CHAPTER
ONE
Early in the last morning of his first life, Eduardo Cabral had a sudden yearning to hear his father's voice. It was a subtle thing, and came to him in a state approaching dreaming, for he'd been dozing. His father had been a vision, sitting behind his ancient mahogany desk in the study, a glass of wine in one hand, an unlit but well chewed cigar in the other. Mother would not tolerate cigar smoke in their home, and in this one, small matter, the great man deferred to her wishes.
For once, Father's face was not grim. A faint smile played around his thin lips. He raised his glass in a salute, and for an instant it was as if Eduardo had penetrated the man's mind, hearing a private thought to warm an absent son.
You have found a noble purpose for your life, and I'm proud of you. May the God of our fathers give you strength, and bring you back safely to me.
Even as he heard it, Eduardo knew it was a dream, and then there was the jolt from clear air turbulence that brought him back to a waking state with whining turbines, odors of gun oil, JD-40 aerosols and the sour sweat of fear.
Marcos sat across from him, hands folded over a drop pack like a pregnant woman holding an unborn child. His face and hands were blackened with grease, eyes twinkling beneath the rim of his helmet.
“Back again,” said Marcos, smiling. “I wish I could do that, and not wake up until it's all over.”
“The worst is over, my friend,” said Eduardo. “This is cleanup. Until we hit the chutes, think about what you're going to do when we go home.”
“I've already done that,” said Marcos. “While you were asleep, I was laid four times, but it wasn't enough.” He shook his head sadly, but his smile broadened.
“Two weeks, maybe three, and we'll tour the best brothels together,” said Eduardo, “but I have no sisters to offer you, only two brothers.”
“Then I must find a new friend,” said Marcos, and they both laughed.
Their amusement was not shared by eighteen other men who sat with them on steel benches. Eyes wide, they breathed hot, foul air of a lander that would soon spew them out to meet an unknown fate in the jungle now rushing beneath them as they descended towards the drop point. Only Eduardo and Marcos were veterans, the rest only weeks out of unit training, fuzzy-cheeked and combat virgin, and Eduardo could only hope their bowels would hold until they hit the ground. Still, they were in Zed Force, and young or not, they were elite. He remembered his own first jump, but that had been over Valdez, and the firefight there had taken out half his unit when the war was only a month old. Now it was nearly over, only a few pockets of resistance left from ragged cartel units scattered in the jungle, half-starved men with mostly empty guns, fathers and husbands who only wanted to go home.
Units such as these had been giving up without a fight at first sight of Brazilian forces, according to officer briefings, but Eduardo would not tell this to the young troops under his command. Let them expect the worst, and be alert, for there is never certainty in war, even in the last minutes of it. Let them go out the door screaming, and ready to kill, if only to save their own lives. Marcos was ready, as always. Behind his amused countenance was a quickness and wariness gained from surviving twenty drops like this one. Eduardo had known him since jump school; twenty months later, they were still best friends, and the only two surviving members of their class.
Eduardo Cabral mourned those classmates who had died or been mustered out permanently disabled, but he felt pride for his unit. Zed Force had seen more action than any other, first in at Valdez, later at Corebo, where the capture of General Zapana had effectively broken the military back of the cartels that controlled the jungle world of Colomba. There would be no more drug shipments to poison the youth of the Aurilian League and sap the economies of its four member planets. Colomba would soon be under the control of Nova Brazilia, and its resources would quickly be used to pay dearly for the actions of a criminal government.
The war had had purpose, and the purpose had been served. Eduardo felt pride for his part in it, and was eager to soon share that pride with his father.
His stomach rose as an amber light flicked on overhead, and the white fluorescent lights there went out. “Final approach,” said Eduardo. “When we hit the ground, you have five minutes to assemble on my beacon. If you get tangled in a tree, use the letdown hitch before releasing your harness. We don't need broken ankles. We will not wait for you, and we will not search for you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” shouted eighteen, frightened young men. Marcos grinned at him from across the aisle.
