INTIMATE DANGER
AMY J. FETZER
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Dedicated with love to my Fetzer nieces
Cathy Fetzer
Leann Shank
Julia Fetzer Schusta
Dawn Shank Steffal
Laura Winchester Webber
Holly Shank
Love you all,
Auntie Amy
Author’s Note
Though this novel is a product of my imagination, there is some truth to the plot. There are ruins in the Andes, homes carved into cliffs, and the Loma Negra dig exists. It’s the most recent find; and while the Moche flourished in 430 B.C.– 600 B.C. before the Inca, they too disappeared from existence after the Spanish invasion. They left behind their homes, art, carvings, wall paintings, and the Quechua language, believed to be their own. Lambayeque and Chimú cultures are the descendants of the Moche.
For more information, try http://www.go2peru.com/ moche_route.htm
Or my favorite, www.nationalgeographic.com.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
One
0118 hours Zulu
Mediterranean Sea
Six fathoms below
Some people were a waste of human tissue.
Sixty feet underwater, Cumbiya speeches and tiptoeing around countries harboring terrorists didn’t mean a damn thing. No political sanctions, no gray areas.
Just the way Mike Gannon liked it. And if those in the cheap seats yakked outside the eyes only perimeter, any investigation usually followed a lot of “I have no recollection of that event, Senator” moments. Like now. Stepping onto Libyan soil was a no-no in the international ball game. Not that he gave a damn.
This time, it was personal.
Mike frowned behind the dive mask when his rebreather suddenly tasted like roadkill, and he checked the filtration gauge for toxicity. Traveling for two miles underwater was pushing it. The last thing he wanted was to suffocate on a bad oxygen mix before reaching the shores near Tripoli.
An ironic epitaph for a Marine.
In the black deep, he watched the glowing green lines of the Global Positioning System, estimating time to target less than five minutes. The propulsion torpedo pulled him through the water and he finned for extra speed, maneuvering beneath the surface like a shark after its prey. Time for some payback.
To the left and right of him, in tight formation were DiFazio, Valnik, and Krane. When his fin touched ground, he switched off the propulsion and let it float with him to the shore as well as forty-five pounds of equipment could. He anchored it with his dive weights, then drove a leash spike into the sand. He had just enough fuel to get back to the sub. Maybe.
Removing his fins, he didn’t surface till his team was in synch with him, then slowly they rose to eye level above the surface. He switched the goggles from underwater illumination to night vision, then checked the area. The ruins of an ancient village spread over the top of a rock embankment, decaying and uninviting in the dark.
Beyond it lay the target, unlit and about thirty feet above sea level.
Eleven men had escaped from a Yemen prison. Convicted al-Qaeda fighters. Spec Ops had already located and eliminated seven. According to intelligence, the last of them were hiding out here on Farawa Island. A low, flat nothing-but-palm-trees piece of land that was closer to Tunisia than Libya so no one could say al-Qadhafi harbored them. There wasn’t a part of the Middle East that wasn’t unstable, and no country wanted to send in forces to clean up the mess. Except America. This time, there would be no escape.
His orders were to proceed with extreme deadly force. When in doubt, take it out.
The island had few inhabitants, and little tourism since it was under development to be a vacation destination on the other side of the island. Yeah, sure, Mike thought. Come to Libya, dine with suicide bombers. That’ll bring them in.
But the discovery of Roman artifacts put the kibosh on any progress as archaeologists dug furiously before construction vehicles lined the narrow causeway from the Tunisia-Libya border. The advantage for the team was—the place was dead except for a little street traffic. The disadvantage was a boat loaded with sympathizers ready to transport the three targets to their next safe house was four miles behind them and closing fast. They had to be quick and thorough.
At Mike’s signal, the team rose out of the sea like serpents, the wet sheen quickly dissolving like a shedding skin, turning invisible in the moonless night. Mike’s antiballistic material in his dive vest grew instantly lighter as it drained. Moving low and forward, he pulled back the hood, released the rebreather, and concealed it in the hollows of rocks with his fins. On one knee, Krane took up position to guard. Equipment stashed, they stripped down the wet gear to minimal weapons, then advanced quickly. Valnik remained on the shore, guarding their backs.
The three paused at the foot of the rock jetty. The wind and sand had shaved down the crumbling walls above to no taller than six feet. Mike was forward, his MP5 assault rifle equipped with silencer, scope, and laser track still in the wet pack. He wasn’t going for long-distance shots. Close combat was essential for concealment. The 9mm Beretta with suppressor would do the job. Or a knife.
They
