gives you a lot of feedback. But you’ve got to stay ahead of it. Ready to drive? I’d like to grab an hour or so of rack.”
“Yeah. I’ll take it. Just a sec.”
Stoke had been watching Hawke carefully. He’d gone a little crazy with the local Military Police commander when nobody could help him find Ambrose. Realized, finally, they’d have to shove off without him. He seemed calmer now. Stoke thought Hawke could handle it now, do what he had to do in the next day or so. He’d already moved into his mission performance zone. He’d pushed emotion back in that dark closet where it rightly belonged. Still, he looked exhausted from pushing the boat hard all the way down from Key West, three days in open ocean. Stoke thought he’d soon be no good to anyone without some rest.
Stoke had unbuckled his restraining belts and now stood beside Hawke, moving his hands to the wheel as Hawke backed off the throttles momentarily.
“I got the helm, Alex.”
“It’s yours,” Hawke said, only removing his hands when his own hands told him that Stokely had full control of the boat.
“Feels good,” Stoke said, and he meant it. He saw how wide the river looked from here. He accelerated easily back up to one hundred knots. The sense of power was like nothing he’d felt before. Hawke stayed right by his side, his eyes ranging over the three dedicated groups of engine gauges and flat-screen navigation and weather monitors mounted above.
Hawke said, “You’re good to go. Remember, Stoke, your hands are hardwired to your eyes. Look ahead; see where you want to be next. Don’t look where you don’t want to go. It’s called ‘target fixation.’ Your eyes stray to a target you don’t want to hit. Your hands will automatically take you there if you’re not careful.”
“Tunnel vision,” Stoke said.
“Right. As you reach the limits of your ability to think ahead of the boat, your peripheral view narrows, and it’s harder to see the next target. And let Brownlow or me know as soon as you’re ready for a break.”
“Go get some rack, boss,” Stoke said, enjoying himself for the first time in a week.
“Yeah. Wake me in an hour if you don’t see me back up here.”
“Got it.”
“We’re going to find this bastard, you know. And kill him before he kills us. Any of us.”
“I know that.”
“I’ve seen this guy, you know. Had some quality time with him. You’ll recognize Top when you see him, Stoke. Can’t miss him.”
“How’s that?”
“His eyes.”
“What about them?”
“Like two piss-holes in the snow.”
HALF AN HOUR later, Stoke became aware of a small man standing just behind his right shoulder. He was using one of the handholds on the overhead to keep on his feet. There was light chop now, and the beginning of river traffic, and Stoke had wisely slowed the big boat to less than forty knots.
“Mi scusi, Senor Jones,” the man said.
It was Gianni Arcuri, the Italian engineer provided with the boat for the first three months of shakedown. He was a Neapolitan, and had a cherubic face, huge brown eyes and a big black moustache under his generous nose.
“Hey, Gianni, what’s up?”
“I’m so sorry, eh? But I’ve been down in the engine room. I don’t like what I am seeing with Number Three engine. She’s no acting so good.”
“What is it, Gianni?”
“She’s running a little hot. Manifold pressure is dropping a little bit. Nothing too serious, okay, but I’d like to shut her down for a while. We’ll take a look, eh? Find the little problem and fix it before it becomes a big problem later.”
“Should we reduce speed now?”
“Please. Twenty-five, thirty knots maximum. You’ll be carrying the heavy extra load of the down engine so you’ll have to trim, okay? I’ll shut Three down now and fix it as fast as I can.”
“You know we’re in a big hurry tonight, Gianni.”
“Si, si. Everyone knows that, Senor Jones. We do the best we can, eh? Give me twenty minutes, a half hour.”
Stoke used the quiet time afforded by the slow speed to think. He’d studied the maps. He’d heard Brock’s estimates of the enemy strengths and weaknesses. He and Hawke had both gone over Harry’s recon report enough times to memorize the thing. They both knew these would be suicide troops mainly, big time Kool-Aid drinkers, jungle gangbangers ready to die for a one-way ticket to Paradise. And Caparina’s report had talked about robotic tanks and unmanned drones with Hellfire missiles. There’d be mines in the river, too, as they got closer.
On the plus side, they had this damn kickass boat. The secret to successful riverine operations, as he’d learned the hard way in the Delta, was speed. Stiletto was insanely fast. She was heavily armed and armored. She had amazing navigation and missile warning systems. The deeper into Top’s compound they could get Stiletto, the better chance they’d have.
The way Stoke saw this thing going down was pretty straightforward. He, Hawke, and the thirty badasses aboard this boat, would mount a riverine operation against Top’s compound; they would do as much damage as they could with Stiletto’s arsenal before going ashore. To that end, Hawke had ordered a PAM system installed on the stern. These Precision Attack Missiles weighed about 120 pounds each and had a range of 40 kilometers. They came in a container of 15 missiles, each with a 28-pound warhead. Once the container was plugged into the ship’s wireless battlefield internet, they were ready to fire at will.
Brock’s team would be composed of fifty or so Falcon Spec Ops guys, all of whom reported to Saladin. These were some serious anti-terrorist troops, all of them local boys with local knowledge. Saladin was even now briefing his men in the caverns he and Brock had discovered outside the town of Madre de Dios. Brock and Saladin’s team would fly with Mick Hocking. Two flights. They would land at the LZ Brock had found near the compound. While Mick returned for the second batch, the first arrivals would start a rapid deployment east.
When ordered to do so, they would cross the deep ravine that formed the western border of Top’s lair and advance toward the center, as the Stiletto force moved rapidly west, eventually creating a pincer movement.
Stoke and Hawke had debated and finally agreed to this strategy while calculating the forces available to them and studying the maps provided by Brock and Caparina. It was a basic element of military strategy used in nearly every war since people threw rocks. Even Hannibal used it against the Romans at Cannae, 216 B.C. Worked then, works now. The flanks of the opponent are attacked simultaneously in a pinching movement.
Draw the enemy in toward your base as you fake a retreat at the center, then, once they bite, move your outer flanks forward to encircle them. Then, everybody goes on offense. Trick was to get your flanks to fold at the exact same time so you don’t give the bad guys even a single opportunity to retreat.
Hawke said he had one reservation about this strategy. He thought an enemy realizing it was completely surrounded would fight more fiercely than one still believing it had an escape route. Stoke agreed.
“Right, boss. Let’s give ’em an escape route. Straight down to the river where we’ll park Stiletto.”
67
LA SELVA NEGRA
G ood evening, Congreve,” Papa Top said, entering the room where the Englishman was held captive. The big man was wearing his Voodoo regalia. An ill-fitting tailcoat, black striped pants, and his black bowler swinging from one hand. There were two stocky chaps in green fatigues on either side of the door. They stood stiffly, like mannequins. The room was round and sparsely furnished. There were arched windows, shuttered.
