River of Ruin

stomach a churning mess.

The Pedro Miguel Lock Panama Canal, Panama

The pickup was parked in the middle of the visitor’s lot, the lone vehicle there under the punishing rain. Harry sat alone in the front seat, something nagging at the back of his mind as he read the transit manifest for the fourth time. With the windows closed, the cab was blue with smoke. When Mercer and Lauren came jogging up, he stubbed out his cigarette and slid over so she was between the two men. “They on their way?”

“Yes,” Mercer replied. “They’re taking Roddy when they board the Mario diCastorelli.”

Harry didn’t seem surprised by this revelation. Come to think of it, Mercer realized, Roddy hadn’t been either. He began to see that the two of them had known the Green Berets were going to need a pilot and conveniently didn’t tell anyone about it.

He continued. “I think they’ll be all right. Patke and his team look pretty tough. I told him that we’ll be ready to help once the ship’s secure.” He leaned forward so he could look directly at his friend. “Harry, with Roddy acting as pilot, I don’t think we’re going to need you out there. I want you to wait in the truck.”

“And get captured by some of Liu’s guards, who I’m sure are lurking around someplace? Forget it.” He snorted. “Besides, if the commandos fail, chances are Roddy won’t be in too good a shape. If they need you, you’re going to need me.”

“You’re sure you can handle that ship?”

“It’s like falling off a bike,” Harry dismissed with a grand wave. “Do it once and you never forget how.”

Lauren smiled. “Your metaphors are a bit screwy.”

“So’s Mercer’s head if he thinks I can’t conn a ship like that.”

Lauren rubbed the windshield to smear away the fog. They were all breathing heavier than normal and felt the claustrophobia of being jammed into the tight cab. Mercer suspected it was even worse for the five men in the cargo bed.

Rene Bruneseau tapped on the glass partition separating the cab from the truck’s enclosed bed. Harry reached behind to slide it open. “May I have one of your cigarettes?” the French spy asked.

“Here you go.” Harry handed him his pack but made sure to get it back.

“How long before they hit the ship?” The question was almost rhetorical. The Green Berets would radio just before the strike. Rene had asked just to dispel some of the nervous energy infecting them all.

“Probably just before she comes out of the lock. Say twenty minutes.”

They watched in silence as small locomotive engines drew the ship into the massive chamber. Once the doors were closed behind her, she would begin her thirty-foot vertical journey to the level of the Gaillard Cut and Lake Gatun. Another of the freighters trailing the Mario diCastorelli entered the nearer lock chamber, partially blocking their view of the bomb ship on its far side. She was an old tramp steamer laid out somewhat like a World War II Liberty Ship with a centrally located superstructure and a raised forecastle. The booms on her two cranes were like skeletal fingers.

“Which ship is that?” Harry asked.

With the truck at a slight angle in the deserted visitors’ parking lot Mercer had the better view. “The Robert T. Change.” He could see her flying a white triangular flag speared by a red dot. It was the Pilot On Board pennant. He couldn’t see her national flag so he didn’t know where she was registered.

“Angel, Heaven, this is Devil One.” Lauren had pulled out the earpiece from her radio so they all heard the voice from the tiny receiver.

“Go ahead, Devil. This is Heaven,” answered the comm officer aboard the McCampbell.

“We’re deployed. Estimate zero minus four minutes.”

“Roger,” Lauren and the destroyer responded simultaneously.

Looking at the lock complex less than two hundred yards away, it appeared that the Robert T. Change would leave her chamber before the Mario diCastorelli. They could see the bows of the small tramp steamer just peeking out as the chamber doors swung open on their hydraulic rams. Behind her, the much larger diCastorelli was still firmly held in the middle of the lock.

“That is not how it usually happens,” Lauren said with concern. “It’s always first ship in, first ship out. They never let vessels pass in the locks unless there’s some kind of snag.”

“Well, the wind’s kicking up,” Harry remarked, looking up to the leaden sky. “The Mario could be having trouble. I’ve been through here a few times myself back in the early 1950s. I’ve actually seen a mule locomotive pulled off her tracks and get dumped in the lock when a gust slammed against a freighter.”

Lauren suddenly struggled to replace her earpiece, her voice tight. “Devil One, this is Angel, over.”

“Go ahead, Angel.”

“Target may be held in place for a few more minutes. I just remembered they’ll need the time for divers to prepare the hull for when they attach the submersible.” She’d recalled a detail the others had all but forgotten and her quick thinking prevented Captain Patke from launching his assault too early.

“Affirmative, Angel. Thanks. Out.”

Lauren let out a relieved sigh.

“Good job,” Mercer said and laid his hand on hers. She let it linger.

“I can’t believe I’d forgotten that.”

They could no longer see the Mario diCastorelli as the Robert T. Change blocked their entire view. The small silver train engines straining to haul the vessel from the lock looked like circus workers trying to lead a stubborn elephant. Mercer craned around. Blocking his view down the canal were warehouses, machine shops, and other structures needed to run the complex. Even if the sprawling facility hadn’t obstructed his view, the distance was too great to see the next ship patiently waiting below the lock for its turn to climb the water ladder. Because of where they were parked, the downstream end of the lock was nearly a half mile behind him.

No matter how large the ships that used the waterway, he thought, it seemed nothing could dwarf the scale of this century-old marvel.

A sharp rap on Mercer’s window made them all jump.

Standing in the rain wearing a camouflage poncho was a Chinese soldier. The rubberized cloth ran with water and barely hid the barrel of his machine pistol. He’d tapped the glass with its barrel. Swallowing a ball of fear, Mercer cranked down his window.

“What you do here?” the soldier asked in angry broken English.

“Watching the ships with my wife and her grandfather. He helped build the canal.” Harry hadn’t even been born when the construction was completed but Mercer needed a reasonable excuse to be sightseeing on such a miserable morning.

“It rain. You no see. You go ’way.”

“We’ll leave in a few minutes.” He gave the man his friendliest smile. “As soon as the next big cruise ship goes by.”

“You leave now!” The soldier pushed aside a fold of his poncho. The bullpup design of his type 87 was unmistakable.

Mercer opened his mouth to protest once more when the gunman’s expression inexplicably changed from anger to confusion to pain. And then suddenly he vanished from view. Mercer pushed open his door in time to see a corner of the poncho and a bloodless hand disappear under the truck. He whipped his head around. Lieutenant Foch was just getting to his feet on Harry’s side of the truck. With a defiant gesture that needed no further explanation Foch rammed a fighting knife back into the sheath hanging from his web belt.

No one had felt him getting out of the truck or heard him crawl under the vehicle. A moment later he was back at the partition. “I saw him coming across the parking lot,” Foch explained. “I think the next time you