Act of War aow-1 Page 11

  The second reason for their success was heading in their direction at that moment; Manuel spotted them several hundred meters away: three members of the Policia Militar do Estado of the state of Paraná, the PME, armed with submachine guns and pistols, driving an old American open-top Jeep that sputtered and coughed down the dirt construction road.

  As it was in the days of military rule, the central government was concerned more with antigovernment insurgents and Communist infiltrators rather than with external threats. In Brazil there were few municipal police departments: law-enforcement duties were handled by the PME, which were locally directed by state public safety officials but organized, trained, and administered by the Brazilian armed forces. Here in Cascavel, as in most of the country, the local gendarmes were very well armed and trained. Like police officers around the world, many officers in the PME moonlighted as security guards for private companies and even individuals—and the biggest private employer of PME officers in the state was TransGlobal Energy. So it was with these men.

  But Brazil is a very big country—the fifth-largest in the world in land area—and without strong supervision from state or federal offices, the PME became virtually autonomous, especially in the frontier and jungle regions, answerable to no one except local bosses, wealthy landowners, or military commanders. Many PME officers had been charged with human rights abuses, and steps had been taken over the years to try to more closely supervise the force and punish the offenders, but in the end the old ways worked the best: patronage, fear, guns, retribution, and payola.

  Although these men took money from the Brazilian government to maintain order in Paraná and from TransGlobal to provide private security for the construction site, they also took money from a third source: GAMMA. They and a number of others had been recruited by Ruiz’s second in command, an ex–oil executive from Russia turned activist by the name of Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, to simply look the other way when requested.

  The PME soldiers stopped their Jeep just a few meters from where Ruiz and Pereira were hiding, at a bend in the construction road that would partially hide them from the guard towers back at the construction site. They were making an awful lot of noise. They searched the area carefully, looking right at the two men hiding in the bushes several times, then returned to the Jeep. Ruiz was then surprised when one of them pulled out a bottle of cachaça—liquor similar to rum, fermented from sugarcane juice—and took a sip. Pereira pulled a suppressed .45 caliber IMBEL-GC Pistol-45 from a shoulder holster and aimed it at the men; Ruiz pulled his pistol, a suppressed .380 caliber IMBEL-GC Pistol-380, but did not aim it. He was not yet comfortable with aiming a gun at another human being, although every day in the jungle was slowly but surely changing his mindset.

  “Don’t turn around,” Pereira said.

  The man drinking from the bottle took a shallow swig, passed the bottle, then started taking off his web belt and undoing his fatigue trousers, getting ready to take a piss. “You two fucks are about two minutes away from getting your asses caught,” he said. “They brought in more security in armored vehicles. The first patrol is on its way out.”

  “We’ve seen them—they’re deploying them over at Unit One, not out here,” Pereira said. “Why in hell are you out here drinking, puta?”

  “Because this is outside our normal patrol route—we’ll need a reason why we’re out so far from the construction site. If they spot us from the towers, they’ll see us drinking, and TransGlobal will probably fire us. I wouldn’t want to be around when you two get caught anyway.”

  “You already have your money and your escape plan,” Ruiz said. “All we need to know is if our packages are secure.”

  “No one has touched your packages,” one of the soldiers said. “That is our normal patrol route and our responsibility. Don’t worry.”

  “Then why the hell don’t you just get out?”

  “Because I want to see it with my own eyes when you set it off.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?” Ruiz asked. “Are you crazy, or just drunk?”

  The soldiers looked confused. “It’s not every day you see a nuke go off,” one of the other soldiers remarked.

  “Do you wear just sunglasses, or do you wear special goggles?” another asked. “Are we far enough away here? It looks awful close.”

  Ruiz and Pereira looked at each other in total shock. “What are you talking about?” Pereira exclaimed finally.

  “You guys don’t know?” the first soldier asked incredulously. “Shit no, you don’t, because you’ve been crawling around out here in the mud for the past week. All hell has broken loose in America, and you guys are responsible for it. You’ve just been declared the number-one terrorist organization in the whole fucking world, way ahead of al Qaeda, Islamic Jihad…”

  Ruiz looked at Pereira, his mouth open in surprise. “What happ…?”