The turbine whine was suddenly a purring, with exhaust vents closed for internal circulation to make a stealth approach. A second amber light joined the first.
“Two minutes to drop,” said Marcos. “Stand up!”
They stood, checking each other's equipment as the lander dropped again. There was a rushing sound as the rear door was cracked, and cold, night air flooded the compartment. “Hook up, and assemble to the rear!” said Marcos.
The men shuffled behind Eduardo and Marcos, and pressed tightly together at the rear of the aircraft, hands on each other's backs. Eduardo hooked up behind Marcos, and patted him on his rear.
“Later,” said his friend, then, “Stand in the door!”
Red light. The exit door slid down two meters, and folded over to make a short ramp to blackness. Even in starlight, the other four landers were not visible, two below them, two above. Roaring wind, the tops of trees a black mass rushing beneath them. Somewhere down there, a bunker containing an important cartel leader awaited them. Wrap up time.
The green light went on as Eduardo thought of the target, and then Marcos was screaming, “GO, GO, GO!” and they went out the door like a single mass, three men at a time, left, right, straight ahead, black chutes snapping open, small, low drag things, and the trees were coming up fast. Thumping sounds as they hit the ground. Eduardo's chute nicked a tree branch and slid off, coming down around him as he struck soft ground and rolled, his face mashing into a thick carpet of rotted vegetation. He hit his harness release with a fist, and snapped on the beacon transponder strapped on his chest, then folded his chute into a rumpled mass and stuffed it beneath lush fronds at the base of a gnarled tree. A branch shook and crackled, and something thumped hard on the ground nearby. He pulled down his night goggles, and saw bright figures moving towards him quickly, but silently over the thick carpet of vegetation in the small clearing. He crouched, and raised one hand over his head, the other clutching his M-21 assault rifle.
Within two minutes they were all together, crouched in a circle around him while he took a compass reading. Not a word was spoken. Eduardo pointed west, and moved out, the men behind him in a line, Marcos bringing up the rear. For nearly an hour, they walked carefully, goggles in place, headphones tuned to listen for the characteristic squeak of a trip wire detected by the EM probes strapped to their rifles. They skirted the edge of two clearings, up a small hill and over it, then another, larger hill. At the summit, Eduardo flopped down on his stomach, the men crouched behind him, and sighted the area below through a pair of wide angle field glasses.
The bunker was there. A concrete pillbox glowed faintly with heat from the previous day, and was surrounded by five pillars of green flame that were men. Two were at the bunker's entrance, the others strolling around it. All wore night goggles, and their rifles were slung.
Very easy, thought Eduardo. Too relaxed. His stomach crawled. The guard was too minimal if the bunker was occupied. If Guzman was in there, the place should be crawling with people, and they had not detected a single scanner or tripwire on the way in. Intelligence had been certain enough to send them in, but Eduardo could remember other times they were certain about targets that mysteriously evaporated into the jungle. He scanned the area again: the clearing around the bunker, the trees on the hillside beyond it. There was nothing, except for those five men.
Eduardo motioned five of his own men forward to his position, and gave each of them a target. Noise suppressors were fixed on rifles, the range less than fifty meters. The rest of his men were moved left to form a skirmish line just below the brow of the hill.
All in place. Eduardo called in on his throat mike, “Zed One in place at 42-21-03 on map one. Five guards, but no sign of activity in the bunker. Come in.”
No answer. He repeated his call. Waited. Finally, there was a soft reply.
“We've been waiting, Cabral. Took you long enough.” It was Captain Perez, Zed number one who spoke. What did he mean, waiting? Wasn't he at command post back at the drop point?
“Zed Two was even slower. They're moving over to your position now, behind you and from the east.”
“I see them,” said Marcos, close to Eduardo's side, and pointing. “Thanks for the late warning,” he mumbled. Eduardo turned, and saw green flames dancing in the trees behind them to their right.
