Hunt the Jackal (16 page)

Seconds later, he heard a roar. Then the wing lights of the Gulfstream IV came on, illuminating the haze over the runway.

Crocker was sure that the Federales had spotted the plane already, and he saw the concerned expression on Mancini’s face. To his left, Mrs. Clark slowly walked out of the hangar, wearing a pair of men’s overalls and leaning on Suárez’s shoulder.

“Where’s the pickup?” he whispered to Mancini.

Mancini pointed over his right shoulder at headlights near the pool cabanas, approximately seventy-five meters away.

“This is gonna be close.”

“Real tight.”

They watched the Gulfstream land, race toward the end of the runway, brake, turn, and taxi toward them. Fortunately, the Mexicans were passing behind the cabanas and not in a position to fire at it yet. Since the plane had landed north to south and turned around, when it taxied to take off, it would be traveling north and away from the truckload of Federales.

Crocker calculated they would never be able to board everyone in time.

Turning to Gomez, he said, “Tell the pilot to keep the engines running. Tell him the enemy is on our tail, so we have to make this super-quick.”

“Yes.”

“Akil, you and Suárez help everyone aboard, close the door, and tell the pilot to leave. Manny, come with me.”

“Where’re you guys going?” Akil asked.

“Don’t worry about us.”

“We’ll wait.”

Crocker: “There’s no time.”

“No.”

“You go. We’ll fight our way out.”

“Boss—”

“Don’t argue. Just do it! Now!”

He and Mancini ran, crouched at the far corner of the shack, and readied their weapons. The pickup was out of view for a moment, in a gully at the near end of the stables. He saw the Gulfstream come to a full stop, saw the side door open and the stairway deploy.

Hurry!

Gomez ran toward it first, then Akil and Suárez, who was helping Mrs. Clark. She tripped and fell on her way up the stairs. Akil and Suárez supported her.

Fucking hurry!

The Federale pickup came up the berm and immediately opened fire. A big machine gun, either a .30 or .50 cal, clanged on its bed. Bullets whizzed past them in the direction of the plane, which stood completely vulnerable, like a delicate white bird.

Crocker heard the jet engine whine higher and, turning to Mancini, screamed, “Now!”

The two SEALs jumped out from behind the building and fired everything they had in a ferocious salvo of bullets that shredded the truck’s front tires and shattered its windshield. Mancini groaned, grabbed his right knee, and fell to the ground. The pickup swerved left, looking for a second like it was about to turn over, then righted itself on the concrete runway. It seemed to gain speed as it chased the jet.

Crocker was trying to take out the soldier firing the .50 cal when his weapon went dry. Instead of searching his vest for another mag, he tossed the MP7 aside and picked up the M870, which was preloaded with an M1030 cartridge.

The pickup raced past, forty feet away, machine gun rounds careening off the runway. The jet started to lift off the ground.

Crocker, utilizing some Kentucky windage skills he’d picked up, fired at the truck as the jet roared into the sky. The cartridge slammed into the truck’s side. A second later the gas tank exploded and the machine gun stopped firing. The pickup veered off the concrete strip, hit the ground in front of it, and turned over onto its back.

“Good shot,” Mancini groaned from the ground.

“You okay?”

In muted light Crocker saw that Mancini was in the process of ripping his pants leg, which exposed a bloody area under his knee.

“I got nicked. Must’ve hit a nerve, because my leg went numb,” Manny said.

“You need me to carry you?”

“No. Leave me here.”

“Fuck that.”

T
hey were
on their own with little ammunition, Mancini’s bum knee, and several truckloads of angry Federales closing in on them. Crocker made a beeline for the hangar, where he found the Ford Explorer. Thankfully, Gomez had left the keys in the ignition.

Sweating from every pore in his body and breathing hard, he fired up the ignition, spun the vehicle around, drove to where Mancini was waiting, helped him aboard, and exited through the side gate in a cloud of dust.

Bullets ripped into the back of the SUV, shattering the rear window. Crocker operated completely on instinct, driving hard with the headlights off and turning right, down a dirt path that led in the direction of the river.

