Page 77 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

The bus delivered them to the barracks, a steel-reinforced tent with cots. A second tent offered private showers and toilet facilities and a third was a temporary mess hall. Just after debarking they were offered self-serve sandwiches, bottled waters, and decaf coffee. They were then issued two sets of camouflage fatigues, underclothes, socks, and boots before they hit their racks. Everything was tagged with their names and sized according to their applications.

The next morning they were awakened at four-thirty a.m. local by Dragu? banging trash can lids, just like in boot camp.

They hit the showers first. Juan was wearing one of Kevin Nixon’s lifelike artificial legs complete with hair and tats. Perfectly fitted with a 3D template of Juan’s stump, the artificial leg was able to attach to his upper leg seamlessly. Better still, it was so perfectly conformed toJuan’s leg that it created a powerful suction at the connection that was strong enough to walk on without the need for extra support. Juan’s journey to the private shower and back drew no attention. He secretly attached the straps necessary for combat support minutes later when he went to the latrine.

After showers, the men were marched to the mess tent, where they devoured a hearty breakfast of steak, bacon, eggs, bread, coffee, and fruit in short order.

They assembled outside and stood waiting beneath a low but warming sun. Juan and Linc caught a glimpse of their secret destination. Beyond the tarmac and temporary shelters there was what appeared to be a newly constructed three-story concrete building complex. The entire compound was within sight of the ocean. Opposite them was a vast swath of jungle.

Juan guessed the island was several miles in dimension, but standing down on the flat it was impossible to be more precise. In the distance he could just make out a jagged skyline of human construct. Perched in the middle of the mass of foliage was what appeared to be a small mountain. But further observation suggested an abandoned city of towering buildings and apartments haphazardly jammed together. Even from this distance they appeared to be overgrown with climbing vines and foliage.

A towering, bearded figure emerged out of the temporary buildings and marched toward them with a scowling swagger. He wore the same camouflage uniform as they did. The large Glock 17 holstered on his hip wasn’t nearly as intimidating as the force of his character or the smoldering fire in his dark eyes.

Dragu? raced out to meet him with a sharp salute, then fell in beside him. They marched in unison, stopping directly in front of the assembled men.

“Gentlemen, my name is Captain Gustavo Plata. Welcome to our training facility. I am your commander for both the training and the mission. You all know my lieutenant, Florin Dragu?.”

Dragu? nodded curtly.

Cabrillo noted Plata’s heavy Spanish accent. Given his size, thedark-haired, dark-eyed Hispanic merc was descended from Northern European stock.

“We have studied all of your service jackets and know your records well. There is no man here who isn’t supremely qualified to serve on this mission, which is why you are being so well compensated by our mutual employer. Be assured my background is equal to yours. I served with Guatemala’s special forces unit, the Kaibiles.”

Juan and Linc stood apart from each other, but stole a furtive glance. The Kaibiles were, indeed, an elite special forces unit, but they were infamous for their extreme brutality, including the rape and murder of Indigenous civilians.

“After I was dismissed from service for performing my duties with unbounded enthusiasms”—Plata paused, smiling—“I found more profitable opportunities in the private sector.”

Plata’s little joke elicited a few laughs. The band of cutthroat fugitives were all cut from the same cloth.

“We have a heavy training schedule ahead of us. We want to over prepare for what will likely be an underwhelming assignment. But like the snipers say, ‘Aim small, miss small.’ Am I correct, Mr. Davis?”

“You are, indeed, sir,” Linc said.

“Questions?” Dragu? asked.

“Where exactly are we?” Mangin asked. He was a former French marine commando.

“In the middle of nowhere,” Dragu? began. “But more precisely, you are standing on what the locals called the Island of Sorrows.”

“I can see why,” Mangin joked, pointing at the abandoned city in the distance.

Plata turned around and faced the ruins.

“It was a profitable coal mine before the war, until the Japanese turned it into a mining colony for slaves and prisoners of war where many died. There are two known mass graves on the island, and perhaps more. An Australian firm resurrected the mine after the war and hired the surviving locals at slave wages until it was finally exhausted in the late 1960s. Our employer purchased the island several years ago. It is now a training facility.

“Any other questions?” Plata asked.

There were none.

“Vámanos!”

?

Plata marched the men into a classroom in the tented training complex. It was little more than a collection of folding chairs and tables along with a giant whiteboard. Juan and Linc sat apart, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.

“Let’s talk briefly about small-unit tactics,” Plata began. He delivered a brief lecture on the well-known concept of cover-and-move, illustrating his points on the board. His black and red dry-erase markers squeaked as he scribbled X’s, O’s, and arrows across the white surface like a soccer coach reviewing plays at halftime. He flipped the board over and then covered room-clearing operations.

“Questions?”