Two Graves

witness your father’s death. That shows… perhaps not weakness, but a lack of interest in the—shall we say— finer things? Precisely the values we have tried to inculcate in you, that we have raised you to appreciate. I say lack of interest because I would hate to think that—after all our careful work—any, shall we say, unmanly feelings played a role in your decision to leave the room. Had you been there, that fool Berger wouldn’t have botched his right of vengeance so thoroughly.”

“I apologize. I would have thought that, with all those soldiers in addition to Berger, nothing could have gone wrong.”

“Something did go wrong—and all the soldiers are dead.” Fischer paused to withdraw a cigarette from the silver box on his desk and light it. Alban remained respectfully at attention, his hands behind his back, waiting. Glancing at him again, Fischer couldn’t help himself: he felt a surge of almost fatherly feeling for this fine young man. Which made the possibility of weakness all the more intolerable.

“And so now, Alban, your final task is this: I want you to track down your father and kill him. Just so there is no doubt—none—of what you can accomplish.”

“Yes, sir,” said Alban, without hesitation.

“It seems your father’s explosive device has opened a hole in the defensive wall in old sector five, outside the pathology labs. So we know where he was just a few minutes ago. His ultimate aim is no doubt to find and rescue your twin. Finding and killing Herr Pendergast shouldn’t be a difficult assignment, given your special abilities.”

“I’m ready. I won’t fail you.”

“Good.” He inhaled deeply, exhaled. “Report back to me when you are successful.”

A sudden dull, muffled sound of gunfire penetrated the room, punctuated by the larger explosions of grenades and mortars. Fischer could see puzzlement enter Alban’s eyes. “Don’t concern yourself with that,” he said. “They’re only foolish locals. They will all soon be dead.”

72

ESTAO PRONTOS!” THE COLONEL CRIED AGAIN AS THE barge closed in on the dock, his men lining up along the port rail, weapons at the ready. The transport boat came sliding in behind, both engines roaring into reverse, the prop wash boiling out.

The boats contacted the fenders along the dock simultaneously, a perfect landing.

“Jump!”

The men charged out, leaping almost as one to the wooden planking, the second row readying themselves…

… A moment later, as soon as the docks were crowded with men, an enormous, shuddering explosion went off underneath. Fingers of fire thrust through the wooden planking, which heaved up and atomized instantly, engulfing the men. The colonel was blasted physically backward into the water. The side of the barge lifted up under the explosion, the metal-clad railing taking the brunt of the blast.

The shock of the water brought the colonel back to consciousness, his ears ringing, hair singed, uniform ripped. It all seemed so strange to him at first, returning as if from a long journey—and then he found himself in a boiling, watery mass of struggling men, the barge listing heavily to one side, the dock burning furiously, men screaming, body parts and blood everywhere.

Regaining his wits, he looked around and saw that the transport ship had been hit simultaneously. It, too, was listing heavily to one side, surrounded by dead and injured men.

The docks had been mined. Booby-trapped. And they had driven right into it.

He gasped, struggling in the water, but even as he tried to collect his wits, to think of a plan of action, he could hear automatic weapons fire from the shore and see gouts of water popping up all around. A deafening roar went off nearby, sending up a fresh plume of spray, and then another, with the rattle of gunfire continuing. The second stage of a devastating ambush.

Just beyond the docks, along the shore to the right, he saw some large boulders—potential cover. If they could only reach them…

“Men!” he screamed as he thrashed. “Men! Keep your weapons and dive! Dive! Move east toward the rocks! Stay underwater!”

He repeated the cry and then dove himself, swimming long and hard. This was an exercise they had undertaken in his BOPE days: an underwater swim with weapons.

He had to come up once, and then again, gulping air and plunging back down—each time to a peppering of fire. With his eyes open he could see the zipping of rounds through the water, leaving traceries of bubbles—but bullets, he knew, lost most of their deadly momentum after only twelve to fourteen inches of water.

Swimming hard, his lungs almost bursting, he peered up and ahead through the green water. He could make out the murky outline of boulders: the underwater portion of the shoreline cover he was aiming for. He surfaced in the right spot, under the boulders, sheltered from the murderous fire pouring down from the direction of the fortress. Incredibly enough, other men—half a dozen at least, including Thiago, gracas a deus—were surfacing around him, hauling themselves out. Rounds were striking the tops of the rocks, showering them with chips, but they were protected—for the moment.

A large explosion in the water just offshore reminded the colonel that the enemy had mortars and grenades, too, which would soon find them.

He pushed thoughts of the utter disaster out of his head. He had men; they still had fight; all was not lost.

Crouching behind the boulders, half in and half out of the water, he cried: “Regroup! Regroup!” He could see more soldiers in the water, swimming their way, some wounded, struggling. A few went down and did not come up again; others were crying out for help. There was nothing he could do except watch them get cut down and mortared, the ambushing troops finding their range.

Gasping, dazed by the sudden reversal in fortune, the colonel looked around. Six men and himself, crouching pathetically behind the rocks. They were terrified, paralyzed. He had to do something, take control, show leadership. He peered through a narrow crack in the rocks, took stock. The ambushers were firing from behind a volcanic ridge above the docks. To his right was a slide of black rocks; if they could cross the open ground and get behind those rocks, they would have cover moving laterally up the slope and around the curve of the island.

He looked about. “Listen!” He paused, then shouted. “Filhos da puta, listen!”

That roused them.

“We head upslope, then get behind that cover, there. Now. Follow my lead.”

“What about covering fire?” Thiago asked.

“Too many attackers—and that would only warn them. We simply run like hell. On three… One, two, three!”

They leapt over the boulders and ran diagonally across the slope of loose volcanic cinders. Immediately a barrage of fire erupted, but the ambushers had evidently not been expecting so soon a move and all seven made it behind the rockslide before the RPG volleys began. He could hear officers shouting orders in German.

“Keep going!” the colonel cried.

At a crouch, they kept on, angling diagonally up the slope and around the slight curve of the island. The fortress wall loomed far above them, rising ominously from the volcanic cinders, black and rough.

More fire came pouring in as they emerged from cover, the rounds kicking up the cinders all around them. A man to the colonel’s left grunted with a thud of lead meeting flesh, a spray of blood and matter erupting from his chest, and he fell heavily onto the rocks.

They ran on and on, the bullets peppering the cinders around them. More orders shouted in German: “Ihnen nach! Verfolgt sie!” The colonel understood: the ambushers were in pursuit.

“Down!” he cried. “Drop and return fire!”

The men, so very well trained, spun and dropped almost as one into the soft cinders and let loose a withering fire from their own automatic weapons; the colonel was extremely gratified to see several of the pursuers go down, the rest quickly taking cover.