“I don’t think this is a road,” Mancini said as he wrapped the wound under his knee and covered it with a white bandage.

“It is now. How’s the leg?”

“I’ll manage.”

In the rearview mirror he saw the headlights of the Federales’ vehicles less than ten meters behind them. A helicopter banked overhead, its searchlight sweeping the canopy of trees.

The vehicle bounced hard down the pitted path. Branches scraped the sides, producing a horrible screeching sound. After several hundred meters, the narrow path ended with concrete steps and a broken concrete embankment that angled down sharply to the wide gravel bed and then the river.

“I got half a mag left,” Mancini said, holding his MP7 and turning to look behind.

“Hold on.”

Crocker braked first, then eased the Explorer down the steps to the embankment at a forty-five-degree angle. The vehicle jolted violently from side to side, scraping bottom over sections of concrete that had risen due to changes in the topography of the river. Several times it was in danger of flipping onto its hood or turning over sideways.

“How’s your knee now?” Crocker asked.

“Hurts like a motherfucker.”

A Vietnam-era UH-1 Iroquois helicopter swooped low in front of them and unleashed a stream of bullets that tore into the hood. A hot piece of metal grazed Crocker’s cheek, but he kept pushing the SUV forward and found gravel. Engine growling, the Explorer lurched forward and entered the river with a splash.

“Get ready to swim.”

Water rose past the wheels to the hood. Crocker gunned the accelerator, and the tires spun over wet gravel and rock.

“The engine’s gonna flood,” Mancini warned.

The tires spun and gradually gained traction, causing the vehicle to plow through the ten-foot-wide ribbon of water to the other side.

“Frisky mofo.”

“We’re in Guatemala now,” Crocker announced, steering the smoking Explorer up a sandy embankment into some low trees.

“Is that good or bad?” Mancini asked.

The helicopter swooped in low over the river again.

“Watch out!”

They ducked behind the dash together, but the helo didn’t fire. In the rearview mirror Crocker saw the two Federale pickups stop on the other side of the river. Armed men jumped out with automatic weapons ready. But instead of taking aim, they spat on the ground.

“Looks like they’re gonna respect Guat sovereignty,” Mancini announced.

“They’re probably notifying their counterparts in the Guatemala police right now.”

Their next challenge was getting past the Guatemalan border guards, who Crocker didn’t feel like wrangling with. He took what he hoped was a detour through back dirt roads that wound up into low hills dotted with little coffee and marijuana farms. As he tooled down a narrow country road, windows open, the engine coughed and the SUV lurched and sputtered to a stop.

“What happened?” groaned Mancini.

“I think we ran out of gas.”

“Fuck.”

Crocker had three hundred dollars in cash in the heel of his boot in case of emergency. This certainly qualified, so he got out and walked ahead toward some dim yellow lights. He made out an old man sitting on the front porch of a dilapidated house smoking a pipe.

“Buenas noches, Señor,”
Crocker said.

The old man pointed at the moon and said,
“La luna se lloro esta noche.”
(“The moon cries tonight.”)

Crocker nodded but didn’t understand.
“Tengo…mi auto, ahi,”
he said, trying to recall his meager Spanish
. “Muy grande problema. No más gasolina.”

“¿Necesita gasolina?”
the old man asked, rising slowly and looking deeply into Crocker’s eyes. He didn’t seem to mind the fact that Crocker’s face, neck, and arms were covered with cuts and abrasions. Instead, he nodded and pointed to a twenty-year-old faded-red Datsun 510 sedan parked under some banana trees by the side of the shack next door.

“¿Este tiene gasolina?”
Crocker asked.

“Viene aqui.”
The man escorted Crocker to the shack next door, talking in Spanish the whole way. He knocked on the door and entered. A chubby young woman sat in a T-shirt and shorts embroidering a blouse as incense burned on a table covered with statues of saints in the corner.

The old man spoke to her in a language Crocker didn’t understand, then pulled Crocker outside. The woman followed on bare feet.

