Siege of Silence Read online

  As he pauses and takes a sip of water I feel myself going cold.

  “We also have the army barracks under surveillance- where the delivery truck to the compound leaves from. The truck carrying ‘El Abrazo’ went directly to the barracks, backed up to the rear of the delivery truck and its load was transferred.” He takes another sip of water, picks up a signals flimsy, reads for a moment and continues, “We have the compound under comprehensive satellite surveillance. Agency analysts went back through the photos for that morning. The delivery truck usually goes straight to the chancery building and unloads there. On that morning it was photographed backed up to the guardhouse door.

  Several men were pictured manhandling from it a large object. It corresponds in size with ‘El Abrazo’.”

  There’s a silence while I try to get to grips with this information. Then Al’s glum voice drones on.

  “Our analysts conclude that there’s a ninety per cent possibility that our Ambassador to San Carlo is currently being tortured. In that event it is one hundred per cent certain that the torturer is the leader of the so-called ‘militant students’: one Carlos Fombona. He’s an expert and a known sadist. The National Security Council is in session and waiting for our recommendations.”

  For a moment I think of Komlosy in that drab room and then rage threatens to overwhelm me. How can the bastards do that to my man? - My man! Sure I care about the others but Peabody’s goddam special. First they abuse and humiliate him. Then the goddam shrinks decide that he’s a loser. Then our own spooks try to poison the poor bastard. Now they’re fucking torturing him! He’s just a dozen miles away. Frustration wells up in me and then subsides as I realize what I have to do. The ship’s Captain is talking.

  “I just don’t understand why they’d do that? Why take the risk? They must realize the consequences.”

  Simmons says curtly, “They have compelling reasons but that’s classified. Our analysts surmise that afterwards they’ll fake death by natural causes. It’s . . . “

  I break in flatly, “So we go and get him out- now!”

  The Admiral grimaces. “You seem to forget hurricane ‘Olga’ and the attendant weather conditions out there which exceed the flying parameters of those contraptions of yours.”

  I retort, “We’ll go anyway. Enough of us will get through to do the job.”

  He shrugs cynically. “You hope.”

  I lean forward to deliver a few selected words but Simmons cuts them off.

  “Colonel! First we rapidly examine all aspects . . . then we forward a recommendation to the NSC who passes it on to the President for executive decision.” He turns to the Admiral. “We should get an update from the met. officer.”

  The Admiral nods and while the Exec. fetches the met. officer I say, “I’d like to have Newman and Allen sit in on this.”

  “Civilians?!” the Admiral barks incredulously.

  Good ol’ “no shit” Simmons answers for me.

  “They’re the world’s top experts on those contraptions, Admiral Barnet. They’re conversant with all aspects of ‘Operation Vampire’ . . . they are on this vessel by executive order.”

  Al’s normally humorous face is as hard as his voice. Barnet stares at it, then shrugs and nods. As the met. officer sits down and pulls out his charts, the Exec. picks up a phone and gives the order.

  They arrive in about three minutes. I’m relieved that they’ve taken their oily overalls off, but they still look scruffy as all hell in their denims and creased shirts. They look about as out of place in this cabin as spare bridegrooms at a wedding. They sit down with expectant faces. Newman says “Hi” to the Admiral. He looks pained. But the Captain, a tall lugubrious cat, is trying not to smile. As I quickly bring them up to date, their faces turn sombre. Then the met. officer takes over with his weather charts.

  “Olga” is round and fat and furious. Although she’s lurking some 180 miles south of us, the lines of her outer, circling winds pass over our position. They vary from forty knots to gusts of close to sixty.

  Allen and Newman start shooting questions at him. He’s disconcerted. “Well yes, with the high over northern Brazil she could drift south . . . then again maybe not. The patterns over the eastern Atlantic could exert an influence.”

  They’re both leaning forward over the chart. Newman traces a finger down through our position and through the coastline of San Carlo. He glances at Allen who nods and murmurs, “Yeah. But hairy as hell.”

  They resume their seats and the Admiral asks, “So?”

