A Desperate Mission

Prologue

The hurricane rolled over the southeastern horizon, coming into view just as the Cessna 421 Golden Eagle had leveled off at an altitude of eighteen thousand feet. Jack Connor leaned forward from the co-pilot’s seat, staring grimly at the monstrous storm system, sickened by the realization that their ragtag operation, star-crossed from the beginning, now seemed utterly hopeless.

Soon they had a breathtaking view of the storm. Gigantic furrows of dense gray clouds circled wide across the ultramarine surface of the Gulf, swirling in upon the center of the depression, climbing toward the stratosphere perhaps ten thousand feet above their position.

Wanna call them forward? Harper asked, jerking a thumb toward the back. This is a sight they’ll never see again.

Manny Alvarez and Elwood Tucker were both sleeping, parachute packs resting against the wall of the aircraft, heads lolling back and forth with the gentle rocking of the plane. Jack removed the headset, called out to them and motioned them forward. They unfastened their safety harnesses, approached the cockpit and huddled down behind the pilot and copilot seats as Jack pointed to the storm.

Son of a bitch! Tucker growled in disgust. Manny’s eyes grew wide as he surveyed the towering banks of dark gray clouds spreading out across their path.

What do you think? Tucker asked Harper.

If the storm holds its course, I may be able to get in ahead of the western edge of it and put you over the drop zone. It’s gonna be close. If it turns even a little to the west then I think we’re FUBARed. He nodded toward Jack. But that’s the Captain’s call.

Tucker turned toward Jack, knowing how painful it would be for him to abort the operation, to give up any hope of rescuing his daughter. We’re still going in, right?

Jack nodded. As long as there’s a chance. But if the storm turns then we’ll have to call it off. There’s no way we can fly through that, much less parachute through it.

I’ll keep an ear on the radio, Harper said. You guys get strapped in back there. If our luck holds, you’ll need to be ready to go out the door.

Jack followed Tucker and Manny back into the cargo area, slung his parachute over his shoulder and began to fasten the straps of the harness. After pulling the straps as tight as he could get them, he sat beside Manny and secured himself in the seat with one of the three-point safety belts Harper had rigged up. Tucker sat across from them and strapped himself in.

They felt the first turbulence half an hour later. The Cessna shot upward suddenly as if careening off the face of a mountain then plummeted like a stone. They were in free fall, the shoulder straps cutting into their collarbones and their stomachs floating up into their throats as the plane went down.

Just as suddenly the Cessna seemed to belly flop, then it rebounded and started to climb again, pushing them down into their seats in a gut-wrenching tug of gravity. The aircraft rocketed upward for another second or two then leveled off.

Manny made a choking sound, gasped for air, then leaned over and vomited. He straightened up again and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his camouflage jacket.

I hope we’re getting extra frequent flier miles for this, he muttered.

Hang in there, Manny, Jack said. That was probably the worst of it. I think we’re in a fairly calm—

Before he could finish, the Cessna bucked again, slipping sideways this time like a surfboard skimming across the face of a tsunami. Thunder rumbled nearby and rain began to hammer against the skin of the airplane, sending up a deafening roar.

Manny made the sign of the cross and said, Hail Mary, full of grace—

The plane tilted on its side and now Jack and Manny were on their backs looking up at Tucker.

Jesus Christ! Manny shouted.

Jack could picture the plane streaking down through the clouds then tilting nose first into a death spiral to the ground. The Golden Eagle stood on her right wing and they could hear Harper shouting at his plane, trying to coax her back under control. Finally he stopped fighting the lateral shear of wind and gave into it, turning the yoke hard right to bring the left wing all the way over. Jack, Manny and Tucker were now dangling upside down in their harnesses, the blood rushing to their heads.

Harper heeled the plane over further and completed the roll. They came back level, threatened to roll up again, and then settled back down.

Everybody okay back there? Harper shouted.

Tucker answered, sounding insulted. This ain’t our first rodeo, he yelled. We can handle it. Just try to keep us right side up.

The Golden Eagle pressed on through the raging storm, her propellers clawing through the dense clouds and torrents of rain, climbing gamely atop each incoming mountain of grey, and then dropping into the void, rocking violently in the grip of shearing winds.

Then the turbulence grew worse, tossing the plane wildly up and down, shaking it side to side until it seemed that the savage winds would tear the aircraft apart.