“¿Que pasa?”
Crocker asked.

“Ella quiere ver a su auto.”
(“She wants to see your car.”)

“¿Mi auto? ¿Porque?”

The woman carefully inspected the dirty, bullet-scarred Explorer inside and out, studied Mancini’s biceps and tattoos, which seemed to interest her, then proposed a trade: the twenty-year-old Datsun for the new but damaged and out-of-gas Explorer.

“¿El Datsun tiene gasolina? ¿Anda bien?”
Crocker asked.

“Si, claro.”

Crocker considered for a few moments, then returned to the Datsun to make sure it ran and did have a half tank of gas. It did, so he accepted.

He and the woman shook hands and exchanged keys.

Equally important was the map the old man drew on the side of a shopping bag that showed the route to the Pan-American Highway.

“Gracias, Señor,”
said Crocker, squeezing the man’s callused little hand. And to the woman:
“Gracias, Señorita.”

“Some lousy deal maker you turned out to be,” Mancini complained as Crocker helped him into the front seat of the Datsun.

“She wanted me to trade you for a box of mangos. I seriously considered it.”

“Very funny.”

After forty minutes of bouncing over rough, dark roads, they reach the paved highway. Then it was easy winding through the dark, verdant hills of the Mayan highlands, the half-moon lighting the thin ribbon of asphalt. The surface was so smooth and the route so back and forth that it rocked Mancini to sleep.

He snored in the passenger seat as Crocker pulled into a gas station outside Quetzaltenango to refuel and buy a prepaid Nokia 1616 for fifty dollars. Outside, standing in the cool night air with marimba music playing from a radio nearby, Crocker dialed the number he had committed to memory.

“ID yourself,” said the female duty officer who answered in Langley.

“I’m BC292. BC295 is with me.”

“Are either of you in need of immediate medical help?”

“My partner has a wounded leg, but it’s not life threatening.”

“Where are you, and how can I help you?”

“We’re on the Pan-American Highway on our way to Guatemala City, escaping from a mission in Mexico.”

“Hold on.”

Three minutes later she returned to the line. “Are you in a vehicle?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Proceed to La Aurora International Airport in Guatemala City. Drive directly to the north terminal. In front of the TACA Airlines departure area, you’ll find a silver Toyota Tundra with a dark-haired woman at the wheel. Her name is Danila. Park directly behind her, identify yourself as hikers from Montreal, and get in.”

“Thank you.”

Three and a half hours later, they arrived at La Aurora International Airport and found Danila, a tall, no-nonsense Hispanic woman with a high forehead, wearing large hoop earrings. Without saying a word, she drove them past the main terminal to an Interjet hangar and stopped alongside a white BE20 Super King turboprop plane.

“There’s your ride,” she said.

“Thanks. Where’s it taking us?”

“Panama City.”

“Florida?” Mancini asked.

“No, Panama City, Panama. Enjoy.”

Fifteen hours later Crocker stood looking out a fifth-floor window at the sky turning orange, amber, and gold as the sun set over the Bay of Panama. Eighteen years earlier, before he became a SEAL, he’d served as a young navy corpsman assigned to Rodman Naval Station half a mile away from where he was standing now.

In March 1999, the six-hundred-acre base, which once housed the naval component of the U.S. Southern Command (SOUTHCOM), was turned over to the Panamanian government. So were a number of other U.S. military bases, including Forts Gulick, Davis, and Sherman on the Caribbean side of the isthmus, and Howard Air Force Base, Fort Amador, and Fort Kobbe on the Pacific or southern side. All of them had once formed a powerful air, land, and sea defense perimeter around the strategically important Panama Canal.

When U.S. control of the Panama Canal formally transferred to the Panamanian government on December 31, 1999, the bases were closed and most U.S. military personnel left. Rodman Naval Station was now a tank farm run by Mobil Oil. Howard Air Force Base was being developed into an international business park called Panama Pacifico.