  Newman takes a deep breath and succinctly spells it out. “Our Ultralights would not normally operate in wind speeds over forty knots-fairly constant knots. We’ve got up to sixty. My guess is that ‘Olga’ will drift south-west to the Brazilian high . . . but slowly. It could be two, even three days before the wind drops and steadies. There’s one factor in our favour. The wind is tangentially on shore.” He looks at the Captain. “I understand you can get this tub up to thirty-six knots?” The Captain smiles and nods. Newman smiles back. “Okay, so you steam down wind but even picking the right moment it’s going to be a very dangerous take off . . . very.” He looks at me. “Then because of the Russian spy ship sitting out there the plan calls for a sea-skimming flight for the first five miles with the ‘Nimitz’ in between to block off their radar.” He shakes his head. “Those waves out there are gonna cause all kinds of low level turbulence. A split second’s loss of concentration over those five miles and you’re swimming if you survive the impact. Then you climb. With that wind behind you’ll have a surface speed of around seventy-five m.p.h. That helps your glide ratio. It would be about fifteen to one. So you’d only have to go up say 4,000 feet, but even at that height you’d be riding a roller coaster.” He winces. “And then the landing-enclosed area. You just have to land into the wind. Get a gust at the wrong moment and you get flipped like a tossed coin. You could be losing men from take-off to landing.”

  The Admiral cuts in. “Would you dare to try it, Newman?”

  Allen starts laughing. “You don’t know this idiot, sir. If someone dared him, he’d fly right through the centre of ‘Olga’ playing a saxophone.”

  Simmons takes over the debate. “What losses would you expect, Larry? Give me a percentage.” “Al, that’s unfair.”

  Simmons shakes his head. “Decisions have to be taken . . . it’s an unfair situation both for the Vampire force and for our Ambassador there. Give me a percentage.”

  Newman and Allen look at each other. There’s a painful, drawn-out silence. Then, still looking at Allen, Newman says, “They’re good. Damned good, most of them . . .”

  The quiet, reserved Allen says starkly, “Between forty and fifty per cent.”

  Sadly, Newman turns to me and nods.

  Allen goes on, “And I wouldn’t let Brand go . . . or Kerr . . . no way. The others are naturals. Those two are proficient by effort alone.”

  Simmons is now very assertive. He says to me, “You can expect to lose up to half your men before you hit the compound. That leaves you with ten.”

  “No, Al. I’ve got five reserves and I’ll take them. After dropping Brand and Kerr I’d have twenty-three at take-off. Minimum eleven or twelve in the compound. It’s enough. We’ve planned for it. Rehearsed it.”

  “Don’t count on it, Silas. If the decision is taken to go, then it will have to be volunteers only.”

  “Like hell it will, Al.” I can’t stop myself rising- or my voice. “If I order them to go- they’ll fucking go!”

  He’s also on his feet, his eyes and the stars on his epaulettes glittering.

  “Sit down, Colonel!”

  There’s a silence while we glare at each other. Abruptly the Admiral dismisses the met. officer. As he gathers his charts and heads for the door, I sink back into my chair. Still standing, Simmons says, “Larry, Bryan, I’d appreciate it if you’d wait outside a while.”

  “Sure . . . sure.”

  As the door closes behind them he pour
s it over me. The cat really is pissed off.

  “Hear this, you overgrown lump of shit. Who do you think you are? Your head is getting as big as your ass. You think I’m some fucking Corporal. Forget these fucking stars! Forget about court martials! You talk to me like that again and I’ll kick your balls right up into your goddam skull- where they belong! You got that, Colonel Slocum?”

  I crack it out. “Yessir!”

  The navy brass are looking at each other in bewildered astonishment. Annapolis this ain’t. Without taking his angry eyes off me, Simmons slowly sits down. The Admiral coughs discreetly and Simmons glares at him. The Captain is studying his fingernails. The Exec. is examining a speck on the table. Simmons’s breathing slows. He turns to the Admiral.

  “Okay. I’m gonna call the White House and put the situation to the NSC. There is no way that with those projected losses this can be anything but a volunteer operation.” Without looking at me, he snarls, “I suppose the ape over there personally volunteers.”

