The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

Using Cabrillo’s GPS, the three men started off toward the RHIB. The plutonium was half the burden to Juan as the guilt he felt leaving Jerry behind. They had fought side by side for half a dozen years and had had drinks in every seedy harborside bar from Shanghai to Istanbul. Never could he have imagined abandoning Jerry Pulaski in a godforsaken jungle so he could blow himself up and give the rest of the team a chance of escape.

With every pace he had to fight the urge to turn back.

The canopy overhead muffled the sound of the Argentine helicopter but couldn’t dampen the staccato burst of machine-gun fire they heard ten minutes into their march. It seemed to go on forever as the Ninth Brigade soldiers vented their fury at the downed helo.

If Jerry hadn’t already succumbed to his wounds, the withering fusillade would almost certainly be fatal. Juan’s expression grew more grim, and he began to notice the weight of the padded nylon straps digging into his aching shoulders. The sling had been designed for Jerry’s broader back, so the power cell hung low and uncomfortable.

A silent five minutes passed as the men continued toward the river and their boat. The machine guns had silenced the jungle creatures, and the breeze didn’t reach into the gloom of the forest floor. It was eerie, still, oppressive.

The blast that rang out wasn’t the distant roll of thunder, but an immediate crash of noise that struck like a hammer. A moment later it was followed by a secondary explosion.

They knew what had happened. Jerry had held off until men were descending from the Argentine helicopter and then popped the C-4. The second blast was the detonation of what little fuel and vapors remained in their aircraft’s tanks. There would likely be survivors among the Argentine commandos, but there would be no pursuit.

EIGHT

The radio link went dead. That wasn’t true. There had been a concussive sound just before Lieutenant Jimenez stopped talking. Major Jorge Espinoza tried again, shouting out Jimenez’s call sign, Jaguar.

He had stayed behind at the logging camp because between the two officers, Espinoza had more cross training as a medic. And his skills were sorely needed. They had six men killed outright and another three who would probably never walk again. Two more were in rough shape with multiple lacerations and broken bones. Only Jimenez had walked away from the crash unscathed. Espinoza had used up all the field dressings the men carried in their personal kits, and had taken the emergency gear from the second chopper, before sending Jimenez and five men from the reserve force after the thieves.

He knew it was the Americans. Who else could have tracked the satellite and dispatched a search team so quickly? But knowing it and proving it were two entirely different things. With Argentina’s world standing so poor, accusing the Yanquis without evidence to back it up was simply a waste of breath.

He needed Jimenez to capture at least one of them. Preferably with the fragment of satellite.

Not for the first time, he wondered what was so important about the satellite that the U.S. felt the need to risk some of their Special Forces on a retrieval operation. According to his briefing, Espinoza was told that it was some science research mission, but their level of interest in it told him it was something else, something almost certainly military. If he had the fragment back, plus one of the soldiers, then the propaganda coup Raul had mentioned earlier wasn’t so far-fetched.

“Jaguar, come in, damn it.”

A burst of static squelched from his handheld radio and forced him to pull the device away sharply. Jimenez had reported that they had pumped a couple hundred rounds into the downed chopper, waited for a few minutes to see if it was going to explode, and then sent three men down on fast-rappel ropes.

“Jimenez, is that you?”

“Jefe?”

“Jimenez, come in.”

“It’s me, sir. Not good.”

“What happened?”

“They booby-trapped the helicopter. It blew just as my men were about to set foot on the jungle floor. The blast wasn’t big, but it was enough to shove my chopper a hundred feet or so, and that saved my life because then the fuel tanks exploded. The fireball was enormous.”

“What of your men?”

“The three on the ropes are gone, sir. Blown to ribbons. But we see another man on the ground who survived the blast.”

Espinoza seized on this news and asked, “One of them?”

“No, sir. It’s the other pilot, Josep. He appears injured, but it looks like they patched him up before taking off.

Defeat left Espinoza’s mouth bitter. He thought for a moment. “You said you’re about five miles from the Rio Rojo, yes?”

“That is correct.”

“They have a boat,” Espinoza said. “They must have snuck through the border last night when those worthless frontier guards were either asleep or too busy scratching themselves to notice.”

“I don’t think we have the fuel to chase them,” Jimenez said. It was clear in his voice this was a disappointment. “And the pilot says the chopper might have been damaged by the first explosion.”

“No matter, mark Josep’s position on the GPS so we can send a team to get him, then head straight for the base. Radio ahead so our third EC-135 is ready to take off as soon as you land. They probably have a fast boat, but you should be able to catch them before they reach Paraguay. I’m also going to alert the border guards. They can send out some patrol boats and stop anyone who looks suspicious.”