The phone rang. He picked it up on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Monsieur Vanderhoff.”
“General Chardon, how is your team doing?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. The team reported one casualty.”
“Well, that’s always expected.”
“I agree, but a good commander is always trying to minimize casualties. I’m sending more men to make sure everyone in the team has someone else to cover his back. The soldier who was killed was alone.”
“Understood, General. Call me when your men have news.”
Cameron noticed the twelve soldiers standing at the other side of the large clearing. They appeared to be waiting for something or someone to come and pick them up.
He shrugged and turned back toward their landing zone four hundred feet away. He had selected the spot. Easy to defend. Two sides were muddy swamps. Mambo would be able to spot anyone coming from nearly half a mile away. The other two sides were shielded by the thick jungle, making it easier for Mambo to retreat and hide if it ever came to that. The clearing itself was only about sixty feet square, just barely large enough to accommodate the Stallion rescue helicopter already on its way from Blue Ridge.
Cameron reached a spot two hundred feet from the clearing, and smiled when he spotted Zimmer and another soldier setting up trip wires.
“How’s it going?”
“Just a second,” Zimmer responded as he tied a nylon line to a hand grenade, removed the safety pin, and carefully wedged the pear-shaped object between a low branch and the trunk of a tree. He then ran the line at knee level from the tree to another tree twenty feet away. He tied the line to the tree and checked the tension. Satisfied, he shifted his gaze to Cameron. “What do you think?”
Cameron was impressed. “Not bad, Tommy. Couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“This is the sixth trip wire we’ve deployed. I think another six or seven more and there ain’t nobody coming near this place without us knowing about it.”
Cameron nodded. “Sure looks that way. Say, where’s Tito?”
“Back there, ‘bout a hundred feet.”
Cameron continued walking for another minute before slowing down.
“Tito?”
No response. He walked a little farther.
“Tito? Are you—”
“Don’t take another step or you’ll be sorry, man.”
“What the hell…”
“Up here.”
Cameron shifted his gaze up, and was startled to see three weapons aimed in his direction. One was Ortiz’s Colt Commando. The other two were the M-16s of two of Ortiz’s men, both of whom had smiles on their faces. All three lay flat on their bellies over thick branches twenty feet above him.
“Stay still, Cameron. I mean it, man.” Ortiz slung the Colt, crawled back toward the trunk, and climbed down.
“What’s going on? Why the warning?”
“See this?” Ortiz kneeled down and carefully brushed the leaves away, revealing a nylon rope. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Let me show you were it goes.” He walked to the other side of the thick tree and pointed to a large rock suspended thirty feet in the air. “One end of the rope’s connected to a net we laid out in that area over there.” He pointed to the spot Cameron had been about to walk through. “The other end’s connected to that rock. Anyone who steps into it will wind up tangled up in the net and lifted thirty feet in the air. Figure it can handle up to two soldiers at once.”
“I guess they teach you guys better stuff than in my days.”
“Oh, you in the military?”
“Used to be. Four tours in ‘Nam, three of them with the Special Forces. The CIA recruited me a few years after the war and sent me on a prolonged vacation to Mexico.”
Ortiz smiled. “Hablas Español?”
“Lo hablo major que tu, cabron.”
Ortiz grinned. “I doubt that. Need anything?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. There’s one thing you can do for us all. Let’s go get something out of my backpack.”
Ortiz didn’t like Cameron’s tone of voice, but went along with it anyway. “All right. Show me.”
Five minutes later, Cameron glanced at Ortiz as they walked toward one edge of the clearing carrying machetes. The young Hispanic sergeant was very talented in the art of war. At least talented enough to have survived this long.
According to Cameron’s estimates, the clearing would be just barely large enough to fit the Stallion. He was simply going to buy them a few more feet of clearing by chopping down the branches that extended over the edge of the jungle.
“How long before they come ‘n’ get us?”
“About an hour,” responded Cameron as he lifted the machete above his head and landed it hard against a two-inch-thick branch. It came off clean. Cameron picked it up and threw it in the jungle. “That’s assuming there’s no more red tape about this rescue mission.”
Ortiz busily worked on a thick branch. “Huh?”
“This rescue mission wasn’t supposed to have happened.”
Ortiz turned around and faced him. “What do you mean?”
Cameron frowned. “Don’t know the entire story, but it seems as if some Washington politician didn’t think it was a good idea to rescue you guys.”
“That’s just fuckin’ great, man. I’d love to get my hands around that hijo de puta’s neck.”
Cameron smiled.
“That wasn’t a joke,cabron.”
Cameron continued to smile. “Listen. Being part of the Special Forces in covert ops does include some risks. This kind of shit used to happen to us all the time in ’Nam. You just get used to it after a while.”
Ortiz frowned. “Well, I always knew about it, man, but I guess it’s different when it actually happens to you, if you know what I mean.”
“I know,” Cameron responded as he reached for another branch. “I know what you mean.”
“Then?”
Cameron gave him a puzzled look. “Then what?”
“Then how did you get here?”
“Tito, you don’t really want to know. It involves — shit, helos!”
The low flopping noise grew louder. It came from the southeast, from the launch complex. Cameron raced into the jungle. Ortiz did the same.
There were four birds in all, approaching at treetop level. One of the helicopters hovered over the clearing for several seconds before rejoining the caravan.
“Mierda! Looks like they’re back.”
“Yep.”
“Think they saw us?”
“Maybe. Either that or they thought about landing on this clearing instead of the larger one on the other side of the woods. Go ahead and hang back here. Keep an eye on them. I’m gonna make a call and find out how long before our ride gets here. We’re running out of time.”
“What about the others?”
“They should be just about finished deploying the trip wires. I’ll go get them after I make the call.”
As Blue Ridge disappeared below the horizon, Crowe applied forward cyclic pressure, increased throttle, and added right rudder to compensate for the additional torque induced by the main rotor. He eyed the airspeed. It was 180 knots, the maximum specified speed for the Stallion. He inched the cyclic forward and added a dash of throttle.