  “Yessir!”

  Is there a hint of a smile on that long face? If so it’s disappeared. He asks me sharply, “And what if, before you get to the compound, you take sixty or seventy per cent losses? You’ll be under your minimum. If you go on, you could foul it up for any future attempt.”

  My mind races.

  “No problem, sir. A minute before arrival over the compound we’ll break radio silence. Even if we’re picked up they’ll never get warning to the compound before we’re inside. We’ll do a count. If we’re less than ten we’ll turn back- try to reach the carrier . . . or else ditch in the sea.”

  He gives me a very hard look. I bounce it back.

  “General Simmons. If we’re less than ten we’ll turn away.”

  Another long stare then he turns again to the Admiral. “Okay. Then I propose that if we get the go-ahead . . . an’ if we get enough volunteers, we proceed as soon as possible this night.”

  He waits for a response. The Admiral is in a bit of a daze. He blinks a few times and says, “Uh . . . yes. You don’t think they’ll want to try something else?”

  Simmons shakes his head. “No. For sure they’ll be hustling up ‘Delta’ force and might even fly them in tomorrow for back-up. But because of the special circumstances, and national security, my guess is they’ll risk a try with ‘Operation Vampire’. Now could I be patched through to the White House, please?”

  The Admiral gestures at the Captain, who picks up a blue phone in front of him. In less than a minute Simmons is talking to Komlosy in the Sit. Room. He is beautifully terse as he maps out the situation. Then he answers a few questions.

  “Yes, Mike.” He rolls his eyes. “Yes, you could say that Slocum is eager to go . . . I don’t know, we’ll find out in a few minutes . . . yeah, just as soon as they can get suited up . . . Like I said, forty to fifty per cent . . . sure- has to be a volunteer job . . . I’ll hang on . . . “He cups the mouthpiece and says to the cabin in general, “The President’s in the Sit. Room. We’ll get a fast decision. Colonel, he wants to know how soon you can go.”

  I ask the Captain, “Are you still steering that figure-of-eight pattern?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “When will we next be going directly down wind?”

  “Jimmy?”

  The Exec. picks up a phone, punches a button and repeats my question. After a very short wait he hangs up and says, “At zero ten hours.” He glances at his watch. “That’s in forty-three minutes.”

  I say firmly, “That’s when we’re going, Al.”

  He holds up a hand and says into the phone, “Yeah, Mike. Okay. Got it . . . yeah sure. Listen, if all goes well they’ll take off in about forty minutes . . . sure, will do . . . I’ll get back to you right away.”

  He hangs up, looks at me, sighs and says, “Slocum, if enough of your men are suicide-prone, you have the President’s order to go and get our people out.”

  A surge of relief followed by anxiety. I’d picked a bunch of wildly diverse individuals. Some for sure will go. But will it be enough? If even half a dozen opt out it’ll be a non-starter. I shrug off the thought.

  “Most of them are in the hangar, sir. I’ll have the others sent there . . . let’s find out.”

  The Admiral decides to stay in his cabin. He has the air of a man overtaken by events. But the Captain and Exec. are keen and helpful. Simmons and I follow them through the maze.

  Newman and Allen, who had been lounging outside the Admiral’s cabin and presumably hearing everything, trail after us. I turn and give them the thumbs-up sign. They nod. There’s little humour on their faces. Better than anyone they know the dangers of flying Ultralights in extreme conditions. Out of the side of his mouth Al says, “You asked for it back there, Silas.”

  “I know. Sorry, Al.”

  “Okay. I know how wrapped up in this you are. It’s become totally personal with you. But hear me, Silas. When we get to the hangar, you don’t say one word. Understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  As we enter the hangar, the Exec. shouts an order and all the work stops and there is an immediate silence except for our footsteps. My guys are lined up in front of the Ultralights with the four squad leaders in front. Captain Moncada shouts, “Ten-shun!”

  There’s a ragged clatter as twenty-four pairs of boots hit the steel. I wince; this mob is not exactly a drill instructor’s dream. We line up in front of them with Simmons in the centre and slightly ahead. He says loudly, “At ease.”

