Everyone showered, but not all together. Maybe after they all got drunk they would try that sometime, but Lester doubted it. He felt terrible about not telling Debi what he was going to do the next morning. He would rather be beat up by some thug than take the verbal tongue lashing he would get from his wife if he survived the raid.
They all met for dinner and drinks that evening. Everyone had small bandages on cuts and nicks on their faces, arms, and hands, but no one chose to speak of the events. It was a little too raw to relive.
“OK, Monte, tell us how to break into the ship on the open sea,” Debi said.
“There’s a small landing surface on the top deck, but several things have to be cleared to make it work for an emergency-type helicopter,” Monte explained. “Now, these big attack choppers have rescue winches that will lower you without actually landing. Myself, I’m flying to Aruba from Panama City on the Tropic Queen’s dime. Also, I failed to tell you I have tickets for all of you tomorrow afternoon about five o’clock.”
Lester wondered why it was an afternoon flight instead of leaving in the morning. Maybe that was the only time they could get tickets to Aruba. Maybe it was good it was a late afternoon flight, and he could get back in time to go with them.
It was great that everyone was breathing air, and even though it wasn’t said, they all were starting new lives—lives they had earned by surviving combat. They had all taken lives to keep their own. It made them different from others who hadn’t had similar experiences—very different.
Lester had set his iPhone alarm on vibrate for 4:30 a.m. and woke up while Debi was sleeping soundly. They had made love after dinner. It was intense—so intense he felt both were looking for something therapeutic and cleansing from the horrors they had seen during the day. Of course, it didn’t work, but was certainly enjoyable. Debi was pregnant so nothing clinical was going to happen. Both were looking for pure joy from each other and found it briefly.
Lester tiptoed into the bathroom, dressed, and picked up his duffel bag containing his guns and vest. The vest worked. It had saved his life and that of almost everyone on his team. They were fortunate because certain rounds would have penetrated the vest. So far, he had been lucky enough not to have that happen. This time, he planned to put in the two tactical trauma plates. They slid into a pocket over the heart giving level III maximum protection there—whatever that meant. He had been told it would stop an AK-47 round, or multiple rounds, over the heart. This information was all he needed.
Outside the hotel, a taxi waited for him.
“Hey, buddy. How long to get to the visitors center at Miraflores Locks?” Lester asked the driver as he placed his duffel in the seat beside him.
“Blown up yesterday,” the driver said. “But I guess you know that. Takes only forty to forty-five minutes this early. No traffic,” he said, and drove away from the hotel.
Lester felt calm. It was quiet out, and the driver didn’t talk. Probably half asleep, Lester thought. Lester dozed off for a few minutes and was awakened by the driver as they stopped by two Blackhawk helicopters between the bomb craters in front of a still-smoking, collapsed visitors center. A Super Cobra, which carried a crew of two, was warmed up behind them. The rotors were turning slowly.
He was directed to the second aircraft and jogged over to it. A Navy SEAL helped him aboard. Lester took his seat next to several other oddly-dressed individuals. They all wore Flak jackets and helmets, but something was different, yet familiar about them. One woman removed her head cover and sunglasses. It was Debi!
“How in the fuck did you get here, and why are you here?” Lester asked, then identified Maria and Simone as they uncovered and let their hair flow from the helmets. “And I’ll be goddamned if all of you aren’t here! I can’t let you guys risk it again. You’ve done too much already,” Lester said with tears in his eyes—one of the few times Debi had seen him come anywhere close to crying.
“You have no right to make that decision for us,” Jordan said. “We all respect your bravery, but it’s our decision to go along. You can’t have all the fun, ol’ chap.”
“Fun, my ass. We could all get ourselves turned into Swiss cheese on this adventure. And Debi, don’t forget my kid is in your belly,” Lester pleaded.
“And, I’m going to tell him that I had a chance to help his dad and didn’t go along? What kind of mother do you think I am?” Debi said.
“A wild and reckless one. But the reason we have to kill this asshole is because he will look us up and kill our families, one by one. I have no doubt,” Lester said.