It was strange being back in what was once called the Gorgas Army Hospital. Eighteen years ago when part of the facility housed a U.S. Navy clinic, Crocker had been operated on here for a ruptured appendix. It happened a day after he competed in a cross-isthmus marathon that originated at the Vasco Núñez de Balboa Park, which was only a couple of blocks away.

The light-green walls and the antiseptic smell were the same, reminding him of sickness and his own mortality, which he didn’t feel ready to deal with yet. He thought back to the ranch in Tapachula and the old man he had meet in the Mayan hills.

Life followed a mysterious path and offered unexpected challenges, disappointments, and pleasures. They hadn’t found the Clarks’ daughter, which meant there was still more to accomplish, and more enemies to defeat.

Ambition burned white-hot at the base of his spine, goading him forward, compelling him to work harder and perform at an even higher level than he had before.

Somewhere he had once read: If you only do what you think you can, you never do much.

A young Hispanic woman in a light-blue uniform walked in and asked him in heavily accented English why he wasn’t in bed. Her short hair had been bleached blond, but the dark roots showed.

“I feel like looking out the window,” Crocker answered.

“You not ready,” she said, taking him by the forearm and leading him back to bed. She tucked the sheets around him and recorded his temperature and blood pressure on a chart that she then replaced in a plastic sleeve and tucked under her arm.

“What’s wrong with me?” Crocker asked.

“Many things.”

“Like what?”

“I call the doctor.”

“How long have I been here?”

She left without answering, the backs of her too-big yellow Crocs slapping against the blue linoleum floor.

He remembered the Super King turboprop landing in Panama City, red-and-blue flashing lights, Lisa Clark waving as she was wheeled to the back of an ambulance, and Max Jenson introducing him to the CIA station chief in Panama—a friendly dark-haired man who said he had met Crocker briefly when he was stationed in Afghanistan.

The nurse reentered , accompanied by a tall doctor with a large watermelon-shaped head. His name tag read  
DR. DANNY RAMOS.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Ramos asked in a Texas accent as he pressed a stethoscope to Crocker’s chest.

“Better than I did last night.”

“Breath deeper.”

Waves of pain rose from his abdomen and ribs.

“Turn over.”

Dr. Ramos pulled up the back of the light-green hospital gown and pressed the middle of Crocker’s back. “Any pain?”

“Nothing I can’t deal with.”

“What does that mean?”

“Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”

The doctor chuckled. “That’s an interesting concept that’s not backed up by science.”

Dr. Ramos marked something on the chart and replaced it in the plastic sleeve at the end of the bed. “The skin around your eyes and eyelids is still swollen. But that will go down. I’ll have the nurse re-dress the bandages in the morning, then I’ll examine you again to see if you’re okay to go,” he said, waving his big hand at the thirty or so little white bandages on Crocker’s forehead, cheeks, neck, arms, shoulders, and chest.

“What was I admitted for?”

“Chlorine poisoning, smoke inhalation, and multiple bruises, cuts, and abrasions.”

“What about the woman I was admitted with? Mrs. Clark?”

“Her poisoning was more serious. But she’s stabilized now.”

“Where is she?”

“Down the hall.”

“Can I visit her?”

“You stay here. I’ll inquire.”

Fifteen minutes later, Crocker was sitting up in bed watching an NBA playoff game on the TV bolted to the ceiling when Akil and Mancini walked in carrying a Burger King bag and a big plastic cup that featured a likeness of the Starship
Enterprise
.

“You owe me ten balboas,” Akil said, setting the cup and greasy bag on the table beside Crocker’s bed.

“What for?”

“Two Whoppers with
queso, papas fritas
, and a
grande
Coca-Cola in a collector’s cup.”

“You look like Jabba the Hutt,” Mancini said, remarking on Crocker’s swollen cheeks. “What happened to your face?”

“The aftereffects of chlorine poisoning,” Crocker answered. “How’s your knee?”

“Some minor damage to the superficial fibular nerve. But aside from that, all good.”

“Where’s Suárez?”

“He’s at church praying that he gets assigned to another team,” Akil cracked.