‘I will be missed.’
‘This will only take a few minutes, but I need only you to hear. I need you to listen and trust me, your people’s lives may depend on it.’
EIGHTEEN
Archer was rowed out to his night transport, not a conventional boarding, but then this was not a conventional flight. His gear had been sent ahead by Benito, everything he had asked for, and extras Benito thought he may require. His pilot met him at one of the piers near the Balboa yacht club, but Archer was sure he was not a member. Dressed in army fatigues, a black baseball cap over unkempt hair, his face had probably not met a razor for days. As Archer got closer he realised that personal hygiene was not the man’s first priority. He did not shake hands, indicating he had to carry both bags. The pilot did not seem to notice or care, just nodding his head, the half-burnt cigarette stuck to his bottom lip bobbing in acknowledgement. Archer had asked his name and the short response was ‘Juan, just Juan’. Archer and Juan-just-Juan got out to the plane across from the Punte de la Americas that stretched out over the Pacific entrance to the Panama Canal Then Archer saw his not so sturdy lift.
‘We are flying in that?’
The Grumman G64, affectionately dubbed the Albatross was a former coastguard patrol plane, twin engine. Its body curved up at the front to absorb the impact of the water during take-off and landing. It was reliable, but an old design with thirsty engines. ‘It is over fifty years old?’
‘Sí’
‘And you expect it to get us five hundred miles to Ecuador?’
‘Sí, no hay problema.’
Archer’s faith not renewed in anyway by Juan-just-Juan’s information, got aboard and stowed all his gear.
‘How long ‘til I have to drop?’
‘Oh you do not need to drop, I will land on the sea it is a calm night, you can get out, and then I will take off for my main delivery.’
‘You speak really good English.’
‘Of course.’ Juan-just-Juan smiled.
Archer was about to ask what delivery, but saw the plastic wrapped bundles behind his gear, stacked to the ceiling, and thought better of it.
The Albatross, which to Archer looked more like a large duck, roared into life, its twin prop engines puttering above either side of the cockpit. He sat in the right hand fur covered seat, flicking the hula dancer doll glued to the instrument panel. Juan adjusted the controls and then reached for the throttles above, the plane raced across the water, blasted through the waves from the wake of a nearby container ship. Archer was happy he had strapped himself in, without restraints he would have been bashed unconscious. The plane lifted off the sea and the noise reduced, just the gentle purring of the throttled back engines, Juan climbed to just a few hundred feet, and appeared to radar as a tourist or local, flying down the coast.
Archer settled down, the journey would take the aging seaplane a sedate three hours it would be after sunset when he arrived. He called his Dad’s satellite phone, Paul had given him the number. Archer was hesitant, not talking to his father for months, since his mother’s death. He had been in Afghanistan when it happened.
Bagram airbase was his home for six months. It was dawn; overnight rain had quelled the dust, spattering the overlooking mountains in white. The snow reflected the sunlight, pink mountains over orange hills, a surreal sight. The Afghan sun heated up, warmed the damp roofs of the B-huts, steam rose as the water dissipated. The design of his quarters was remarkably similar to the huts shown on the Manhattan project in World War 2; however they had the luxury of small air conditioning units on stilts by the front. He walked out onto the porch, just three wooden pallets nailed together; a fold out chair next to the red cylinder fire extinguisher provided a good reading place. The porch was dusty, and someone had left a black brush there, a hint to anyone depositing dust as they entered. The ubiquitous grey gravel of the base lead down the row of huts, he could see twenty down each side of their ‘street’. Another Ranger approached him, ‘Archer Captain’s hut, ASAP.’
Archer quickly dressed in his fatigues and double-timed to the hut.
He knew something was wrong from the Captains face, and the officer got straight to the point, ‘Archer I am sorry to inform you that your mother had died. I am sorry for your loss.’
There was the usual paperwork, taken care of immediately, and Archer was on the next available transport plane out of Bagram, heading for Germany, and then onto the United States. Within less than two days he was back in Wyoming, at the ranch, his first home.
No dust here, and not much sun, the wind bringing in fresh rain from the mountains. It smelled so different, fresh, and green; if green had a smell. Whatever his senses told him, it felt familiar, welcoming, his mother had helped create those feelings over many happy years.
He saw Katherine at the sheriff’s office; she had found his mother, dealt with all this days ago. She hugged him, told him what she found, and that Anita looked peaceful. The funeral was the following day, and his father would be there, ‘you mean Dad was not here when she died?’
‘No I called the institute, they said he was in the Arctic and could not be contacted, radio was out?’
‘So she was alone when she died?’
‘Yes, when I found her, there was no one here.’
‘I don’t believe he left her, I had to go, but he had a choice, he could have stayed!’
‘Your Dad wasn’t to know. Your mother would have made him go anyway. She always said he cluttered up the place.’
Archer laughed, that was true; on the rare occasions his father was home, he messed up the whole routine. They all laughed about it, saying he should go back exploring and leave them to get on with it.
Katherine interrupted Archers thought, ‘I think all that ribbing we did when we were kids, he actually listened to it.’
‘Maybe, but even so, he should have stayed.’
‘You cannot blame him for this, your mother survived cancer once, and she had five good years, just some battles cannot be won.’
Archer was silent; he knew Katherine was right, that his mother’s death was inevitable, the cancer spreading to her liver. Inoperable she had told him, the doctors said two months, she had lasted six, but a ghost of her former self.
It was not his father’s fault, but Archer wanted someone to blame for his pain, and Jacob was an easy target. The funeral was the last time they had spoken, and the words were unkind.
Despite the bitterness he still felt towards Jacob, the threat Enzi posed was far greater, and he had to protect his father. The phone rang and the familiar tones responded, ‘Hello, Jacob here.’
‘Dad, its Archer. I need to warn you about….’
The phone cut out, Archer removed it from his ear. The display showed good reception, but the destination was unavailable. He hung up and retried getting nothing. He called Paul to try. He got no response, ‘Sorry Archer, must be bad connection?’
‘No Paul, if I was going to attack, first job, cut off the communications. I’ll get back to you.’
He went to check and prepare his gear. Benito had loaded up some nice kit, it was like being back in the army, and he wondered briefly where he obtained it. He had a semi inflatable boat, like a small zodiac, rigid sides; diving gear including flippers and a rebreather for extended stealth dives. M4 carbine with sound suppressor and a variety of optics for day and night use. This combined with his HK23 handgun would allow him to tackle most enemies, more than a match for Enzi and his men.
Within one hour he had stripped, cleaned and tested all his kit, firing some rounds out of a side window. Juan was unhappy about it, but knew better than to argue with an armed passenger. Archer was suited up ready for his drop off when Juan called him forward. ‘There is a problem, I cannot land off the coast, there is a Navy patrol. I will have to drop you further out.’