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  Charlie was appalled. "That's all right for the guns, but this equipment is worth a fortune."

  Alpha was short with his response. "If we are stopped, we will be looked at closely. How would you explain that expensive and high tech gear to a bunch of pissed off Mexicans, Charlie? Fishermen don't have such equipment. You've got what you came for, and you have a terrific report about how the bad guys got killed off. By the time you get back, you will have the story so polished and inspiring to listen to that no one will wonder that you had to dump the hardware.

  "Keep the camera. All Americans have cameras. Put the film in your pockets and stash the sound reels on your body if you can. A visitor might go through everything on the boat, but we probably won't get searched."

  They were further down the river before Charlie asked the questions Alpha had been waiting for.

  "You think the Santos men are all dead? How can you know for sure?"

  "We can't know for sure, but that mob was pouring full automatic fire into everything they saw. Hell, they wasted a hundred rounds on me and the Mercedes."

  Alpha paused to consider what he had seen. Of course, Charlie would never know about Bravo's full magazine into the older men and their sons—plus his own, minus one round that took out the car driver. Alpha said, "If I had to bet big money, I would put it on all of those people being shot into rags. I wouldn't even take a bet that anyone lived through such a barrage."

  "How come Bravo's butt is soaked in blood, and you've got it all over you, even in your hair? You were both in that gunfight, weren't you?" Charlie's words were accusatory, his tone was suspicious and nervous.

  Alpha's answer was easy and sincere sounding. "Bravo sat in that mess?"

  Alpha sounded a bit surprised at his own question, before adding, "Of course he did, I hadn't thought about it. And it is on me, too? Damn."

  Alpha grabbed a towel and dunked it in the river. He began mopping his head and shoulders, sloshing water about and soaking himself thoroughly.

  "When he got shot, that guard, the guy wearing the armored vest, fell across the seat. A .30 caliber bullet at that short range explodes things. There was blood and maybe brains everywhere.

  "The guy's head came apart like a melon, and he bled all over the passenger's seat." Alpha sloshed some more before adding. "You'd better get out of those pants and wash 'em in the river, Bravo. I didn't notice that blood, but I do now. It's black and mostly dry, but that is blood all right."

  His features bland, Alpha turned to Charlie. "Good eye, Charlie. That needed doing."

  Bravo's attention had swung and he appeared to be listening. In almost the same instant, he snatched the throttle and tiller from Charlie's hand and turned the boat sharply toward the river's edge.

  Heavy foliage leaned far over the river providing dark shade close to the banks. Within a few yards the boat was beneath cover with Bravo still driving for the river bank. A small sand bar allowed beaching, and Bravo ran the boat as high as it could travel onto the shore. Then Alpha and Charlie heard or perhaps felt it, the beat of distant helicopter blades pounding their way upriver.

  As one, the soldiers were out of the boat and heaving it higher into the deeper shadows of thorn and thicket, but Charlie was far slower and sprawled awkwardly in the boat bottom.

  Alpha and Bravo skidded the craft over a number of roots and behind brush. They verbally lashed the slow moving agent into cover deep within the heavy foliage. Then they tripped him down and ordered him not to raise his face.

  Alpha explained into Charlie's shocked hearing. "Don't look up. A white face could be seen against this dark jungle. Stay still, and hope they pass."

  The helicopter was moving slowly and flying low. Bravo growled. "They're looking, damn it. Don't anyone even breathe."

  Lying close beside Charlie, Alpha whispered into the agent's ear as softly as if those aboard the loud chopper could hear.

  "If they stop and act as if they have seen the boat, we will get up and trot down to the water's edge to greet them as if they were seldom-seen friends.

  "We'll wave and holler greetings in our best Spanish. If they drop people, we will help them from the water and describe how lousy the fishing has been, and that we are heading out.

  "We will claim that this is as far upriver as we have gotten, and that we have had enough of bugs and sweat. We will say that we are resting up through the heat of the day, we have not heard any shooting, nor have we seen anyone on the river all day or even yesterday."

