Page 2 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
Juan mopped more fevered sweat off his face with his hand. “Why not take him out?”
“His capture would prove superlatively useful in dismantling FARC networks around the region. His corpse wouldn’t be nearly as informative.”
Juan tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his sandal. “So let’s go get him.”
Overholt fought back a grin. He’d first met young Juan as a brush-cut, bleached-blond, blue-eyed surfer boy in a polyester ROTC uniform at Caltech just a few years back.
Now look at him. Eager for the hunt.
Born and bred on the beaches of Southern California, Cabrillo had the powerful, broad-shouldered, wide-chested build of an Olympic swimmer and a dancer’s natural grace. But it was his artistry on the shortboard and high waves that held everyone in awe. To the casual observer, the young man could’ve been written off as just another rock-jawed, carefree surf rat with sand between his toes.
Overholt instantly detected a first-rate intellect behind the mischievous smile and recruited him.
Cabrillo eagerly embraced CIA service as the top-tier opportunity to serve his country and deploy his considerable talents. His linguistic skills were off the charts, and his brief flirtation with dramatic theater all proved invaluable as an undercover field agent. His sangfroid courage was second to none, and he handled small weapons as if they were mere extensions of his preternaturally powerful hands.
But it was Cabrillo’s innate ability to improvise—what Overholt called his “superpower”—that made the much younger man a prodigy in spycraft. He had proven his gift yet again when he proposed a solution for tonight’s mission. It was daring, unconventional, and risky beyond measure.
And the only shot they had.
Cabrillo currently posed as a surf bum and petty drug dealer on the beaches of Tola, Nicaragua—one of the hottest new spots on the world surfing circuit. The Sandinistas found renting longboards to rich German tourists far more profitable than socialism and quite a bit more fun.
Cabrillo’s CIA-fake fiancée, Gretchen, taught him how to hand-paint his long golden hair in the balayage technique with dark brown dye in order to camouflage it. It gave the effect of the blond hairmimicking sun-lightened streaks in naturally dark hair and required little maintenance.
Cabrillo was fully Hispanic on his father’s side, but inherited his mother’s Nordic features. Blond hair and blue eyes were not uncommon in Latin America owing to the extensive European migration of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. But blond hair still attracted too much attention in this part of the world, a potential buzzkill for an undercover agent seeking anonymity in order to survive.
Cabrillo hated wearing contacts, so he didn’t. Besides, his blue eyes were lady-killers and proved useful in that regard on more than one occasion. His physical appearance perfectly fit his cover story, and his faultlessacento mexicanopassed every sniff test by the local criminals and foreign elements he mixed with as he hoovered up intel on international terrorists and gangs.
“Weather?”
“Latest meteorological reports show favorable conditions, including wind speed. Rain moved out an hour ago.”
“Check. Do we have eyes on him now?”
“Negative.”
“Why not?” Juan glanced at the map one more time.
“Too dangerous. Any other questions?”
“When do we blow this popsicle stand?”
“The C-130 Hercules you requested is fueled and ready to go on the far side of the base.”
Overholt checked his watch. “A Jeep will be here momentarily.”
Just then, brakes squealed outside and a horn tapped twice.
Juan grinned, unsurprised by Overholt’s precision.
“Grab your gear,” Overholt said. “I’ll be riding shotgun.”
“Still don’t trust me?”
“Just watching your six, boyo.”
“Perfect.” Juan crossed over to the pallet and snatched up his gear, including an oil-slicked Uzi submachine gun he slung around his neck and a pair of oversize packs. He slipped the heaviest one over his shoulders.
“If a FARC rebel doesn’t shoot you, or an Indigenous warrior doesn’t spear you, a jittery Colombian Army patrol may well take aim. And that’s assuming Suárez doesn’t put a round through your skull at a thousand yards. So keep your head on a swivel down there.”