  But at that moment, they heard the soldier’s radio crackle. The man listened, then responded. “They’re starting to seal up the entire complex, boys, including the dam. I think your stash of explosives down by the garbage pit was found.”

  “I thought you said…!”

  “Fuck what I said, asshole. I secured them the best I could.”

  “Damn you!” Ruiz holstered his pistol and turned his binoculars toward the dam. He and Pereira had already hidden about a hundred kilos of high explosives in various sections of the dam, getting ready to blow it up in the next couple days; they had planned to plant another fifty kilos, but that was going to be impossible now. They had no desire to make martyrs of themselves, so the plan was to get safely away first—but now it looked like that was not possible either. Sure enough, he saw several dozen soldiers running toward the dam, with a helicopter starting to move into position. Ruiz turned back toward the PME soldiers. “Why didn’t you tell us…?”

  “Because then we couldn’t capture you before the dam blew, assholes,” the soldier said. Ruiz turned. Pereira was still pointing his pistol at the first soldier, but the other two soldiers now had their M-16 rifles aimed at them. “Drop your pistol, Pereira, or my comrades will open fire.”

  “You bastard,” Pereira breathed. “You’ll be the first to die if there’s any shooting.”

  “You won’t be able to spend all the money you’ve been squeezing out of both sides if you’re dead,” Ruiz reminded him.

  “Don’t be stupid, both of you,” the soldier said. “You don’t want to die out here lying in the mud and bushes—neither do I. I take you in, I get the reward money for capturing a saboteur, I get the hell out of the state, and you have Zakharov and your other supporters spring you from prison. Everyone keeps a clear head and we get out of this alive.”

  “The TransGlobal Energy security forces won’t let us live,” Pereira said. “They’ll interrogate and torture us, then dispose of us.”

  “I’ve notified your buddy Zakharov to arrange with the PME and the state tribunal to take you into custody right away—TransGlobal won’t get their hands on you, as long as you do everything I say.” He looked overhead. One of the TransGlobal Energy security force helicopters that had been patrolling the northwest face of the dam was now slowly heading in their direction. “They’ll be watching everything we do, and if you resist, they’ll likely kill you. Do as I say, and I will stay in control of this situation. Now drop the guns and let’s go.”

  “Jorge?” Pereira asked in a low voice. “I think I can tag at least two of them…you might be able to get away…”

  “No,” Ruiz said. “We tried. Put the gun down.” Pereira reluctantly dropped his pistol.

  The PME soldier radioed to the TransGlobal security chief that he had two prisoners and was going to take them to the security force headquarters in Cascavel. The helicopter kept on approaching, very slowly, staying at least fifty to sixty meters away. They could now see a TransGlobal security officer sitting in the helicopter’s open right-side doorway, wearing sunglasses and a headset, with what appeared to be a hunting rifle
with a large telescopic sight affixed, safely pointing out the door but not upraised or aimed at anyone on the ground.

  “He will not hesitate to shoot you in the head if you resist, Ruiz,” the soldier repeated. “Those TransGlobal sharpshooters are damned good, I must admit. Now, first, hand over the detonators to the explosives you set on the dam.”

  “Your greed has destroyed you,” Ruiz said. One of the other soldiers had climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep and started it up; the other lit up a cigarette, cradling his rifle in his arms.

  “Shut up and hand them over, Ruiz,” the leader said. He nodded to the third soldier, then motioned with his head toward Pereira. “Handcuff that one and search him.” The soldier nodded, then slung his rifle over his shoulder as he took a deep drag of his cigarette and reached in a rear pocket for handcuffs.

  Pereira used that moment of distraction to move. The first soldier may have been anticipating his move, because he had the gun trained on him the entire time, but Pereira was quick and managed to get a hand on the pistol…but he wasn’t quick enough to keep him from firing. Pereira was hit in the right shoulder. He cried out and rolled to his right, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he grabbed the second soldier’s rifle out of the front seat. Struggling through the pain, he flicked off the safety and tried to level it at the first soldier, but he had lost all strength in his right arm.

