alone.”
Froggy waved his men to him with a circular hand signal, and they rapidly formed up around the fifteen-foot wide base of the tree. By the time Stokely stepped onto the platform and began his descent, the first wave of painted warriors was almost upon them in the heavy green stuff.
Froggy’s guys still hadn’t opened up.
Arrows whistled through the air, many of them aimed at Stokely. He was in plain sight on the slowly descending lift. He also had a perfect field of fire spread out below. He raised his CAR-15 and mowed down eight or nine war-painted archers who were stepping forward out of the thick green wall of undergrowth to launch their arrows.
“Fuck it, fire!” Froggy said, seeing Stokely’s predicament. The M-60s erupted in heavy, thumping fire. Now the indiscriminate barrage of lead ripped up vegetation and flesh with equal ferocity. Backs to the river, every man was unloading ammo on the enemy. But still the warriors came out of the jungle. And now the Trolls approached, four of the lead tanks spitting lead from their rapid-fire machine guns. One of Froggy’s men screamed and went down, cut in half by the vicious fire.
Stoke was halfway down the tree. He still had a good angle on the Trolls. He attached the grenade launcher and aimed at the nearest tank. Fired. Whoosh. A long trail of white smoke and the tank disintegrated in a massive ball of flame. Stoke fixed another RPG on his weapon’s muzzle and took out a second tank. He was down to his last grenade. He heard fire from the river and looked over to see three canoes bearing Harry Brock and his squad of fourteen commandoes. They were firing their weapons at the tangos they could see in the jungle.
“Merde diabolique!” he heard Froggy cry in his headphones. “Holy shit!”
“Froggy?” Stoke said, “What’s up?”
“Zee fucking bridge, mon ami! Look over there!”
Armed troops poured out of the jungle compound barracks on the far side of the river. They formed up in a long column, ready to cross the bridge. In front of the troops, advancing slowly toward the bridge was a clanking monstrosity. It was a mechanized vehicle unlike anything Stoke had ever seen outside of a movie theatre.
It was a tank, all right, a ridiculously oversized main battle tank, like an Abrams on major steroids, with what looked like two 120mm cannons. Eight-inch-diameter gun barrels were protruding from two turrets mounted on either side of an upright superstructure bolted to the chassis.
Stoke kept firing with his left hand, got his radio to his ear with his right. “Stiletto! Stiletto! Do you have GPS coordinates on the main bridge here at LZ Alpha? Copy?”
“Affirmative,” Fire Control Officer Dylan Allegria responded.
“I need a missile locked on that target now, copy?”
“Uh, roger that, sir. We, uh, yes. PAM missile is locked on.”
“Don’t fire…I want this thing on the bridge when we blow it.”
“What is the target, sir?”
“War of the Worlds, Dylan. I wish you could see this mechanical monster before you destroy it…ready…Fire now!”
Stoke held his breath. The mammoth war machine was halfway across the bridge now. There were maybe twenty tangos trotting right behind it and more right behind them.
The PAM missile’s laser targeting device kept it on track after firing. It nosed over and hurtled toward the target. It struck a second later and the tank exploded violently. Through the black smoke and flame, Stoke could see the thing was not destroyed but certainly disabled. The men nearby on the bridge had been killed. Others retreated back down the road or melted into the jungle on the far side. Stoke didn’t wait for the platform, he jumped the last few feet.
He opened up on the few remaining jungle warriors who’d managed to survive the withering fire laid down by the two M-60 machine guns. Most of the Xucurus and uniformed troops had fled back into the jungle. Regrouping. They’d be back as soon as they got their shit together for another attack.
“Blue Goose, Blue Goose, where the hell are you, Mick?” Stoke said into his radio.
“Blue Goose, Stokely. What can I do for you, mate?”
“Mick. I’m in a hot LZ with a critically injured hostage. I need to exfil him now and Stiletto is not an option. What’s your location?”
“Five miles due East of the LZ. I can see smoke rising from the bridge.”
“Mick, I know the river here is too narrow for your wingspan. It widens out upriver. But Ambrose won’t survive a jungle trek to the plane.”
“Ambrose is the hostage?”
“Affirmative.”
“Who says it’s too narrow, mate?”
“I do. Can’t you see it? There’s no way, Mick.”
“I’ll do a flyby and take a look.”
“Watch out for bullets.”
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Froggy yelled.
At that moment, Stoke saw Alex Hawke swimming rapidly toward shore, then clawing his way up the riverbank. His canoe had been blown into pieces by fire from the opposite shore. The remains now lay floating on the top of the water, drifting with the current downriver. Two of Hawke’s four crewmen were swimming toward shore. Two men were floating face down.
“Stoke!” Hawke cried, running toward the little band at the base of the tree, “Where is he? Where the hell is Ambrose?”
“Up there,” Stoke said, “Climb aboard and watch your step.”
They swiftly rose to the top, Stokely pointing out all the scenic attractions of Top’s jungle compound. Hawke jumped off and raced inside to find his friend.
“Ambrose, it’s me,” Hawke said leaning over him, his face grave and full of worry.
“I’m sorry,” the girl named Caparina said. She could have passed for a man in her camos. But her face was lovely in the dim light.
“Has he spoken? Stokely asked her.
“You have to give him a minute,” Caparina said, “He’s coming around.”
She was holding Ambrose’s hand to her bosom, gazing at the old fellow. “I gave him something to counteract the truth drugs. Ten minutes ago. It should be—”
“Are you a doctor?” Hawke asked her.
“Just a night nurse from Manaus.”
“Will he be in much pain?”
“I’m afraid he will.”
“Alex,” Ambrose said, his eyelids fluttering.
“I’m here. Come to take you home.”
“Home,” he sighed. His eyelids closed again.
“Ambrose. Please. You have to stay awake for a few minutes.”
“So tired.”
“The code, Ambrose. Remember the code. When and where?”
“Top’s attack.”
“Yes. Where is Top going to attack?”
“Washington.”
“When?”
“The president. All of them. The government.”
“When, Ambrose?”
“January the…twentieth”
“That’s today,” the beautiful girl said. “Holy Mother of Mary.”
“Ambrose, listen carefully,” Hawke said, “What time is the attack? Do you know?”
“Swear on the bible. Don’t let him,” Ambrose croaked.
