Piranha Assignment (33 page)

The unrelenting boredom continued. She focused on breathing, on staying alert, and flexing her fingers to maintain circulation. Then, exactly forty-five minutes after switching aqualungs, Felicity opened her eyes and found herself in a haze. The blackness was less black, if such a concept made sense. Some light was filtering down. Now she could see bubbles rising just above her head. There were Morgan's fins, moving languidly a meter or so above her head.

When Felicity thought they were at the edge of the surface, Morgan stopped. She remembered that the pressure gradient was greatest near the surface. Now, five meters from fresh air they must stop for a while to complete their pressure adjustment. Morgan floated to her, clinked his mask with hers and gave her an intense embrace. Then they straightened and thrust their heads out of the water. Felicity spit out her mouthpiece and gulped the sweetest air she ever tasted. Beside her, Morgan laughed out loud.

“I didn't want to tell you this, but I had no idea how far from land we were until right now.”

“Well?”

“Take a look!” Morgan said, pointing. “Landfall almost due north! We can't be more than six miles off shore. Guess he stayed close to keep the trip as short at possible. You okay to swim?”

“In salt water? With flipper on? I could make this swim in my sleep.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Morgan said, only half joking. “Let's get going.”

There was never a more beautiful morning. Fins helped more than Felicity imagined they would, and she was actually enjoying the swim somewhat. The canary colored disc on her left was still dipped in the water at the world's edge, spreading waves of warmth at her. The air was clean and crisp.

She was sliding into the relaxed euphoria of the long distance runner. Her arms and legs pumped in the redundant pattern of a smooth crawl. She was comfortably warm and felt as if she was swimming through air in a weightless state. She hardly tasted the salt in the spray now, or heard the splashing waves around her. She moved just below the surface, watching her partner's rubber skin cutting through the water like a slick black seal.

Morgan stayed to the right and a little ahead of Felicity. He had to stay alert and maintain a steady pace for her. He knew with cold certainty that Bastidas and his commie crew were dead. The Piranha may be flooded, or crushed by ocean pressure as she dropped deeper and deeper. Or perhaps they used up their available air. However it happened, they were gone. His new enemy was time.

He and Felicity had already spent more than two hours in the ocean, and even with wet suits, hypothermia is a killer. Morgan knew even this tropical sea would suck the
warmth out of them given enough time, and that you cannot trust your own perceptions of warmth.

Seeing the beach ahead gave him a sudden jolt, like a runner's first sight of the finish line. He swallowed the urge to begin his sprint, remembering they were still four miles from shore.

That last half mile seemed endless, but Morgan reminded himself how long it seemed when they were only two tenths of a mile straight down. At last his foot touched the flowing sand just off shore. When they walked onto the rocky beach, he and Felicity were shivering and stiff. Kicking off fins and pulling off masks required a major effort.

“Can we take a break now, boss?” Felicity asked. Her speech was a little slurred and Morgan saw confusion in her eyes. Tension, fatigue, mild hypothermia, maybe even mild shock and unnumbered minor injuries from Herrera, steam pipes and straight jackets were catching up to her. But it looked like it was okay now.

“You can relax now, Red,” Morgan said. “It's over and the good guys won.”

Felicity looked at him and with some effort brought her eyes into focus. As the tension drained from her, the tears came. Her shoulders dropped as water ran down her cheeks.

“You know, you are a hero,” she said, sitting on the beach.

“And you're the bravest girl I've ever seen.”

“Or at least the tiredest,” Felicity said, lying on the uneven beach. “Tiredest? Most tired? Oh, well.” Like that, she fell asleep. Morgan sure wanted some rest himself, but he needed to check the perimeter first.

Ten steps from Felicity's head, the rocky beach gave way to grass, but there was hardly any slope. The tree line was another twenty paces away. He could see small palms
flow into big ones ahead, and the gloom of the triple tier jungle beyond that. The ground to the left was firm, much like a well kept lawn, with a slight arch to it. To the right, it became increasingly boggy, sucking at Morgan's feet with each step. Nothing would approach from that direction.