  "Is all of that clear, Charlie?" The agent nodded slightly, and kept his face buried in the forest humus. Alpha could feel him tremble.

  From a small gap beneath a rotting log, Alpha watched the helicopter approach. Bravo said, "It's an old Huey. Older than we are, probably. I'm glad I'm not in it."

  "Mexican military?" Alpha was unsure, but Bravo was not.

  "Yep, and shooters perched in both doors."

  The chopper came on, its rotors below the tree tops, allowing the riflemen to see the river beneath the massive overhanging limbs and leaves.

  If the boat had been in the water, it would have been seen, but in deep shadow and within the forest, ordinary eyes could not detect its shape or color. Alpha heard Charlie groan and shift slightly. He placed his hand on the agent's back encouraging him to remain unmoving.

  The old Huey seemed to almost hover in its flight, but its shape gradually drew away, and slowly its engine sounds receded. Not until even the echoes were gone did the three men sit up.

  Charlie said, "God, that was close."

  Alpha kept his voice soft. "They might come back down, so we will keep listening, but my guess is that they will be hot and tired, low on fuel, and ready to quit. They will most likely fly high and straight back to wherever they came from."

  Bravo added, "They were looking hard, and that means they are hunting for people involved in that firefight. Whoever those raiders were that wiped out the Santos family, I hope to heaven they did not come in by boat. All hundred or more of them could be laying up, just like we are, and when it gets dark they could make a break down this river."

  Charlie groaned aloud. "If I ever get out of this, I'm never going beyond the beltway again."

  The boat was re-launched, and the motor started on the first pull. Bravo said, "Well, if they are on the river, we've got a big lead on them, but if we see boats coming down we will hit the jungle and hope they do not bother with us."

  Alpha made his voice sound sure—as if he really had a clue to what the bandits or raiders would be thinking.

  "Everybody relax. If the bad guys are in boats, they will not stop for anyone or anything. Remember, they just gained a million or more dollars, and they probably got away almost unscathed. They want to be gone and forgotten even more than we do."

  Bravo snickered. "Unscathed? Nobody talks like that, Alpha."

  Charlie was not amused. "How soon can we get off this boat? Buses run from some of the towns below here."

  Alpha answered, "Don't rush it, Dewey." The use of his given name caught Charlie's attention. Alpha said, "Buses get checked by police at about every stop. We are safer afloat. Nobody is likely to be out on the river checking passports."

  Bravo explained. "I can't think of anyone other than a huge troop contingent that would risk running into the bunch that jumped the drug family. I figure that helicopter was covering this escape route while other troops moved in along the roads and probably from the air.

  "Those guerillas have disappeared into the jungle. They've buried their guns and are hoeing maize or something. The army won't catch them. If they could, they would have wiped them out long ago. By now, the chase is already dying. The military went through the motions, the shooting scene is being examined, and the regulars are scooping up anything not taken by the criminals. This is Mexico, Charlie. Nothing goes to waste."

  Alpha put a temporary lid on it. "We shouldn't keep talking over the engine. We are fishermen. We will return the boat on the day after tomorrow. We
will get on the milk run plane and land at the international airport. Charlie will be met, his stuff will be placed in a diplomatic pouch, and he will fly home to plaudits, awards, and back slaps.

  "Bravo and I will take flights that will end up at Fort Bragg. We will report in, and that will be the end of it."

  Alpha shook his head in denial of his own words. "Well, not really the end of it. Some of Charlie's people will waste hours debriefing us—milking us for stuff we never saw. Then the many agencies will drop us as if we were radioactive, and we will never be called on again."

  Charlie said nothing, but Bravo could see him thinking about Alpha's words, so he added his own thinking.

  "One more thing, Charlie. We will keep in touch with you. It will be your job to let us know if any specters rise from the ashes of this operation. No one can know who we are, but our names are in your agency's files. If there is any exposure, any exposure at all, we want to know instantly.

  "Most of a powerful family died back there, Charlie. We can assume the guerillas or whatever they were will be correctly blamed, but if there is any fallout, you will have to tell us—not the agency letting us know, Charlie; you get word to us."