“Go in with the two units,” said Captain Perez. We're set up on the hill opposite you, and we'll cover your rears from here. Doesn't look like much; I'll bet the bunker is empty, but let's take it. Ten minutes, Cabral. That's what you have.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eduardo, and switched off, turned to Marcos, whispered, “What's he doing out here? Watching me? Doesn't think I can handle this?”
Marcos only shrugged. Zed Two was now coming up the hill behind them. Using hand signals, Eduardo moved them into a second skirmish line behind the others. When they were in place, Eduardo growled into the throat mike, “When the guards go down, we charge the bunker. Snipers ready? Take aim . . . fire!”
Five rifles coughed. The five men guarding the bunker went down where they stood, and Eduardo was on his feet, waving an arm and hurrying down the hill, Marcos right behind him. Young troopers yelled in their excitement, and nearly ran him over as they converged on the bunker and surrounded it. The door was ajar. Eduardo kicked it open, and jumped to one side, but nothing happened. Not a sound from the bunker, and his heart sank. Lights were on inside. He went in with Marcos and four other men. Four rooms, all lit, a few chairs, cots, a bare table, a kitchen with stove and unwashed dishes in a sink. The odor of cigar smoke was in the air, and they found a fresh cigar still smoldering in an ashtray. Someone had been here recently.
There was nothing to be found: no maps, or papers of any kind. “They must have known we were coming,” said Marcos. “Guzman is running away while we stand here.”
They rushed outside, where the men were packed together near the door, looking confused as Eduardo pressed his throat mike.
“The bunker is empty, Captain, but someone was here only minutes ago, and they can't be far. If we fan out, we might be able to —”
Eduardo was blinded by the flashes of fire coming from the hillside beyond the bunker. Before he could blink, something hit him in the chest and slammed him to the ground. Pain erupted in his shoulder and right thigh as he went down, and men were grunting all around him. Warm liquid splattered his face, and he heard the thunk, thunk of high velocity bullets striking thin body armor and flesh. Something heavy fell on top of him again and again, and he gasped for breath in darkness, his goggles blown away. There was one piercing scream. Pain ran up and down his legs, but now his chest was numb, his breathing a shallow wheeze.
Silence. There was a coppery taste in his mouth, and a breeze like warm breath caressing his face. Breathing was so hard, and points of light danced before his closed eyes. He wanted to sleep, now, to just drift away . . .
Footsteps, many of them, coming close, then stopping. Eduardo held his breath. There was a moan, and then a single gunshot. “Missed one,” said a man, and it was a voice Eduardo recognized with horror.
“So, you see you were told the truth. They were coming for you, Senor Guzman. Believe me when I say they would not have taken you alive.”
“It seems I owe you my life, Captain,” said another man.
Juan Perez laughed. “Save your thanks for my employer. I only did what he paid me to do. Now let's get out of here while your body and those of your people are loaded into the bunker.”
“My simulacrum?”
“No. The fire will not be hot enough to destroy it. We have a corpse of a man whose dental work is a close match to yours, but I need your ring for it. You should have no trouble replacing that famous emerald of yours. There are many sources in Nova Brazilia.”
“True. Here it is,” said Guzman. “But how loyal are your men? They've seen me.”
“The best of mercenaries, believe me, and they are at your service in the future, whenever you want them. At a fair price, of course. Quickly, now. There are two other Zed units moving in, and I must be seen at the command post when they arrive here. Huevro, place four charges inside, and close to the bodies! I want a cremation in there!”
“Sir!” shouted a man.
The numbness had now reached Eduardo's legs, and the warm breeze still fell on his face, making him drowsy. As he began to slip away, he heard a whooshing sound, and felt heat for just an instant while footsteps receded into the distance. And then, quite close, was a voice, and a burst of warm air that smelled like blood.
“You fucker,” said the voice.
Eduardo Cabral hovered at the edge of oblivion. “Marcos,” he whispered, and then he slipped away to a warm, dark place to rest.