Brody sucked in his breath. “Oh shit, Jack, I’m sorry.” He knew all about the close friendship between the two men. “He’s still working for the Monterro family?”
“Yes, sir.” Jack’s own indrawn breath was a little unsteady. “There’s a high probability that Ariana Monterro has also been killed.”
Brody was silent for a moment, and then he asked in a calm, formal tone, “What do you need, Captain McAuley?”
Jack let out a silent sigh of relief and leaned back in his office chair. “Mara Savige has asked me to go down there to identify Elliot’s body and repatriate him. I’d like to request official leave to do so.”
“Granted,” was the immediate response. “I’ll sign you off for a week right now; let me know if you need any more time than that. Do you want a team to take with you?”
“I shouldn’t think so, sir,” Jack said gratefully. “Unless,” a sickening thought occurred to him, “unless it wasn’t an accident. In which case, I think we should probably wait for an official request for help from the Guàlizeans anyway, if they choose to make one.”
“I’ll leave it to your judgment once you’re on the ground. Please keep me apprised of the situation — and please convey my deepest sympathy to Minister Raul Monterro.”
If he did that, it would be an acknowledgment that Ari was dead. Jack closed his eyes in grief. “Yes, sir,” was all he said, though.
“Do you have transport?” Brody’s tone became crisply efficient again.
“Not yet, sir. I was planning to head for the airport and get on the first flight that’ll get me to Guàlize.”
“I think we can maybe do a little better than a commercial flight, Jack. Let me pull a few strings. That way you can get to the crash site itself a lot faster without having to wade through miles of red tape. With any luck, I can get permission from the Guàlizeans for you to parachute in directly; that means you can go in uniform and armed, too. You’d be our official representative.”
“I think the Ambassador might have something to say about that, sir!”
“Not the United States’ official representative to the country, Jack.” Brody snorted with laughter. “The Rangers’ official representative to Raul Monterro, offering our assistance in whatever he needs. I can slide that nicely by the authorities, especially if you enter the country in uniform but not via the airport. We have enough history with Monterro, especially you personally, that I should be able to get the powers-that-be to sign off on it pretty quickly, and that means I’ll be able to call in a few favors from the Air Force to get you a ride down there.”
“I’ll leave that to your superior ability to kiss ass, sir,” Jack said in extremely polite tones.
Brody laughed. “Get out of here, Jack. Go get your kit together. And keep me in the goddamn loop.” He dropped back to a somber tone. “I’ll have Selina go see Mara Savige. Assure her that the Rangers are here for her even though Elliot died a civilian. You bring his body home so we can give him the send-off he deserves.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Jack could say. “Thank you very much, sir,” he added before putting the phone down and leaning back in his chair to press the heels of his hands hard against his burning eyes.
Brody called back two hours later on his personal cell. Jack was at home, preparing things for at least a week’s absence, getting his neighbor to pick up his mail, and emptying out his refrigerator. He’d already packed himself a parachute and a light pack with a couple of spare sets of fatigues. He wasn’t going to go in armed for war, but he planned to pack his personal sidearm and a couple of clips of ammunition, provided Brody could get him authorization to take them into Guàlize.
“Everything’s squared away with the top brass,” Brody came straight to the point. “I’m waiting on a call back from my Air Force counterpart, who’s just arranging with the Guàlizeans when and where you’ll be dropped. They’re not talking about the crash to anyone; it’s being kept very hush-hush for now.”
That sounded fishy to Jack, and he immediately said so.
“You and me both,” was Brody’s response. “Ariana Monterro’s a VIP down there by anyone’s definition, considering that her father is almost certain to be the next President from what my source at the State Department told me. A plane crash involving her should be all over the news, but nobody at this end had any idea it had happened until I told them.”
“I didn’t know Raul Monterro was in line to be President,” Jack said, startled.
“Neither did I, but State seem pretty sure. The Guàlizeans have a similar system to us; their president can only serve a maximum of two four-year terms. Word is that Raul is the heir apparent, and the election is less than two years away. Nothing is official yet, but his popularity with the general public, his good relations with the US, and his willingness to kick ass and take names against the drug lords should make him pretty much a shoo-in with the electorate.”
Jack rubbed at his forehead, swearing under his breath. “This complicates things a hell of a lot more.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I’ll send your dress uniform down to the American Embassy in Guàlize City just in case you have to make any public appearances with Raul. State told me in no uncertain terms to make it very clear that Monterro, President Garcia, and the country of Guàlize have the full backing of the United States of America. They’ve got a team from the National Transportation Safety Board on standby to go down and assist with investigations, but the request will have to be made from that end. It’ll be your call on the ground whether to press Raul to make that request, Jack, so keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”
“Yes, sir,” was the only possible response Jack could give to that instruction.
* * *
So here he was, several hours later, looking down on the jungle speeding by underneath the plane's belly, once again preparing to increase his ratio of takeoffs to landings.
“Ready, Captain?” the loadmaster shouted in his ear, and he nodded sharply, pulling his goggles into place. It wasn't a particularly high jump; they were only at fifteen thousand feet. He could see the mountain now, the huge gash ripped into the foliage by the doomed aircraft as it crashed through the thick jungle canopy. “Three, two, one, jump!”
Nobody survived that, was Jack’s first thought as he freefell toward the crash site. The aircraft had broken up into half a dozen large pieces; he was somewhat surprised that there didn’t seem to have been much fire, but then it had been less than a hundred miles from its destination at Guàlize City — probably hadn’t had much fuel remaining in the tanks. The rainforest was thick here, plenty of regular precipitation. Maybe the foliage was wet enough that the fire hadn’t had much time to catch hold. He popped his parachute canopy at the perfect moment and carried on surveying the crash site from the air as his freefall slowed to a glide.
Over there, he thought, that black stripe in the jungle is the sign of a fire. One of the engines perhaps, ripped free from a wing as the plane crashed through the tree canopy.
A lit flare caught his attention, and he turned his head, realizing that someone was trying to guide him in for a landing. There was a crosswind, but for an expert parachutist like Jack it was no problem to adjust his angle of approach and land where he was directed in the cleared gash on the approach to the wreckage.