The Silent Sea (2010) - Cussler Clive (лучшие бесплатные книги .txt) 📗
He knew it was the Americans. Who else could have tracked the satellite and dispatched a search team so quickly? But knowing it and proving it were two entirely different things. With Argentina's world standing so poor, accusing the Yanquis without evidence to back it up was simply a waste of breath.
He needed Jimenez to capture at least one of them. Preferably with the fragment of satellite.
Not for the first time, he wondered what was so important about the satellite that the U.S. felt the need to risk some of their Special Forces on a retrieval operation. According to his briefing, Espinoza was told that it was some science research mission, but their level of interest in it told him it was something else, something almost certainly military. If he had the fragment back, plus one of the soldiers, then the propaganda coup Raul had mentioned earlier wasn't so far-fetched.
Jaguar, come in, damn it.
A burst of static squelched from his handheld radio and forced him to pull the device away sharply. Jimenez had reported that they had pumped a couple hundred rounds into the downed chopper, waited for a few minutes to see if it was going to explode, and then sent three men down on fast-rappel ropes.
Jimenez, is that you?
Jefe?
Jimenez, come in.
It's me, sir. Not good.
What happened?
They booby-trapped the helicopter. It blew just as my men were about to set foot on the jungle floor. The blast wasn't big, but it was enough to shove my chopper a hundred feet or so, and that saved my life because then the fuel tanks exploded. The fireball was enormous.
What of your men?
The three on the ropes are gone, sir. Blown to ribbons. But we see another man on the ground who survived the blast.
Espinoza seized on this news and asked, One of them?
No, sir. It's the other pilot, Josep. He appears injured, but it looks like they patched him up before taking off.
Defeat left Espinoza's mouth bitter. He thought for a moment. You said you're about five miles from the Rio Rojo, yes?
That is correct.
They have a boat, Espinoza said. They must have snuck through the border last night when those worthless frontier guards were either asleep or too busy scratching themselves to notice.
I don't think we have the fuel to chase them, Jimenez said. It was clear in his voice this was a disappointment. And the pilot says the chopper might have been damaged by the first explosion.
No matter, mark Josep's position on the GPS so we can send a team to get him, then head straight for the base. Radio ahead so our third EC-135 is ready to take off as soon as you land. They probably have a fast boat, but you should be able to catch them before they reach Paraguay. I'm also going to alert the border guards. They can send out some patrol boats and stop anyone who looks suspicious.
We'll have them yet, Jefe. Jimenez's wolfish grin carried through the static-filled connection.
We will, Major Espinoza agreed, and, if anything, his smile was more dangerous.
JUAN AND THE TWO other survivors reached the RHIB a little over an hour later. It had remained undisturbed under its cover of foliage. Juan lashed the power cell to the deck while Murph and Trono stripped away the camouflage. The twin outboards came to life with a turn of the key. Juan knew their boat, with its performance-tweaked engines, could outrun anything on the river, but he had no illusions that a reception wasn't already being planned for when they neared the Paraguayan border.
Lines are clear, Mark said, coiling the dark nylon rope around a cleat. When the Chairman didn't react, he called out, Juan?
Sorry. Thinking.
Juan bumped the throttles, and the boat emerged from its hidden lair. The river was clear of traffic, so a few moments later he had them skimming across the surface at better than forty knots, slowing marginally in the blind corners, then giving the RHIB her head once again.
Going with the current, it took them less time to reach the main river than when they'd come upstream earlier in the day. The men were drained by the events of the past twenty-four hours, yet they remained vigilant as they started northward. Mike stood facing aft, his eyes scanning the sky for pursuit, while Juan and Mark studied the river and its banks for anything out of the ordinary.
They saw nothing for an hour, but then Mark Murphy tapped Juan on the shoulder, handed him a small pair of binoculars, and pointed a few points off their bow.
Juan needed only a second to recognize two Boston Whalers coming at them at full speed. He didn't need to see details of the occupants to know they were armed to the teeth.
Mike, he yelled over his shoulder. We've got company.
No kidding, Trono called back. There's a chopper crawling up our six.
Cabrillo didn't bother looking back. The Whalers were coming too fast for him to worry about the helicopter. With a combined closing speed of nearly ninety knots, the pair of boats would pass the RHIB in seconds.
Juddering lights winked at them from both craft. The Argentines had opened fire well before they were in effective range. Tiny splashes sprinkled the river well away from the charging RHIB.
Juan waited until the two boats were less than fifty yards off, ignoring the lead that was filling the air. He could see three men on each; the driver, and two riflemen lying in the bow. With the Whalers skipping across the water, none of the shooters could aim accurately. The little boats were just too unsteady.
Of course, Mark couldn't get off a meaningful shot with the RHIB bouncing along either.
Hold on! Juan shouted.
He cut both throttles and used his palm to crank the wheel over to its lock. Despite the deflated cells of the buoyancy ring, the assault boat did a perfect one-eighty, shouldering aside a wall of white water and coming to an almost complete stop.
Having practiced the maneuver countless times and knowing it was coming, Trono and Murph reacted instantly. Now that the RHIB was wallowing, they could anticipate her movements and compensate for them with their machine guns. They opened fire as the two Whalers flashed by less than a hundred feet away. The two drivers standing in the open cockpits took the worst of it. One was stitched from thigh to shoulder, the kinetic impact of the 9mm rounds hurling his body over the gunwale. The other took two to the head and slumped over the console.
With its engines still pouring out full power, the Whaler started to veer off course because of the weight of the dead driver on the wheel. The centripetal force pushed the body in the opposite direction, and he slipped from the cockpit, his hand still tangled in the wheel's spokes. The Whaler turned sharply, caught part of the wave that had been generated by the RHIB, and flipped over. It augered into the water and vanished under the surface only to float up again, its keel pointing skyward.
The second Whaler continued racing down the river, no one sure if there was anyone aboard still alive.
Juan spun the RHIB around again and slammed the outboards to their stops. The bow rose up in an instant, the deep V hull coming onto plane faster than about any boat afloat.
RAUL JIMENEZ IGNORED the wind buffeting him as he stood in the helicopter's open door, incredulous that the first Boston Whaler had barrel-rolled and then sunk. The second border-patrol boat continued downstream behind them. At first he thought the cowards were running away, but then the Whaler slammed straight into the riverbank. It folded like an aluminum can. Its outboards tore from the transom and vaulted into the underbrush while the three men were tossed like mannequins. Jimenez neither noted nor cared if any of them was alive. All his attention was focused on the fleeing boat below.
He recognized the black craft as an RHIB, the type favored by the United States Special Forces, though it was also available on the commercial market and could easily be operated by a group of mercenaries. He needed just one of them alive. He wanted the others alive, too, but when he was finished with them they would be in no condition to be paraded in front of television cameras.