Morgan was thankful for warm sand and stones under foot when he returned to Felicity's side. She was resting well, her chest rising and falling in a slow, smooth rhythm. Staring out to sea, he peeled off the rubber suit. The sun felt deliciously hot on his skin. He wore only briefs under his wet suit.

This seemed a safe resting place. Morgan settled on his back beside Felicity, with his hands behind his head. He glanced at his wrist to check the time.

“Damn,” he muttered. His watch face held a half dozen hands, and none of them was moving. Oh well, he supposed even five thousand dollar watches were not made waterproof to three hundred meters.

But he could hardly complain if his timepiece was their biggest loss. They had come out alive, on an assignment that had them behind the power curve from the beginning. Wondering if Barton was somewhere looking for them, Morgan faced the ocean. He focused on an individual diving bird and let his mind drift away.

A gull sprang into the air, spiraling over the beach. Morgan's eyes popped open. Felicity stood beside him, feet apart, arms spread. He felt the hair at the back of his scalp trying to crawl up his head.

“What is it?” he asked, standing.

“Don't know yet.”

Morgan stood all but naked, his back to the sea, yet maintaining a ready calm. Speculation was pointless. He would not have been surprised to see any number of wild animals, Panamanian police, American troops, drug dealers or revolutionaries. He was prepared to see just about anything break the tree line except that square head with slicked back hair and long mustache. Herrera's eyes were red, his face flushed, his muscular arms twitching. He was dressed as they first saw him, in a natural color polo shirt and tight leopard pants. Barefoot, he walked like a jungle predator.

“What's he doing here?” Felicity asked. Her face redefined the word perplexed. Morgan relaxed just a bit. Maybe, just maybe, Herrera could be talked to. They had used up a long string of maybe getting here, but he sure did not feel like fighting. Maybe Herrera felt the same.

“I am impressed,” Morgan began with a half smile. “How did you survive? I thought I put that sub down with all hands.”

“They panicked,” Herrera said, stopping six meters from
Morgan. “Somehow, Captain Bastidas overloaded the generators.”

“Of course,” Morgan said. “In the control room all he knew was the pressure was dropping. Not knowing the steam was leaking all over the place, slowly filling the sub with water, he kept boosting the power to compensate for the lost steam pressure.”

“The crew knew,” Herrera said, red eyes flashing. “They were like dogs in a burning house. They began shooting everywhere. The Captain finally realized the panic and tried to leave the control room. The steam scalded him. He was blinded and he joined in the mad shooting. One of the crew…”

“Bastidas was killed by one of his own men,” Felicity said, standing.

“I killed that man, of course,” Herrera continued. “I had to kill many of them. They were not warriors. Then I got an aqualung and a crowbar and forced the forward escape hatch open. When I reached the surface, I saw you in the distance. I swam for you, but must have missed the direction. I reached land two or three miles from here. It was a challenge.”

A gift for understatement, Morgan thought. One set, or two aqualung tanks. Of course, with twice as many red blood cells as an ordinary man, he could store more oxygen before he left The Piranha. Still, to make two tanks last to the surface he must have come up too fast. The blood doping would help, but the pressure shift must still have played hell with his body. Then he had to make that swim, in open waters, with no protective clothing, fins, or mask. And then the two or three mile walk.

“Well now you're here,” Morgan said slowly. “Why don't we all hike to the nearest little town and get some breakfast?”

“I will,” growled Herrera in his deep baritone. “Right after I kill you two.”

“For what?” Morgan cried, hands spread wide. “Your boss is dead. The Piranha is dead. The whole fucking plan is dead. What the hell's the point of killing us now?”

Herrera smiled, pushing his long mustache out of shape. “It will make me feel better.”

Felicity felt a chill far worse than the ocean had caused when Herrera took three steps toward her partner. Morgan stepped lightly to the right. Both men slid across the grass on wide spread feet. Felicity thought she heard a low growl from one of them. With a start, she realized it came from both. They were fun house mirror images of each other. Teeth bared, fingers clawed, movements fluid and powerful, it was easy to lose sight of the difference in size and color.

