Poseidon's Arrow

Dirk barely had the car in park when Summer leaped out and ran inside the bar, ignoring its unsavory appearance. She almost didn’t recognize her father, seated at the bar in ragged clothes eating an empanada. He was equally shocked to see both his children.

“Dad, let’s get you to a hospital,” Summer said.

Pitt shook his head. “No time. We’ll need to coordinate with the Panamanian military to rescue Al and the others.”

Dirk looked at the assorted bar patrons, who all stared at the out-of-place Americans. “Dad, how about we discuss this in the car?”

“Fair enough,” Pitt said. He looked at the empty shot glass and plate of food. “Do you have any local currency?”

Dirk opened his wallet. “I’m told our greenbacks are the preferred currency in Panama.”

Pitt pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his son’s wallet and gave it to the bartender, then shook hands with him.

“That was two days’ worth of per diem,” Dirk said as they walked out of the bar.

Pitt gave him a wink. “Put it on your expense report.”

Dirk studied a road map before they took off down the rut-filled road.

“What has Rudi arranged with the Panamanians to get into Bolcke’s facility?” Pitt asked.

“Rudi’s pulling his hair out,” Summer said. “He called us three times on the way over. As you probably know, Panama has no standing army in the wake of Manuel Noriega’s removal. Paramilitary groups within the Panamanian Public Forces are willing to conduct a joint raid with a U.S. team, but only after they review the evidence and make adequate preparations for a tactical assault. Nobody expects a task force to be assembled within forty-eight hours.”

Dirk looked to his father. “You think Al and the others may be at risk sooner?”

Pitt explained his encounter with Zhou. “Once those charges go off, I expect Bolcke’s forces to execute all the prisoners and hide their remains. Do we have any U.S. forces that can go in solo?”

Dirk shook his head. “Special Ops forces out of the Southern Command are our best bet. They’ve been put on alert but are still ten hours away. Rudi said the only presence nearby he’s been able to find is a Navy ship out in the Pacific headed for the canal.”

After traveling just a short distance across Balboa, Dirk drove up a hill to a large, ornate building that overlooked the port district and the canal. A sign on the manicured lawn proclaiming it the PANAMA CANAL AUTHORITY ADMINISTRATION BUILDING.

“The Authority is responsible for security of the canal and the adjacent Canal Zone,” Summer said. “Rudi says they are our only hope for an immediate response.”

Inside the building, Pitt’s appearance drew stares from the staff and visitors. A receptionist escorted them to the office of the director of Canal Security, a poised man named Madrid who wore a thin mustache. He gave Pitt second and third looks as he introduced himself. “I have been advised of the urgent nature of your visit. Your Vice President is a very persuasive gentleman,” he said, shocked to have received a personal call.

“Lives are at stake, and time is short,” Pitt said.

“I’ll call our nurse, and get you some fresh clothes, while we talk.”

Madrid led them into his office, which had an oversized map of the canal on one wall. A man in fatigues was studying some aerial photographs at a table.

“May I introduce Commander Alvarez. He heads our field security operations and will be leading your rescue operation.”

They joined him at the table, where Pitt described his abduction and the operation at Bolcke’s hidden facility.

“We’ve pulled the Habsburg’s company transit records and have found an odd pattern of canal crossings,” Madrid said.

“Their ships enter at one end,” Pitt said, “and don’t exit the other until days later.”

“Exactly correct.”

“They are delivering purchased or stolen raw ore at the facility and then shipping out the refined product.”

Madrid nodded with a pained look. “The passage of commercial ships through the canal is a tightly controlled operation. They apparently have assistance from the pilots, and perhaps our own locks perso

“There’s a lot of money involved with their product,” Pitt said. “They can afford substantial bribes.”

“Mr. Pitt, can you show us where the facility is located?” Alvarez asked.

Pitt walked to the map and tracked the Panama Canal Railway line that ran near the canal’s eastern edge.

“I can only guess that I caught the rail line somewhere in this area.” He pointed to a remote area off Gatun Lake, about thirty miles from Panama City. “The facility would be somewhere between the canal and the rail line.”

Alvarez rifled through a folder and pulled out a packet of color aerial photographs.

“This would be the approximate region.” He examined each photo closely before passing it around the table. The photos showed swaths of dense jungle that occasionally bordered Gatun Lake. A few pictures showed the Panama Railway line cutting through the jungle, but none gave any sign of Bolcke’s facility. They pored through forty photos as skepticism grew on Madrid’s face.

“Wait a second,” Summer said. “Pass that last photo back.”

Dirk handed her the photograph and she lined it up against another on the table. “Take a look at the jungle in these two pictures.”

The four men craned their necks, seeing a uniform blanket of green jungle flowing across both photos.

Nobody said anything until Pitt slid over a third photograph. “It’s the color,” he said. “It changes.”

“Exactly.” Summer pointed to one of the photos. “There’s a linear seam here where the jungle color seems to turn a bit gray.”

“I see it,” Madrid said.

“It’s the artificial canopies over the facility,” Pitt said. “They’ve faded with age and no longer match the surrounding jungle.”

Alvarez pieced the images together with several contiguous photos until the composite showed a distinct peninsula that fingered into Gatun Lake. He took a marker and highlighted the discolored areas, revealing a large rectangle adjacent to a patchwork of smaller squares.

“The large rectangle would cover the dock and inlet,” Pitt said. “Some artificial mangroves block the entrance and are pulled aside when a ship enters or leaves.”

“What are the other squares?” Summer said.

“The other buildings in the compound.” He took Alvarez’s marker and noted Bolcke’s residence, the millhouse, the slave housing, and the multiple extraction buildings. He described the facility’s security forces to the extent he knew them, leaving out no detail.

“How many prisoners?” Madrid asked.

“Eighty.”

“Amazing,” Madrid said. “A slave camp hiding right under our noses.” He turned to Alvarez. “You’ve got it pinpointed?”

“Yes, sir. It’s right here.” He located the peninsula on the large wall map and marked it with a pushpin.

“Clearly within our jurisdiction. Suggested entry?”

“Short notice will dictate an approach from Gatun Lake. We can bring up the Coletta from Miraflores as our command ship and run three of our patrol boats off her as assault craft.”

He studied Pitt’s markings on the photos. “If we can enter past the barricade, we’ll send one boat into the inlet and land the other two outside, with those forces sweeping in. Once the facility is secure, we can bring the Coletta to the dock to evacuate the prisoners.”

“You best assemble the men and equipment at once,” Madrid said. “We’ll reconvene aboard the Coletta in two hours, and brief the assault team in transit.”

“Yes, sir.” Alvarez stood and scurried out of the office.

“You are welcome to join me on the Coletta during the operation,” Madrid said to Pitt and his children.

“We’ll be there,” Pitt replied. “I have an injured friend I was forced to leave behind.”