Tucker leaned toward Jack, pressing against the straps of his harness. Any chance we could make it into Belize City? he shouted. Maybe we could hole up there someplace and come up with a new plan.

We lose the chopper pilot, Jack said. He’s isn’t available after tomorrow. So we’d have to come up with another way to get out.

In time that could be done, Jack thought, but how long would it take? And what would the General and his thugs do to Tess in the meantime?

He thought again about some of the options they’d considered before, all of which had been ruled out for one reason or another. Perhaps he and Tucker could wait out the storm. They could rent a car – steal one if they had to – and make their way up to the village where Tess was being held, slip past the security post somehow, break into the jail, free Tess, and escape back into Belize or north into Mexico. He gave the idea a five to ten percent chance of success. He’d probably end up getting them all killed. This flight had been their only hope and now it seemed to be doomed as well. FUBARed, in the special ops parlance Harper had used – fucked up beyond all repair.

Jack! Harper yelled from the cockpit. He had one hand on the radio headset, pressing it against his ear, while he fought the yolk with the other hand. Just got another weather update. The storm is turning west. What do you want me to do?

There were times when even the most meticulously planned mission went hopelessly awry, when Murphy’s Law intervened with a vengeance and all the variables went the wrong way. The commander of a special ops team was supposed to recognize a blown operation when it stared him in the face and have the judgment to cut his losses and abort, rather then sending his men on a suicide mission. Jack had finally arrived at that point. There would be no hostage recovery.

He was reminded again of the firefight in Afghanistan, when he’d been forced to retreat and leave one of his men behind. This was infinitely worse, possibly more than he could live with. This time it was his own daughter he was leaving behind. He’d promised he would bring her home, but it wasn’t going to happen.

He shook his head in disgust, and then turned toward the cockpit.

Turn around and head back, he shouted at Harper. It’s over.

Chapter 1

Thirteen days earlier

El Peten, Guatemala

Saturday, April 21

5:30 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time

The old man moved swiftly along the winding path, gliding through the shadows like a phantom, passing with a flicker through the pale strobes of moonlight that pierced the jungle canopy.

He followed the trail to a broad clearing and halted, peering out at the campsite, listening and watching. The encampment was quiet, its inhabitants sleeping soundly. The patrols had not detected the arrival of the Nortamericanos. Or perhaps the soldiers had already come, done their bloody work and gone, which might also explain the deathly silence.

Slowly he leaned out of the shadows. As he emerged into the moonlit clearing a macaw perched on a low branch of a banyan tree took flight with a shrill squawk. In the canopy above, a spider monkey answered with shriek of alarm and an angry thrashing of branches.

The old man froze in mid step. He waited for the commotion to subside, waited until the only sound he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. Then he proceeded into the camp.

Inside her tent thirty yards away, Tess Connor slept on, exhausted from the punishing hike the day before. The sounds of the night invaded her dreams and in the cries that echoed through the jungle she heard the voices of the lost women, begging for mercy.

Now another voice intruded, hushed and urgent.

Tess, wake up!

Something brushed against her check, and she instinctively recoiled.

Hey, take it easy. It’s me, Peter.

Tess blinked to focus her eyes in the dim light and saw Peter Hammond kneeling beside her sleeping bag, his flashlight pointed toward the ground.

What do you think you’re doing? she asked, annoyed. Get out of my tent!

Listen, Peter whispered. An old man just walked into camp and woke me up. He must be the contact. He says he can show us where the women were buried. There’ll be someone there who can tell us what happened, a witness.

Still groggy from sleep, Tess tried to make sense of what Peter was saying. They had arrived here late yesterday, following an anonymous tip delivered to Martin Anderson, who was leading the investigation. The instructions had been slipped under Anderson’s door at the hotel in Flores. It was the first break they had gotten in two weeks of investigation and it had come only hours before they were scheduled to return home.

Come on, Peter insisted. The guy’s nervous. I’m afraid he’s going to bolt if we don’t get moving.

Tess started pulling on her boots. Did you wake the others yet?

No, he said it’s too dangerous for the whole group to be moving around out here. Too many troops in the area. He only wanted to take one of us, but I told him there had to be two of us at least. So come on, he’s waiting.

Tess peered at the partially opened flap of her tent. God, its pitch black out there, Peter. Can’t we wait until it gets light?

It’s getting lighter, almost daybreak. Anyway, the guy says it’s now or never. Peter rolled away from her and scooted toward the open flap. Look, if you don’t want to go, fine. I’ll just go by myself.

