Poseidon's Arrow

“Thanks for the backup,” Pitt said.

Dirk smiled. “Smoke is no match for lead.”

Pitt motioned toward the porch steps. “Bolcke.”

Dirk took the lead as they crept across the porch, but Bolcke and the other guard had already vanished down a jungle path. Reversing course, Pitt led his son up the side stairwell, halting a few feet from the top. He heaved the remaining grenades onto the rooftop, engulfing it in a thick cloud of smoke. Ground fire ceased as the boat 3 commandos streamed out of the jungle and raced up the stairs. A few seconds later, the remaining boat 2 commandos broke from the shore and joined the assault. The combined forces quickly overran the guards, sweeping the roof as the smoke cleared.

As the residence fell silent, they could still hear sporadic gunfire from the dock area.

“Has anyone heard from Alvarez?” Pitt asked, as the commandos reassembled on the roof.

“I’ve had no response,” said the leader of boat 2. “We better move to the dock.”

“I’ll show you the way,” Pitt said.

The commandos rushed back down the stairs. A small contingent peeled off to secure the interior of the house while the rest followed Pitt down the same path Bolcke had taken. When the commandos arrived at the dock, a half dozen security guards were scattered about it, firing into the water. They had been joined by two armed crewmen on the bow of the Adelaide, firing from above.

The Canal Authority commandos opened fire, catching several guards without cover and dropping them quickly. The rest of the dock guards fell back, retreating into the jungle for cover. But the crewmen on the ship held their position and returned fire. An extended firefight ensued, until the better-trained commandos picked off both men.

Over the clatter of gunfire, Pitt had detected a revving motor. He caught a quick glimpse of a small crew boat exiting the mouth of the inlet, the white-haired figure of Bolcke visible next to the pilot.

Pitt turned to the boat 2 commander, who was kneeling behind a rubber tree, reloading his rifle. “Bolcke has escaped in a small boat. Call Madrid on the Coletta and have them pick him up.”

The commando nodded. Snapping a magazine into place, he hit the transmit button on his radio and called the support boat.

Aboard the Coletta, Madrid had been using binoculars to watch a small containership approach when he received the call. He turned to see Bolcke’s crew boat surging out of the inlet and he brought his patrol boat to bear. “Gunner, prepare for a warning shot ahead of the approaching boat,” he said. “Fire!”

A man let loose a blast from the 20mm deck gun, ripping a fountain of water ahead of the crew boat. The fleeing boat reduced speed but held its course across the Coletta’s bow. Focused on stopping Bolcke’s boat, Madrid had ignored the containership, which was approaching off his stern quarter.

“Gunner, prepare for a burst into the motor. Fire!”

The gunner took aim, but before he could fire he fell to the deck and began flailing his arms as if attacked by a swarm of bees. Screaming, he rolled to the rail and hurled himself over the side to find relief in the lake’s waters.

Inside the wheelhouse, Madrid suddenly found his skin inflamed with a searing pain. He danced away from the helm, unable to grip the controls. Screaming in pain, he looked out the window to see the containership bearing down on him.

The ship plowed into the Coletta at slow speed, its lumbering mass easily crushing the patrol boat’s bow. The smaller boat was kicked backward, as its interior filled with water. In seconds, its stern rose, and the boat plunged underwater.

Bolcke watched the patrol boat disappear as his own boat tied up alongside the containership. He sprinted up the ship’s accommodation ladder with his guard in tow, crossed the deck, and climbed to the bridge. Panting, he staggered to the helm, where Pablo stood admiring the modified Active Denial System on the ship’s bow.

“We seem to have made a timely arrival,” Pablo said.

“They’ve . . . attacked . . . the facility,” Bolcke said.

“Who has?”

“One of the prisoners. He escaped yesterday.”

“They would have to be from the Canal Authority. I thought that was their boat. I’m sure Johansson will take good care of them ashore.”

“No, Johansson was killed. By the man who escaped.”

“Can they know of the deal?”

Bolcke shook his head.

“Five hundred million will buy you plenty of new facilities,” Pablo said.

“The plans and motor are safe aboard?” Bolcke eyed the changed appearance of the Salzburg.

“Yes.”

“The Chinese are waiting for us in Miraflores Lake.”

Pablo looked at him like a child awaiting a birthday present. “Then I see no reason to delay our payment a minute longer.” He ordered the ship into the canal’s main channel, and the Salzburg was swiftly on its way.

69

THE CANAL AUTHORITY COMMANDOS FISHED OUT Alvarez and the remnants of his team that had been scattered across the inlet or huddled among the dock pilings. The operations leader looked like a drowned rat, but he shook off the loss of half his team to take command of the combined forces.

He pointed to a wide trail off the far end of the dock that meandered into the jungle. “The prisoners are down there?”

“Yes,” Pitt said. “The trail leads to a millhouse. The prison housing is just beyond.”

Alvarez split his men into two groups and set off down the trail with the lead force, Pitt and Dirk following. They moved cautiously, fearing an ambush, but the remaining guards were nowhere to be seen. The trail widened as they approached the millhouse, a high-roofed, open building. Alvarez sent three men to scout the side entrance, but they never made it.

Gunmen opened fire from every door and window in the structure. Bolcke’s remaining security forces, a dozen strong, had gathered in the millhouse to mount a final defense and counterassault. Their sudden barrage inflicted casualties on nearly half of Alvarez’s men.

Alvarez himself was hit in the leg, and Pitt dragged him to cover. The operations leader quickly called in his reserve force, which had followed on the flank. Under a blanket of return fire, he retrieved his wounded men to the cover of the jungle, but the battle regressed into a stalemate. Alvarez radioed the Coletta for assistance but heard only static in reply. “There’s no response,” he said to Pitt. “Without additional support, we’ll have to pull back.”

“Not without the prisoners.” Pitt grabbed an assault rifle from a wounded commando who had fallen unconscious. “Keep them occupied. We’ll try to get around to the housing complex.” He motioned to Dirk.

The two men took off through the jungle, skirting wide left around the millhouse. Pitt led them on a partial loop, then cut back toward the tall structure. Peering from behind a gnarled cedar, they eyed the end of the millhouse and the prisoners’ housing just beyond.

The housing stood in the center of a wide clearing, fully exposed to the gunmen in the millhouse. Pitt could see several prisoners peering through the housing’s lone gate, trying to watch the gun battle.

He noticed an ore cart parked on the grass midway between their position and the gate. “I’m going to make a run for that cart. If I can get there undetected, I should be able to make it to the gate.”

Dirk gauged the distance between them and the millhouse. “Tough range to cover you from here. I’ll go with you.”

Before Pitt could protest, Dirk sprinted for the cart. Pitt followed on his heels, though his weakened legs