  “Too late, Pereira,” the first soldier said with a smile. The helicopter was hovering, now less than forty meters away. The shooter in the door had already raised his rifle and was taking aim. Pereira thought about trying to dive atop Ruiz before the gunner took them both out, but just then he saw the gunner’s body buck and a puff of smoke jet from his rifle’s muzzle…

  …and the first soldier’s head disappeared in a cloud of red gore. The heads of the two other PME soldiers disappeared seconds later. Three head shots, three kills, from forty meters away, in about three seconds. Whoever was in that helicopter was a damned good shot, Ruiz thought.

  The gunman in the door motioned for Ruiz and Pereira to follow, and then the helicopter translated to a wide spot in the construction road a few hundred meters away. Ruiz supported Pereira as they trotted over to it. The gunman was aiming his rifle toward them, scanning over their shoulders for any sign of pursuit. As they approached, the gunman took his sunglasses off…

  …and when Ruiz saw that it was none other than Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, a wave of relief washed over him: saved once again by Yegor Zakharov, the guardian angel of GAMMA.

  The sharpshooter helped Pereira into a seat in the helicopter and fastened his seat belt for him. “Muito obrigado,” Ruiz shouted over the roar of the helicopter’s jet engine. Instead of trying to respond over the noise, Zakharov motioned with his right thumb as if pressing a button—he was telling Ruiz to detonate the explosives. “But they are not all planted yet!” he shouted.

  “Are you crazy?” Zakharov asked, shouting. In a flash of motion, he raised his Dragunov sniper rifle to his shoulder, aimed toward Ruiz, and fired. Ruiz felt as if he had been slapped in the face by a red-hot paddle as the muzzle blast pounded him…but he wasn’t hit. He looked over his shoulder just as another TransGlobal Energy Security Force Jeep, with a headless driver behind the wheel, careened into a tree about seventy meters behind him. “Blow whatever you got out there and let’s get the hell out of here!” Zakharov shouted. His voice was serious, but he was smiling, like a father admonishing his young son for swearing moments after scoring the game-winning goal.

  Ruiz needed no more prompting. He withdrew a small detonator from his pocket, punched in an unlock code, and hit a red button, holding the unit aloft to be sure its radio signal got out cleanly. But Zakharov wasn’t going to wait. He shouted, “Either it will work or it won’t, Jorge. Let’s go!” then lowered his rifle and grabbed Ruiz by the front of his shirt, pulling him headfirst into the chopper. His feet had barely left the ground before the helicopter lifted off…

  …and the helicopter was barely a kilometer away when the first charge went off, followed quickly by three more. Ruiz and Pereira had hidden four twenty-five-kilo charges on various parts of the dam, designed not to cause a catastrophic failure—they would not have been able to hump in enough explosives to do that, unless they were nuclear devices—but to weaken the structure enough that work on the reactor units would have to be stopped while the dam was inspected and repaired. That could take months, maybe years, and cost TransGlobal millions—hopefully.

  Ruiz looked at the dam as best he could while he fastened his safety belt and donned his headset. “I couldn’t tell if all the charges went off or if the face was damaged,” he said. “All that work for nothing.”

  “You got out with your skin and struck a blow for our cause—that is enough for now,” Zakharov said casually, lowering his Dragunov.

  “I thought you said those PME guys were trustworthy, Zakharov,” Pereira said angrily.

  Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov safetied his sniper rifle, removed the magazine, and ejected the live round from the chamber, leaving the action open. “I did say that, Manuel—but as we all know, money speaks louder than words,” he said in very good Portuguese, laced with a thick Russian accent, like percebes—boiled barnacles—served on fine china. “There is more money than law, authority, morality, or evil out here in western Paraná these days. I guess we just didn’t come up with the right amount of it, and TransGlobal did.”

  Jorge Ruiz sometimes wished he had the life experience and real-world wisdom of men like Pereira and Zakharov, not just his ivory-towered view of right and wrong. He was right, of course—Yegor Zakharov was most often right, at least when it came to operations like this.