Okay, damn it! she muttered. Let me get my boots on.

After tying the laces of her boots she followed Peter out of the tent, dragging her backpack with her. Stepping quietly away from the circle of tents, they made their way across the clearing. Back toward the east, the violet sky faded to dull pewter. Dawn would be coming soon.

They crossed the clearing, approaching the edge of the jungle where the dense vegetation rose like a sheer, black cliff. Tess froze as a figure emerged from the darkness and moved toward them. As the small man approached, Tess could see the lines of age etched deeply in leathery skin. His long straight hair, streaked with white, was pulled back and knotted at the back of his neck. His face, ghostly in the waning moonlight, bore the chiseled, angular features of the Maya.

Peter and the old man carried on a hushed exchange in Spanish, then the man turned abruptly and started off down the trail. Let’s go, Peter said, motioning for Tess to go ahead of him. They entered the narrow trail into the jungle and were engulfed in darkness.

* * * * *

The warm, dank air carried the heavy scent of decaying vegetation and ancient earth. Tess, already feeling grungy from sleeping in her shirt and khakis, was soon bathed in sweat. She was fantasizing about a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee when the trail opened to another clearing and Tess encountered a sight that took her breath away.

At the center of the clearing before them a massive pyramid rose high into the purple sky. The huge rectangular stones were blackened by age and mottled with green moss and yellow lichen. Rising up the front face of the pyramid a stairway of smaller stones advanced to a succession of terraces, and then finally to the top.

The Temple of Zan. They had talked about it during the trip from Flores yesterday. Graciela Ortiz, a native of Guatemala and now a legal advisor to HRI, had filled a couple of hours of the road trip with an impromptu briefing on the Peten, the Maya, and the ruins of their ancient civilization that were scattered throughout the jungle.

According to the archaeologists who had discovered this site, Zan was a powerful god whom the Maya believed descended from the stars to wreak vengeance upon the wicked. The temple had been erected to honor him and to aid his descent from the heavens.

As Tess lifted her eyes in wonder, the brilliant rays of dawn struck the peak of the temple like a golden spotlight, suffusing the pyramid and grounds with a soft, magical glow. Tess felt as if she had stepped into a fairy tale and could appreciate why the ancient Maya would have considered this place so sacred.

Come on, Tess, Peter said. We’ve got to keep moving.

* * * * *

The sun rose higher, filtering through the lush canopy above and bathing the jungle in a rich luminous green. The trail curled around thick trunks of mahogany, banyan, and the fragrant breadnut trees, all dwarfed by the gigantic ceiba, the tree worshipped by the Maya as the bridge between the heavens and the underworld. Beneath the thick boughs of the towering trees grew gigantic ferns, orchids and other flowering plants with blossoms of lavender, fiery orange, yellow and white.

Mesmerized by the alien beauty of the jungle, Tess nearly bumped into the old man, who had suddenly come to a stop. He was looking ahead to a turnout on the trail where the outlines of a large stone column were visible in the dense vegetation. As they proceeded cautiously toward the column, Tess could see that it was a stele, a slab of sculpted limestone used by the ancient Maya as a signpost to identify the local ruling tribe.

The column stood ten to twelve feet high, held fast by the roots of a ceiba tree that poured down the slab of stone like drippings of wax from a giant candle. High up on the column the grotesque likeness of face, half human, half beast, peered out from between the roots and vines, its eyes bulging and mouth agape.

Ten paces away from the stele the old man stopped again and called out softly. A small boy poked his head out from behind the stele, studied them for a moment, and then took a few tentative steps toward them.

Peter had moved up beside Tess and now whispered to the old man. The man answered, "Este es mi nieto, Roberto."

He says it’s his grandson, Roberto. Peter translated, and then added, under his breath, I can’t believe this. Our supposed witness is a kid.

The boy appeared to be ten or eleven years of age. He stood quietly, hands at his sides, waiting for instructions from his grandfather. The old man spoke and gave a quick wave of his hand, encouraging the boy to get on with it.

The boy began speaking, haltingly at first. "Tres mujeres blancas me dieron dinero para que las ayudara a cargar su equipo …"

He says he was hired by three women, Peter said, to travel with them, help them carry their equipment and set up camp as they traveled about, talking to people. The boy pointed in the direction behind Tess and Peter as he spoke.

