Captain Head didn’t find a place to duck to the ground, but a distance of a quarter mile from the plantation seemed sufficient protection.
Now it was up to Bruce.
The package hit the ground with a thud. It bounced once, then took a roll toward the jungle before stopping. Bruce spotted it as it fell.
He hesitated a moment, then slipped out from the cover of the jungle, dragging his right leg. The rain had slowed, increasing the visibility. He could now make out the plantation house in the center of the clearing. Bolts of minigun fire sizzled the ground, keeping the area clear. No one shot at him — he started to feel confident that things were going to work out.
Bruce tore into the package. He pulled out a carefully folded balloon, unwrapped the fabric and spread it out on the ground.
Next came the helium canister, then the harness and a long wind of thick cord. He swung the harness over his shoulder and grabbed the cord. Bruce attached the cord to the balloon and unwound it, backing up toward Adleman. Every two feet, tiny infrared sources lined the cord. The IR would make the line visible to the approaching MC-130 when the balloon was in the air.
Bruce backed up to the jungle, and then dragged Adleman by the arms into the clearing. His bandaged hands were soaked, and in the dim light Bruce could make out red stains that seeped through the material.
Bruce struggled with the harness, pulling it over Adleman’s limp shoulders. He laid Adleman on the ground and straddled the vice president’s stomach, grunting to get the harness fastened. Rolling off, he pulled out the walkie-talkie.
“Mother Hen — ready for pickup.”
“Rog. Inflate when ready. We’ll have to come around from the south, so you won’t be covered for about a minute. Will you be able to get through the jungle for a Black Hawk pickup?”
“Yeah. Just hurry.”
Two clicks came over the radio. Bruce hobbled back into the jungle and pulled out the M-16. He snapped in a fresh cartridge of bullets and made off for the balloon.
The MC-130 continued to hose down the clearing. Bruce couldn’t see anything move — the gunfire from the ground had almost stopped.
The quietness should have cheered him, but instead it made his gut churn. Pompano had demonstrated his ability of getting through the jungle undetected, and if that indicated the Huks’ capabilities, Bruce was in great danger.
He hopped to the helium container and quickly connected the hose to the balloon. Some gas bled away, but he managed to get the joint screw on tight.
The balloon slowly inflated. It grew first in girth, then in length. It wasn’t big enough to carry Adleman, but its sole purpose was to get airborne and carry the sensor-lined cord up with it. For the second time that night Bruce swore that he would never badmouth an Air Force training course again — especially a survival one.
Bruce punched the IR emitters on and walked the cord back to Adleman. The balloon continued to rise, moving slowly up over the trees as Bruce let out the line. He couldn’t tell how high the balloon had risen, having lost all sense of height up against the low clouds.
Bruce turned, spooked. He listened intently, but couldn’t hear anything. Even the rain had nearly stopped.
A diesel engine ran in the distance. It sounded as if the house had started a small motor to generate electricity, but no lights came from the plantation except for the distant flickering of oil lamps.…Was it the HPM weapon?
Then something else seemed wrong.…
The MC-130 was gone!
He looked wildly around and crouched, fanning the area with his M-16 at ready. Nothing.
What had Mother Hen said — it would take a minute before they’d be back? And already it felt like ten.
Which meant they’d be here any second. Bruce fumbled with the radio. “Mother Hen, Assassin. I hear a diesel engine. It could be the HPM weapon.”
A voice came back over the radio. “Rog, Assassin. Keep us posted.”
He grabbed Adleman by the feet and swung him around until his head pointed north, toward the plantation. When the MC-130 popped over the tree line, it would snag the line and jerk Adleman up.
“Mr. Vice President — Mr. Adleman.” He slapped Adleman. “Wake up!”
Adleman rolled his head to one side. He coughed. “The football …”
“Huh?”
“The nuclear codes …”
“Here.” Bruce reached out and wrapped Adleman’s arms around the base of the line. He ignored Adleman’s rambling. “Roll your head up, close to your arms. You’ll be out any second now.”
A deep roar rolled over the clearing; the sounds of turbo props reflected off the ground and rang around the area. It sounded like Mother Hen was about to make an appearance.
Cervante waited until the shooting from above had stopped. Trapped by a volley of fire, he had been unable to move from the tiny depression he was in. The jungle was two hundred yards away — but every time he tried to move, a rain of death shot through the air, pinning him. He could not even get back to the plantation!
At first he thought the silence was a ploy, a trick by the Americans so that they could kill him on the run. But after a cautious try, he started moving toward the jungle. The vice president had to be at the south end, perhaps deep in the brush by now — why else were the American bullets keeping him trapped?
As he made for the jungle, a sudden thought hit him. What if this is only the beginning — if they were clearing the area for more Americans to land? He cursed Barguyo. He should not have left a boy to do a man’s job, no matter how mature the boy had seemed. If Barguyo had been thinking, he could have downed the American aircraft.
He turned around and started sprinting for the plantation. The run did not take more than a minute. Sloshing through the mud, he nearly tripped over one of his dead comrades. When he arrived at the house, he sought out the high-power microwave weapon. One of the men cowered underneath the porch; the other was nowhere to be seen. The diesel engine used to charge the capacitors chugged away.
Cervante snapped, “Where is Barguyo?”
“Here.” A voice came from underneath the microwave weapon. Barguyo was smeared with grease. “The antenna — if one of the bullets had hit it, we could not use the weapon.”
Cervante flicked a glance at the device. The antenna was bundled up, hidden from stray bullets. “How fast can you start the machine?”
Barguyo answered as he pulled himself back up onto the truck. “Less than a minute.”
“Then start firing as quickly as you can, and do not stop.” Cervante pointed toward the south. “Aim the weapon that way. Quickly!”
Barguyo had the antenna erected by the time Cervante started back for the jungle. As Cervante turned, the three-meter dish rotated around and pointed to the south.
The pop pop pop of capacitors cycling through their discharge started soon after.
Chapter 23
Colonel Ben Lutler threw his head back and closed his eyes. It had seemed like he had been on the Vulcan cannon for hours — ten minutes was more realistic.
And in another forty-five seconds they’d be done. Pick up the vice president, pull him on board, and head on back to Clark. And after a two-hour debrief, hit the Rathskeller with one hell of a war story.
Lutler opened his eyes. The young EWO still had his head buried in the screen. Lutler made for the cockpit. He looked over the shoulder of the pilot. Both the pilot and copilot wore ANVIS-6 infrared night-vision goggles, allowing them to spot the cord deployed by Assassin on the ground. Lutler didn’t want to disturb them, but dammit, he just had to know.