  Alpha took over. "Agencies can become very impersonal, Charlie, you know how that can be. We want you to remember who was out here with you, and we expect you to warn us about anything, from anywhere, by anybody—whether it's good or it's bad.

  "We will do the same for you, Mister Dewey Lavender. We expect no trouble, but we want to be covered, and so do you, Charlie."

  Alpha smiled without his eyes changing expression. "Bravo and I may not even be serving together, but we will be in touch with each other, and we will be very interested in how you explain all that went on out in this jungle. We'll call in once in a while, Charlie.

  "OK, buddy?"

  Charlie nodded understanding, and perhaps acceptance, but neither Alpha nor Bravo thought the company man demonstrated even the minimal hoped-for enthusiasm.

  — — —

  Charlie was gone—an almost direct flight in first class seating via counselor air to Andrews Air Force Base just outside Washington D. C.

  Don Byrne and Tommy Shepard purchased coach tickets aboard Mexican commercial flights that would, eventually, reach Georgetown in the Cayman Islands. After a short stay, they would enplane for Miami, and on other aircraft they would reach Raleigh-Durham in North Carolina.

  In North Carolina, Don Byrne's old Ford waited in long-time parking. Both travelers wondered if the car would start following its lengthy vacation. Assuming it did, they would drive the hour plus trip east on Interstate 40, then south on I-95 to Fort Bragg and report in.

  If asked, Byrne would explain their circuitous route through the Caribbean as a precaution against being connected to the departure of the more important Dewey Lavender—by anyone who should not make such connections.

  Of course, the senior NCOs would be suspected by their superiors of choosing a stop in the Cayman Islands as an unauthorized sightseeing detour, but what could you do? The men were authorized to make their own ways home.

  The Caymans were pleasurable, but Byrne and Shepherd also had work to be accomplished. Each opened a small savings account, in their bank of choice. Each informed the bank manager that the account would remain dormant for many months, but when the account became active, large amounts of money would be deposited.

  The new account holders emphasized that when the large deposits appeared, there was to be no notice taken and no official curiosity aroused.

  The banker assured his customers that he was familiar with such requests and complete confidentiality was guaranteed.

  Chapter 4

  Their plan had been formed on one of the aircraft moving them north. Alpha was, as usual, the schemer. In this case, Byrne's leading made special sense because only he knew where the treasure lay.

  Bravo experienced no resentment. A fact both men recognized was that Don Byrne was quickest off the mark, and he could plan far ahead of where an opponent was looking. Tom Shepard provided balance. He could move at a more deliberate pace, which eased Alpha's sometimes barely constrained slashing and dashing.

  When Charlie was safely away and they were alone, Bravo had said, "So, now's the time. How are we going to get back into the middle of Mexico and extract six large money packs without getting caught and probably executed?"

  Alpha pretended surprise. "Oh, I thought you weren't interested in those bags. You know, way up that river, all those bugs and heat."

  "Oh, I'm interested, pardner." Bravo stressed the pardner, just as Alpha had.

  Although he was certain no one was nearby, Byrne used a moment to look around—just checking.

  "Getting in and finding the money will be routine—assuming someone won't have already carried it off or there wasn't a brush fire that burned it all up."

  Shepard was short with his friend's humor.

  "Don't try to ruin my day. Until we have the bags in our hands, I will be worrying about that kind of miserable stuff, just as you will."

  "As I was saying," Byrne went on, "getting in is easy. It's getting out and disposing of that much money that is difficult."

  "I suppose you are planning on flying into that airstrip, Don, but we will have to round up a plane and a pilot that we can trust—and maybe some kind of a cart to haul the bags to the plane in one trip. That will cost a lot of money that we haven't got. We ought to find a way that will include only us."

  Alpha gazed disdainfully at his companion.

  "Fly in? What a rotten idea. If you were a criminal, you would be a smash and grab thief, Shepard. That landing strip will be watched forever, and any strange planes or people in that part of Mexico will be hit just the way those Santos men were.

  "When we go in we will be smooth and swifter than snakes. We will be in and out like ghosts. We will . . ."

