The frogmen showed so little interest in Jeffrey, now that he’d been safely retrieved, that he suspected they had no idea at all who he was. He thought it was interesting how this whole process had been compartmentalized.
Suddenly Jeffrey had to blink. The special-operations craft pierced through the squall’s far side. The morning sun once more shone brightly. The radar display showed land approaching fast off the port bow. Soon he saw the tops of a line of tall hills. Even through the thin haze lingering just above the water, the hilltops shimmered a verdurous green.
Jeffrey watched as the special operations craft moved inshore. In quick succession they passed a series of scenic coves and headlands, islands, reefs, and lagoons. The vessel slowed to twenty-five knots and the frogmen began to examine the coast with binoculars. As they rounded a point, Jeffrey caught his first glimpse of greater Rio. A wide curving beach of glittering yellow-white sand stretched before him. Behind the beach spread a broad boulevard, backed by high-rise luxury hotels and apartment buildings.
“Copacabana,” the frogman leader told him.
Jeffrey nodded. The sand, he saw, was dotted with people, a thick speckling of multicolored bathing suits, umbrellas, and towels. The surf was mild, but very few actually went in the water.
That squall was miles away. It hasn’t rained here yet today. The sky was crystal-clear pale blue, flecked with scattered fluffy white clouds. The bright sun made the ocean sparkle, golden flecks against a deep blue shading to rich green closer to shore.
The frogmen continued to use binoculars. One of them handed Jeffrey a pair and helped him stand steady and zoom in.
Jeffrey focused. He spotted a big gathering of what looked like Japanese tourists sitting on beach chairs. All were fully clothed from head to foot, including wide-brimmed hats and dark sunglasses.
“Japanese? Nippon?”
The frogman nodded. He shifted Jeffrey’s field of view to the right.
The new object of attention was a group of young Latino women sunbathing topless. Nearby were others wearing bathing suits so skimpy Jeffrey wondered why they bothered dressing at all. Then he saw people tanning themselves nude.
Copacabana soon fell behind. The speedboat closed on the entrance to the harbor. The vessel’s green, yellow, and blue Brazilian flag snapped jauntily in the breeze. The frogmen, more relaxed now, chatted among themselves while Jeffrey listened. Their Portuguese didn’t sound at all like Spanish. If anything, snatches seemed vaguely similar to Italian. The frogmen were very expressive, and talked constantly with their hands. The speedboat made a sharp left turn.
Jeffrey saw at once that Rio de Janeiro’s Guanabara Bay formed a truly superb natural harbor. Volcanic formations jutted from the shoreline on both sides of the mouth of the huge upper bay. The tall granite features worked as ideal breakwaters. He recognized Sugarloaf Mountain, shaped like a gigantic cone, an unmistakable soaring landmark. Parts of Sugarloaf were densely overgrown with bushes and vines. The more sheer drops, of hundreds of feet, were stark naked rock — shades of brown and tan embedded with vertical seams of milky quartz. A cable car led to Sugarloaf’s peak; it was running and its spacious cabs seemed crammed to capacity.
As the speedboat entered the main shipping channel into the port, Jeffrey passed lighthouses and buoys. The boat skirted Sugarloaf; the protruding hump fell behind. He noticed that both sides of the harbor entrance were guarded by ancient forts.
Now Jeffrey caught a sweeping panorama of Rio itself. On the left sprawled more modern buildings, of gray concrete, white masonry, and glass. He saw parks and marinas, and the gilded domes and weathered copper steeples of many churches, plus two airports along the water — one small, then one large. Several miles ahead and to his right were shallows, leading to mangrove swamps and stream outlets and housing projects and slums. In the middle of the bay there were islands of all different sizes, and anchorages where merchant ships were moored. Ferries plied between opposite shores of the bay. There was also a bridge, under which the speedboat passed.
Beyond the bay rose Brazil’s great coastal escarpment: more towering solid granite, only superficially weathered. The mountainsides were covered with lush greenery, or held clusters of dwellings for more of Rio’s poor. Overlooking the whole scene from just inland on Jeffrey’s left soared another prominent summit, Corcovado, Hunchback Mountain. At its 2,400-foot peak stood the world-famous statue of Cristo Redentor — Christ the Redeemer — with arms outstretched, a hundred feet tall.
The motorboat turned left again and headed for a pier on the mainland. A long enclosed shed covered the structure, and the slip alongside was protected by an awning, for security; Jeffrey noticed armed guards.
The crew brought their craft under the awning and alongside the pier with skill. The frogmen and Jeffrey climbed out, hurrying into the shed.
Inside, Jeffrey saw an armored personnel carrier — an old M-113, a boxy thing that rode on tracks. Dating from the Vietnam era, it could have been fifty years old. This one was painted matte black. Yellow letters on the side said POLICIA.
The big rear hydraulic ramp hatch was down. Jeffrey and the frogmen clambered in.
The odor of diesel fuel and exhaust was sharp and thick. The ancient engine was idling roughly, and the whole vehicle shook. Headroom was low and Jeffrey had to stoop.
At the front of the troop compartment, on one of the passenger benches, dozed a man in civilian clothes. His right arm was in an air cast and sling. The man woke up when he heard the frogmen take seats and raise the ramp hatch closed.
He looked at Jeffrey and was obviously glad to see him.
“Sorry, the painkillers made me drowsy.”
“What the heck happened to you?” Jeffrey shook the man’s left hand with his right.
“I’m the senior surviving military attaché. Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Stewart, United States Army Green Berets, at your service.”
“What happened to your face, Colonel?”
“Shrapnel. It’s nothing. They closed the wounds with surgical glue, then smeared on antiseptic.” The colonel had long gashes on his cheeks and forehead, unbandaged.
Jeffrey nodded sympathetically. “I heard there were attacks.”
The man’s eyes clouded with anger and grief. “We’re hardly out of the woods yet, not by a long shot…. Anyway, I’m supposed to be protocol and liaison officer for your visit.”
Jeffrey hesitated. “In other words, my handler. Make sure I don’t put my foot in my mouth in front of somebody important.”
“Pretty much.” Stewart patted the bench next to him. Jeffrey sat and put his travel bag in his lap. The lighting in the vehicle’s interior was dim.
Some of the half-dozen frogmen opened their equipment bags and took out special warfare versions of the M-16. Jeffrey saw that the M-113 had viewports and firing ports cut in its sides. The men locked their weapons into the firing ports, slipped in long thirty-round magazines, and pulled the charging handles to chamber rounds.
The frogman leader yelled to the driver. The engine roared to life and the aged transmission slipped into gear. The armored personnel carrier lurched forward. It came out onto a road between drab warehouses, turned right, and picked up speed.
The engine and the worn tracks and sloppy suspension made for a most uncomfortable ride; the tracks had rubber blocks in each link so they wouldn’t tear up the pavement, but this didn’t help much.
“Where are we going?” Jeffrey shouted.
“You’ll see,” Stewart told him. “Be careful what you say until you know we’re secure. Then just be yourself. Do whatever it is your orders told you to do.”