The kid says they were camped near the Temple of Zan, Peter continued. The soldiers came early in the morning and ordered everyone out of their tents. He was afraid and stayed in his tent, but he saw two of the women go out to talk to the soldiers. The third woman, whose tent was next to Roberto’s, waited a long time before coming out. She told him to look after her camera.

"Yo estaba parado cerca de esta piedra cuando oi los primeros gritos que venian de alla abajo . . ."

When the third woman joined the others, Peter said, the soldiers forced the women to walk along this trail. He says he followed at a distance. He was standing near this stone when he heard the first screams, somewhere down there.

The boy was pointing ahead on the trail and Peter nodded in that direction. The old man put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and spoke softly to him, encouraging him to continue.

"Fue terrible," the boy said. Yo sabia lo que los soldados estaban haciendo, pero no podia hacer nada.

Peter’s voice became somber as he continued the translation. He stopped paraphrasing and began using the boy’s own words.

It was terrible … I knew what the soldiers must be doing, but I could do nothing to stop them.

The boy bit his lip, looking up at them with huge brown eyes, then took a deep breath and went on. Peter echoed his words in English.

After a while the screaming stopped, but the men were still laughing. I heard nothing for a while, and then I heard the gunfire. Many shots were fired.

Tess felt the bile rising in her throat as the gruesome story unfolded. She felt tears leaking from her eyes as she imagined the terror the women must have felt and the horror they must have suffered before being put to death.

Peter allowed the boy to finish his story then translated it for Tess.

The kid says he waited for the soldiers to leave, then went back to the camp for his pack. He also took the camera the woman had been using. Sometime later when he and his grandfather took the bus to Flores, they sold the camera to Roberto’s uncle, who runs a tourist shop. Before they left, his uncle printed the pictures. Most of them were just pictures of people and villages and some of the ruins, so the uncle gave them to Roberto. He says there were several photos of the women and the soldiers.

Seeing that Peter had finished translating his story, the boy stepped back toward the stele and moved around to the side. Kneeling on the mossy earth, he removed a piece of broken stone from the base of the column, then reached into the cavity and retrieved a plastic bag. Peter reached for it, but the boy inexplicably handed it to Tess.

The bag had been folded over several times. Tess unfolded it and carefully withdrew the photograph. Peter leaned over Tess’s shoulder to look at the photo. It showed a group of soldiers standing in a loose formation, their weapons held ready across their chests. The woman who had taken the photograph from her tent had apparently used a telephoto lens, for it seemed to have been taken from a vantage point only yards away from the group.

To the side of the formation stood an imposing figure in neatly pressed camouflage fatigues bearing shiny military insignia. Tess recognized the face of the man from the briefing book HRI had prepared. She had also seen his photograph in a couple of Guatemalan newspapers during the past four weeks.

He was General Cesar Salazar, Governor of the Peten and former commander of the right wing paramilitary groups who had been responsible for so much of the violence during the country’s long civil war. Tess recalled the information she had read in the briefing book. Salazar, known as Serpiente among his followers and enemies alike, had somehow survived a series of investigations into the atrocities that had been committed over the years.

"Serpiente, Peter said. Then he pointed to another figure. I wonder who this is?"

Standing next to the General was a man of fair complexion and short blond hair. He was dressed not in uniform, but in plain khaki trousers and shirt, and a vest of the style used for hunting. The sun was directly on the man’s face and his hawkish features were in crisp focus. His face was sunburned and the thin line of a scar stood out in contrast, running up the man’s left cheek to a point just below the hollow of his eye.

Anglo, obviously, Tess said. Maybe from the States?

Maybe. Peter traced a finger to the bottom corner of the photograph. Visible in the foreground, facing away from the camera and toward the soldiers, were two women. I think we know who these women are, he said.

Tess had no doubt that the two women in the photo, and the third one who had taken the picture, were the human rights activists, Catholic nuns, who had disappeared six months before: Maura Vandiver, Jane Copeland, and Rachel Ross.

Peter took the photograph from Tess and showed it to Roberto, pointing at the man standing next to Salazar. He asked the boy a couple of questions.

Definitely Anglo, Peter told Tess. "And he thinks he’s from the United States.

He’s often seen traveling with Salazar. On the morning the photo was taken, the boy says this man and the General had an argument and the man walked away angry."

While Tess and Peter were studying the photograph, the old man and the boy had been stirring impatiently, and now the old man spoke.

