Is Tommy there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Permission to move out. I’ll get two men in there to cover you. Hold for twenty seconds before moving.”
“Roger.” Ortiz holstered the radio and checked his watch. Twenty seconds. He waited.
Ortiz looked at Zimmer and pointed. Zimmer nodded and headed left. Ortiz checked his watch once more. This was it. The real thing. He warily moved to the right, always keeping an eye on the light-green figures a few feet apart from one another, his hands solidly gripping the light submachine gun. He clutched it for lack of something else. In reality he knew he could not use the Colt. That would give away his position. He wished they’d had more time to prepare for the mission, but with the two-hour notice they were lucky to have the gear they had — which was standard Special Forces.
Ortiz reached a spot over a hundred feet to the right of the sentries, and cut left to make a wide semicircle around them. He would attack from an unexpected angle, hitting the sentries from behind, from the place they would be least likely to expect any unfriendlies to come from. The sentries were near the edge of the tree line and slowly moving toward the rest of Mambo.
Suddenly a bright sparkle of green light nearly blinded him. It quickly went away and was replaced by a medium-intensity glow near the head of one of the sentries. Ortiz shook his head.
A cigarette. The idiot lit a cigarette!
That puzzled Ortiz. Are these guys so secure in their position that they don’t think anyone would dare attack from this side? Do they think an attack most likely would come from the beach?
Ortiz completed the semicircle and reached a spot a hundred feet directly behind the sentries, who were still moving in the same direction. He spotted Zimmer forty feet to his right. Ortiz lifted his right hand in a fist and slowly moved it toward the enemy.
Zimmer nodded and slung the Colt behind his back. Ortiz did the same, and reached for his hunting knife. He briefly stared at the swamp and exhaled. There was no other way. Ortiz immersed his body in the swamp once more, only leaving his head out. The sentries had stopped and scanned the clearing in between the cluster of trees where they were and the trees where Mambo would be by now. He blinked once more. A second sentry had lit a cigarette. Incredible!
Kicking his legs until they hurt, Ortiz propelled himself through the muddy hell. His neck came in contact with the swamp surface. He knew what that meant, but that didn’t matter any longer. Only the sentries mattered. If they could be called that, he thought as he closed the gap to fifty feet. He could hear their voices. Sound traveled well over a smooth surface.
Forty feet. He looked over his right shoulder. Zimmer was there. Also up to his neck in it. Ortiz lifted one hand out of the mud and pointed to the right-most sentry. Zimmer nodded. Ortiz shifted his gaze back toward the enemy. Thirty feet. He clutched the knife’s handle so hard his fingers grew numb from lack of circulation. He couldn’t help it. His mind was almost on automatic as he closed the gap to less than twenty feet.
His approach was quiet, calculated. He used the noise created by the sentries to mask his own. He knew Zimmer would do the same.
Ortiz briefly gazed upward. Toward the stars. The crystalline sky looked majestic, dazzling, peaceful. He enjoyed it for another brief second before training his eyes on the left-most sentry. The one with the cigarette in his right hand. The man took another draw and turned his head to the side. Ortiz saw his profile. A young man, he noted.