Two Graves

“Keep going!” the colonel cried, but the men needed no urging; the vanguard of the three squads peppered the streets ahead with small-arms fire and RPGs, the .50-caliber gu

They came out along the broad quay, open from all sides. There was another scattering of fire, and one of the colonel’s men grunted and staggered, but this defense was again answered with an overwhelming display of fire from the three squads, deafening in power, the RPGs plucking up targets and sending them sky-high with thunderous roars.

“Board the vessels!” Souza ordered.

The esquadrões boarded the two vessels according to their prearranged plan, cutting the hawsers from the bollards. The colonel’s two nautical specialists took up positions in the pilothouses and started the engines as the rest of the men assumed defensive positions along the deck. In less than two minutes the boats had moved away from the docks and were heading into the lake, picking up speed, the squads maintaining a vicious suppressing fire aimed at the shore.

“Casualty report!” the colonel barked.

It came in quickly. The company’s medic was treating two casualties, small-arms fire, neither one serious. Both men were still more or less in commission.

The colonel watched the shoreline recede with a huge feeling of relief. The operation had gone exactly to plan. If he had come in with a hundred men, they might still be caught up in the streets, with more wounded, more stragglers, and the inevitable idiot taking a wrong turn somewhere, getting lost, and having to be retrieved. They would have required more boats, more logistics, more opportunities for failure.

The sporadic fire from on shore died away as the boats began to move out of range, the heavy barge leading, his men now firing highly accurate rounds, keeping their opponents from regrouping and setting out in vessels in pursuit. The colonel took out a silk handkerchief, removed his helmet, and carefully mopped his face. Phase one was complete, with minimal casualties. With a certain reluctance he turned his attention forward, toward the dark island looming out of the water. He could make out no people, no movement. And as he examined the fortress rising above the black lava cinder cone, his sense of victory faltered somewhat. To his experienced eye it looked impregnable. Everything depended on the gringo. He did not like being dependent on the success of one person, no matter how capable—especially a person that he barely knew.

As he looked around, he found his men also regarding the fortress, their eyes dark and serious. They, too, were thinking his thoughts. The boats were now halfway across the lake, the island growing ever larger, the moment of truth coming closer.

He checked his watch. Again, everything depended on speed and surprise. The approaching boats were visible from the fortress, and no doubt the defenders on the island knew all about the attack in town. They had lost the element of surprise, which he of course knew would happen.

As he considered the situation, he began to reexamine their strategy. The idea of taking extra time to go around the island to assault the fortress from the cove behind was making less and less sense to him. What was it the British admiral, Lord Nelson, once said? “Five minutes make the difference between victory and defeat.” And even more a propósito: “Never mind the maneuvers; go straight at ’em.” The circling of the island would eat up not five but ten or more minutes, and present them with an uncertain shoreline and landing position. But directly ahead lay a beautifully open, empty, and undefended set of docks.

Yet again, he checked his watch. It was time for Pendergast’s signal—past time. But there was nothing. And now uneasiness began to take hold of the colonel. It had been a mistake to rely on the man; a bad mistake. If they landed on the island before the signal, they had no hope of penetrating the fortress. It would be an exercise in futility. And returning to the town was no longer an option.

The signal was now five minutes late. And the island loomed ever closer. They were just coming into range of rifle fire. Souza spoke into his headset. “Halt the vessels! Come to a full stop!”

No one questioned the order, although he knew they were all wondering o que diabos agora. The barge slowed and stopped, with a quick backing of the engines; the transport, too, rumbled in reverse. The lake was calm, the sky clear. The town behind them smoked with a scattering of fires and dust kicked up from the brief battle. The island ahead remained dark and silent.

As they stood idle in the water, the sense of unease, of the possibility of impending defeat, seemed to spread across the barge. All eyes were on the colonel. He betrayed nothing of his own thoughts, nothing of his doubts. He kept his face studiously neutral, his gaze locked on the island. The boats drifted.

And then: a puff of smoke, followed by a gout of flame. A few seconds later, the sound arrived, a thunderous roar rolling across the water. A large section of the fortress’s outer curtain wall came rumbling down from the bottom up, as if in slow motion, the stone blocks collapsing and tumbling down the slope, followed by the cave-in of reinforced concrete from above. A huge plume of dust rose up, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the fort.

Pendergast’s signal. It wasn’t what the colonel had expected—it was even better. And, it seemed, it had provided their route of entry.

“Full speed ahead!” the colonel cried into his headset. “Head for the docks!”

A shout went up from the men, a rousing cheer that matched the sudden roar of the diesel engines and the forward surge of the two vessels, heading straight for the undefended docks. As the boats closed in, the colonel cried: “Estão prontos! Ataque!”

71

FISCHER PUT DOWN THE RADIO AND ROSE AS ALBAN entered his office. He felt, as usual, a flush of pride as he faced the young man squarely, extending his hand. It was hard to believe that Alban was only fifteen years old. He looked twenty at least, six foot three inches tall, with finely chiseled features, sharp cheekbones, brilliant eyes shining beneath a noble brow, cropped blond hair, Michelangelo lips, white teeth—the face of a god. But most impressive of all was the air he projected: confidence without arrogance, charisma without show, manliness without bluster. One could only imagine what he would be like by the time he reached twenty-one.

Except that now, Fischer felt a small, nagging difficulty.

“You wanted to see me, Herr Fischer?” Alban asked.

“Yes. I’ve learned that your father escaped from custody, killing Berger and a slew of guards in the process. And now it appears he’s detonated some sort of improvised bomb, blown a hole in our defenses.”

As he spoke, he watched Alban’s face carefully for any display of incorrect emotion, but could find none.

“How did it happen?” Alban asked.

“How is not important, except that this is what results when a fool like Berger encounters a man like your father. Your father, Alban, is a truly formidable man. A pity he isn’t on our side.” When the boy remained silent, Fischer added, “And now a flotilla of armed Brazilian soldiers are about to land on the island.”

“I will fight,” said Alban immediately. “I’ll defend the—”

Fischer made a small gesture of silence with his hand, instantly obeyed. “It’s nothing our special brigade can’t handle. In fact, it’s already being handled. No, I’ve asked you here for another reason. I have a task for you. A special task.”

Alban’s face displayed attention, alertness. The one thing about Alban: it was hard to read his real feelings. Of course, that opacity was an essential part of his training, but still it made Fischer uneasy.