He says they’re leaving, Peter explained to Tess. Can you put this photo in your pack, someplace safe?

Tess lowered the pack from her shoulder, supporting it with her knee while she searched inside for the field guide. She stuffed the photograph between the pages of the book, zipped the pack closed and hoisted it back onto her shoulders.

She gestured toward the boy. Ask him if he can show us where the women were killed.

"Nos puedes senalar donde mataron a las mujeres?" Peter asked.

The boy nodded. He extended a hand toward Tess. She grasped the small hand in her own, surprised at how rough and calloused it felt in her own soft palm. As they started off down the trail together, the boy began talking quietly to Tess, seemingly unaware that she could comprehend nothing he said. After a while Tess decided the language barrier wasn’t that important. Something tugged at her heart as she walked hand-in-hand with the boy, listening to him chatter in Spanish.

They had been walking for only a few minutes when Peter whispered from behind, Tess, did you hear that?

She stopped and turned back toward him, releasing Roberto’s hand. Hear what?

Up ahead the old man and the boy were disappearing around a bend in the trail. Come on, she said. They’re going to leave us behind. They picked up their pace and were soon a few steps behind the old man and his grandson.

Minutes later Peter called out again in a hushed voice. I think there’s something moving in the trees behind us. Let’s get them to stop for a second.

Peter stepped around her and reached for the old man’s arm, whispering something to him. The four of them stopped and the man held up his hand, telling them to be silent.

Tess held her breath and listened intently, but heard nothing. Even the cicadas and tree frogs that kept up a steady din throughout most of the day and night had fallen silent. She studied the old Maya’s face. He squinted in concentration and finally shook his head. He started off down the trail again, leading the boy by the hand.

Tess, wait, Peter insisted. Listen.

They stood close together, looking back along the path, listening. After moments of silence, Tess whispered, Let’s ask him what he thinks we should do. She turned and saw that the old man and the boy had disappeared. Peter —

Shhhhh … listen. Peter paused for a few seconds. There. Do you hear that?

She could hear it now. A soft rustling in the brush. The sound stopped for a moment and then started again.

Tess pulled at Peter’s arm. Come on, we’ve got to catch up with them.

Peter looked ahead to the trail disappearing into the dense jungle. The old man and boy would be far ahead of them by now. It had been a mistake to lose sight of them, he realized. They could try to catch up, but what if they didn’t? What if they lost their way? I wonder if we should just turn around and head back to the camp, he said.

The soft stirring in the brush started up again and Tess squeezed Peter’s arm tighter. The sound was unmistakable now. Something was out there. It was moving through the trees to their right, just a few yards off the trail. More rustling sounds were coming from the brush to their left.

With the stirring sounds all around them now, Tess wondered if it might be a breeze pushing the tall trees around. Here, where they stood, the air was still. She gazed up toward the dense canopy a hundred feet above and saw no movement there either.

They stood motionless on the trail as the noise around them ceased. A deathly silence settled over the jungle.

The sound split the utter silence like a shot – a quick metallic rasp and crack as the slide of an automatic rifle was pulled back and released. Tess gave a startled cry and leaped toward Peter, nearly knocking him off his feet. They huddled together, their hearts pounding. Tess could feel Peter’s leg bumping against hers, trembling.

Thirty paces away from them, leafy branches parted and a man emerged, dressed in khaki fatigues soiled by sweat and grime. From the jungle around them others began to materialize, all wearing military fatigues and armed with rifles. They pushed in close to Tess and Peter, forming a tight circle around them.

Then another man shouldered his way through and took a position in front. There were gold double bars on the epaulettes of his shirt. His sleeves were rolled high, exposing hairy, ape-like forearms that were corded with muscle. The hard expression on his face sent a flutter of fear through Tess.

He returned her gaze with a look of contempt.

"Yo soy el Capitan Ruben Torres…" he snapped. He continued in rapid Spanish, speaking too quickly for even Peter to understand.

Peter stuttered as he interrupted. "Hab … Habla Ingles?"

"Si. I speak English, the captain answered. Nortamericanos, yes? You are from the United States?"

Yes, Tess answered quickly. We’re United States citizens.

Torres turned to the side and spat on the ground, then moved a step closer to Tess. His brooding eyes examined her carefully, studying her hair and face, her pink cotton shirt, the swell of her breasts, then traveling down to her waist and to her boots.

He turned to Peter and conducted the same slow inspection. When he was