  Yegor Viktorvick Zakharov was a former Strategic Rocket Forces brigade commander within the Eleventh Corps, the Black Raiders of the Napoleonic Wars and World War Two fame, headquartered in Kirov, four hundred and eighty kilometers east of Moscow. Large, barrel-chested, and square-jawed, he was a very imposing figure and seemed to be the archtypical Soviet warrior. He was a trained military pilot and an expert marksman, as he’d demonstrated just now and quite often to their men; he was also a weapons expert, intimate with everything from pistols to nuclear weapons and everything in between. He liked to drink straight vodka but would make do with strong Brazilian agua ardente; he had a grudging liking for American whiskey because it made him feel that he was absorbing some secret or clue to the American psyche with every bottle he consumed. Zakharov loved his women as much as his alcohol and, although a husband and father of two sons and a daughter who lived somewhere in the Caribbean, was never without a woman or two in the evenings.

  During the Cold War, Zakharov commanded seven regiments of medium-and intermediate-range surface-to-surface missiles, including the SS-12, SSC-1 cruise missile, and SS-15 mobile ballistic missile, all capable of carrying high-explosive, chemical, biological, or nuclear warheads. His assignment, in case of a massive attack by NATO forces against Moscow, was to blanket Eastern Europe with missiles to stop any thoughts of occupying Russian territory—a modern version of the “scorched Earth” policy used by the Black Raiders in their campaigns against Napoleon and Hitler.

  With the collapse of the Soviet Union and the advent of more and more onerous arms-control agreements, it was made clear to Zakharov that after twenty-two years his services were no longer required by his beloved country, so he took what was left of his measly pension and went into the growing private sector. He became a security officer with the giant Russian oil company KirovPyerviy, one of Russia’s largest private oil companies outside Siberia. He rose quickly in status, power, and wealth, and soon became a vice president. Many believed he would enter politics, but as an ultranationalist his views were not very popular with the Russian Duma, which sought a more centrist leader whom they could use to extract partnerships and favorable financing agreements with the West. Zakharov continued to be an outspoken critic of Russia’s growing rapprochement with the West in general and the United States in
particular.

  Then, the unthinkable happened: the Russian government, which—as was true for all oil and gas companies in Russia—was the principal shareholder in KirovPyerviy, sold its shares of the company to the American oil giant TransGlobal Energy Corporation. Although Zakharov had overnight become a multibillionaire from the value of his own shares in the company, he was outraged and felt betrayed. A foreign company—an American company in particular—owned a majority stake in a large Russian oil firm! It was the very thing he had been warning the Russian people about for years, but he never truly believed it would ever come to pass.

  It was too much to stomach. Zakharov dumped his shares and sold all of his belongings in his hometown of Kirov. It was widely known that he had many residences and mistresses all over the world, particularly in South America and Southeast Asia, but he had virtually disappeared overnight…

  …until one day, about a year after he left KirovPyerviy, Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov mysteriously appeared in Ruiz’s base camp near Porto Feliz, about ninety kilometers northwest of São Paulo, and pledged his personal, financial, and moral support for Ruiz’s guerrilla organization. He admitted he used contacts and resources within the Russian Eleventh Corps, along with his skills and intuition as a security officer and military man, to locate Ruiz and his GAMMA organization. But he tried to assure Ruiz and his followers that he was not here to spy on them but to offer his services and support to the cause.

  At first everyone was wary and believed him to be working undercover for the government—until they saw Zakharov kill a Policia Militar do Estado officer with his own hands on a raid near Macae. The usually cold, indifferent Brazilian state military police would not favor an undercover agent killing one of their own, even a highly placed informant—there appeared to be no doubt that he was tapping into his own connections and resources to assist GAMMA. Slowly but surely, Ruiz was won over. Zakharov was charismatic, powerful, wealthy, and committed to the cause of breaking down all multinational corporations. His focus of course was on TransGlobal Energy, the company that financed the corruption of the Russian government and the betrayal of the Russian working class, but he participated in all of Ruiz’s operations with equal zeal.