Then, without warning, they came together, like two rams colliding. There was a flurry of arm movement Felicity could barely follow. Morgan's hands pumped in a one two attack. His left hand thrust like a spear for Herrera's eyes. The bigger man dodged left, but Morgan's right fist caught him on the jaw. Herrera grabbed Morgan's left wrist. Morgan twisted this arm in and around, in a circle ending in a back fist to Herrera's temple. Morgan took a hard left in the chest that knocked him back two meters. He rolled, coming up in a defensive stance with left arm extended, right fist at his side.

Two seconds after the first clash began, the two combatants circled more warily.

“It will be a good fight,” Herrera said. Morgan did not look so sure. Herrera was stronger, very fast, and tough. He had taken two blows, either of which would knock most men out. Morgan would not give up, Felicity knew, but the
future did not look good.

“He doesn't stand a chance,” Felicity shouted from the sidelines. Both men glanced at her. “You've got the advantage Morgan. He's just an animal. You're a man, a thinking man. Just hit him at his weak spot.”

Morgan hardly had time to think. Herrera moved in fast, swinging a big left fist Morgan barely dodged. A hand like a steel clamp snapped onto Morgan's neck. Herrera could probably snap him, like a terrier with a rat. Morgan's fists lashed out like a “U” on its side, the left to the solar plexus, the right to the nose. A twist downward got him free.

While Herrera was not even breathing hard, Morgan's ragged breath ripped at his throat. His neck pulsed where Herrera's fingers had dug into it. He was starting to feel like a cornered jaguar. Or that bushmaster Herrera killed the day they met.

Then his tactical mind gripped the problem and pulled it open. Morgan had studied wharangdo for most of his adult life. Only that was keeping him alive. Herrera had made it all his life on muscle and speed and one technique. He always killed by going for an enemy's neck. That was his weak spot.

Herrera lunged again, with a right that would have taken Morgan's head off if he had not blocked it with a forearm. Morgan retaliated with a snap kick to the right knee. Herrera grabbed for Morgan's side and only a desperate twist got him free. Three gashes stood out against the brown skin over his ribs on his right side.

He was hurt, but now Morgan had a plan. He could set Herrera up if he could weaken the knee enough. The big man had probably never had a protracted fight before. That was key.

Morgan attacked, swinging his right foot in a turning
kick that brought the balls of his foot around and down on the inside of Herrera's right knee. It did not give way, and the answering back hand just caught Morgan high on the side of the head. He rolled away as always but this time Herrera tried to follow. Morgan hopped to his feet and feinted with his left. Herrera ignored it and pounded the scraped ribs. Morgan spun quickly, spraying sweat from his hair in a circle. The back snap kick was on target, the same knee, and Morgan was away.

Felicity backed toward the beach, not wanting to miss any of the action. Near the water she selected a baseball sized stone. The sea had smoothed it nicely, except for one sharp edge. With it, she thought she might help.

Morgan and Herrera continued their battle in a series of brief clashes. Felicity, walking on the edge of the hurricane, knew it would end when Morgan did not get free from one of those clashes. Then Herrera's giant strength would crush him. Yet, she felt confidence from Morgan.

Herrera smiled, sprang forward and unwound another haymaker. Morgan let it whip past, pushed the extended elbow and kicked to the inside of Herrera's knee. This time the giant grunted, but his fist came back like a tropical wind. Morgan's chest compressed and air burst from him. His back slammed hard on the turf. Herrera landed on him like a staple around a wire, driving the last bit of air out of Morgan's lungs. Morgan felt a rib give way, then hands locked around his neck, flat thumbs working to get under his jaw.

Felicity raised her rock, but hesitated. The time was wrong. Something told her to wait.

Morgan stared up into fevered, bloodshot eyes. He
crossed his arms over Herrera's hands, grabbed the two small fingers, forgot about breathing and pulled.

Colored spots danced in front of Morgan's eyes but he continued the pressure. As powerful as Herrera was, Morgan knew he could not have as much strength in one pinkie as Morgan had in his whole arm.

Herrera did not know it until he heard the snap. His face revealed surprise and he loosened his grip. Twisting in the soft ground, Morgan drove a knee into one of Herrera's kidneys. Turning further, he slammed an elbow into the big man's face.