A man walked through the cockpit of the helicopter and stood next to Lester. “We believe the same thing, Lester. We also believe he’s capable of recruiting and organizing another jihadist terror group. For those reasons, he is public enemy number one,” said Rick Summers, who was the leader of this expedition. “Saddle up and stay frosty, my friends!”
He got the usual laugh with that statement. Then he turned solemn for a moment while he recited a pre-combat prayer. Now, every person on board knew how important the words were.
Once in the air, Lester asked Debi, “How in the fuck did all you guys beat me here?”
“Simple. You didn’t fool anyone with that phone call to Holton. We knew you had to see this through and would call Rick. So, we called him and told him we were going with him no matter what. He had the helicopter pick us up at the hotel—sort of air valet service, I guess. Also saved on the cab fare,” Debi said.
“Damn. I hope we can do this without too much drama,” Lester said, noticing a strange helicopter lift off in the distance. It was sleek, black, and unlike any helicopter he had ever seen.
“Rick, what is that thing?” he asked after borrowing a headset from one of the crew members.
“It’s a Comanche. Only made two of them and then canceled the program after spending seven billion dollars. It will go in silent and be our scout. They designed them to be spotters for the Apache. Very quiet and has a low heat signature. Goes about two-hundred miles an hour while the Blackhawk does about 180. It’s a beauty. Pulled out of moth balls just for us.” Rick smiled.
“It will need one aerial refueling to get there even with its extra tanks. Our Blackhawk may need one coming back, unless we set down at a local airport.”
Lester sat next to Debi and began to examine the BAR machine rifle with several 20 round clips given to him by Rick just minutes before. He checked quickly to see if the gas cylinder had been chromed. It had. The stock had been hollowed out for weight reduction and so had the forward wooden hand hold. Any metal that could be shaved without damaging the integrity of the rifle had also been done. Lester estimated they had dropped the total weight from sixteen pounds down to about twelve to thirteen pounds.
The tripod, flash suppressor, and carry handle had been removed. Lester knew more about this weapon than most people on planet Earth since he owned two of them. He had bought one from some ATF agents and also was gifted one after a huge raid on an illegal gun store in Louisiana. He loved the weapon and took this one apart on a moving helicopter and put it back together in minutes. He knew about the Polish model that had been developed for aircraft use with a spring-loaded 91-round pan design that sat on top of the weapon. Lester knew about the experiments with thirty round clips and realized that twenty was just right for the BAR.
He passed out magazines to fellow soldiers to carry. If they wanted a fire brigade weapon with them, then they needed to help with the ammo. Nobody minded helping in WWII or the Korean War—even in Vietnam they were used and had the reputation of being the most stolen gun in Vietnam. The gun was heavy but damn dependable. The big rounds got anyone’s attention and scared the shit out of most enemies. Lester hoped it would help in the raid.
The flight was long—almost four hours, which gave Rick time to sit with maybe two or three people at a time and go over the plans. He passed out headsets, so they could hear him above the rotor noise. The basic plan was to land in a clearing in the jungle behind the compound and let part of the troops out to penetrate the jungle, then attack the compound from the rear where it would be lightly guarded. The helicopters and the rest of the troops would land on a road above the compound and act as guards against them escaping from the front of the buildings. All the women, the pilots, and two SEALs were assigned that task. The rear-attacking force consisted of five professional soldiers, plus Lester, Monte, and Jordan. The Comanche would be hidden and called in to take out a target when needed.
The landing in the jungle was smooth, and the eight men started moving through the dense tropical foliage. The helicopters proceeded to the road and landed. The pilots stayed with the choppers, and the three women and two men moved cautiously towards the compound.
Debi keyed in a message to Lester. “We are down and on road. Don’t see anyone.”
She stuck the phone in her back pocket where she always kept it. Her hand was still on the keys of the phone when ten Islamic men moved out of the dense vegetation and pointed guns at them. Quickly, Debi typed blindly and by memory of the keys to Lester, “Captured.” She then pushed send.