  Another ragged clatter. He looks along the row of faces: at the different colours and expressions; then in a quiet, clear voice he lays it on them. He keeps it free of all emotion. No calls to patriotism; no stress on national security. Just the torture of our Ambassador; their instructors’ assessment of up to fifty per cent projected losses; a total volunteer operation. No man will ever be looked down upon if he decides not to go. With those projected losses everyone would understand. It’s not a suicide mission but comes very close to it.

  I think: Shit! He’s practically talked them out of it. Some of them are glaring at me. I stare straight ahead. In his strange, high-pitched voice, Moncada asks, “Sir, may we be addressed by Colonel Slocum?”

  “You may not.”

  They are all looking at me now. There is a pause before Simmons says, “I can tell you, though, that Colonel Slocum has volunteered.” Another pause, then he commands sharply: “Ten-shun!”

  Yet another ragged crash. I’m so wound up with tension that I hardly notice. Enunciating every word, Simmons commands, “Volunteers take one pace forward . . . hut!”

  No drill sergeant working with them ten hours a day for a month could have produced a movement with more precision and unity. Twenty-four left boots come forward. Twenty-four right boots come down beside them in a single reverberating crash. Twenty-four pairs of eyes looking straight ahead. One pair of eyes is threatening to water. I swallow and get a grip on myself. Tough old bulls don’t show that they’re churning up inside with relief, pride and affection.

  I sneak a glance at Simmons. He’s nodding thoughtfully and slowly; beyond him the ship’s Captain is shaking his head in awe.

  Simmons cannot totally keep the emotion from his voice. “I’m sure your Commanding Officer is proud of you. So am I . . . and your country will be. Good luck! Go ahead, Colonel.”

  I look at my watch and step forward.

  “Okay. We have only thirty-five minutes to take off. There’s much to do. The plan will have to be modified. Under these conditions we’ll be taking the back-up men . . . with the exceptions of Brand and Kerr.”

  “Why?”

  The question comes bluntly and aggressively from Brand; a squat white guy who even in the army has managed to keep his lank black hair long enough to cover his ears and forehead.

  I try to make it easy. “Your instructors have assessed the flying abilities of all of you. It was decided that anyone with a liability factor of over fifty per cent should not be allowed to go”

>   “Why?”

  I sigh and forget the diplomacy. “Don’t be an asshole, Brand. You and Kerr are not natural pilots. You worked damn hard and made yourselves proficient but conditions out there call for more than that. You’re not going.”

  He leans forward and looks at Kerr down the line. Kerr is young, lanky and fair-haired. He’s tough as old boots but he looks like he just came off the farm. He doesn’t ever use many words. Now he just nods and Brand says doggedly, “We’re going, Colonel.”

  I get mad. “Brand, you’re not going. You’ll damned well obey orders!”

  “Fuck orders. We’re going.”

  I’m shouting. “You’re staying on this ship if I have to beat you unconscious!”

  He takes a step forward. “Go ahead, Colonel. You’re tough, but a lot of guys have tried that and failed.”

  From the corner of my eye I note that Kerr has also stepped forward. In exasperation I look at Simmons. He just shrugs. It’s up to me.

  “Okay, idiots. If you want to kill yourselves, that’s your problem.” I glance at my watch. “We’re losing time. Be at the briefing room in ten minutes.”

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  Night 19

  He no longer bothers to check my heart. He no longer strokes me with his fingers. He no longer talks to me in seductive tones. All that stopped after he moved the dial up into the blue sector. I have beaten him but will die anyway. There is a guard helping him now. He crouches by my head. After every shock, every convulsion, he pulls the rubber from my mouth, puts his ear close, then he shakes his head, forces the rubber back in and it starts again. I have been slipping in and out of consciousness. They are blessed but frightening moments. Once as I regained my senses I heard the guard’s excited voice, “He murmured something! A name!”

  Instantly Fombona is over me, his face eager and sweating. “What name?”

  “Jorge, comrade. Twice.”

  For a moment his face was puzzled then it suffused into anger and he twisted away muttering, “That fucking Cuban!”