  "Yeah, I remember hearing the 'jungle ghost' coming for at least a half mile before you appeared. What is your plan, Byrne—if you even have one?"

  Byrne seemed to change subjects.

  "Have you ever heard of a Sumnercraft yacht?"

  Shepard was unfamiliar with most boats.

  "What is it? A sort of Cigarette boat that we can power up those rivers at fifty knots? Oh, that will be sneaky in and out, all right."

  Byrne ignored the outburst. "No, the Sumnercraft I am thinking about is a thirty-four foot sailboat. Quite fast under power, sails adequately, and draws only three feet."

  "We are going to sail up the river, so that when we come out the entire Mexican Coast Guard and their Navy will be waiting for us?" Shepard looked at Byrne in pretended awe. "You had a hand in planning the Iraq campaign didn't you, Byrne?"

  Then Don Byrne explained how they would do it.

  When he finished, Tommy Shepard nodded and said, "Alpha, that is exactly what I was going to suggest."

  — — —

  The only doubts shared began with Tommy Shepard's question. "Do you ever wonder how in hell this all began, Donny? We're just ordinary guys. We haven't led troops in war, and we haven't earned a decoration more prestigious than the Good Conduct Medal."

  "I know how it began, Tom. We both saw a chance to do something worthwhile—for the betterment of humanity. Not many men ever have an opportunity to do good on a large scale. We took the risk of getting killed or being jailed forever, and we won.

  "We killed those drug dealing Santos bastards, Tom. We killed them, not that bunch of bandits that showed up after we got started."

  Byrne's laugh was cold. "We killed them, and the guerilla's got blamed for it. Just about perfect, I figure."

  He glanced at Shepard. "Don't try to tell me that you have regrets?"

  "Of course, I don't have regrets. It couldn't have worked out better, but I marvel that we did anything at all. Just like that, two ordinary guys leap out of the brush and change the history of major drug trafficking. Incredible!

  "If we had known about the money bags in the
car? Well, maybe anyone would have given it a try, but we had no idea. Getting rich wasn't in our minds at all—until it was all over, that is."

  Byrne nodded, "There's an old saying, 'Man plans, God laughs.' I think that applies here."

  Tommy grimaced, "I hope that is not true. We are planning now, Byrne."

  "Yeah, let's hope God is in a good mood, pardner."

  Shepard's voice was sober. "Well, if we get killed or jailed trying for the money, my defense before God, or worse yet the Mexican court system, will be that it was all your idea, and that you lured me into dishonest ways."

  Byrne nodded and spoke his last words on the subject. "If you are going to blame me, maybe I should get more when we split the swag."

  "Swag? Good God, Byrne. Nobody says swag anymore, and fifty percent is all you get—period!"

  Don Byrne's enlistment ran out two months before Shepard's. The military was surprised that Byrne, an expected lifer, was quitting the service, but these days many highly trained NCOs decided to move on. Some became security contractors making big money. Most just became civilians. Byrne cleared post and moved to Sarasota, Florida. Only Bravo kept track of him.

  When he checked in with Charlie—still being careful—Byrne used a pay phone in an out of state city.

  Byrne emptied his savings account and cashed in his few bonds. He closed out his single credit card and became a cash only citizen. Don Byrne was striving to develop caution beyond anything he had been trained for.

  Tom Shepard made similar preparations. When he left the army, his trail too would virtually disappear.

  Except for occasional calls to Charlie, neither man regularly used the Alpha or Bravo designations.

  In Florida, Don Byrne met with his friend Malcolm. Malcolm's last name was often recognized because the man was wealthy—very wealthy.

  Unlike most men of exceptional substance, Malcolm enjoyed the company of strong and tough men of ordinary means. "Malc" liked to believe that he was, at heart at least, one of them.

  And to a marked degree, he was. Malcolm had met Don Byrne in a Gold's Gym, and they had pumped iron together. Although he had not served and was now far too old, Malcolm admired men who had experienced the military. The two became friends, and they often sailed together on Malcolm's boat—an extensively modified Sumnercraft.