by Gary Ponzo
Nick closed his file and leaned back in his seat. “I was simply trying to—”
“I know what you were doing,” Matt said. “Cut it out. I love Julie and I love Thomas. They’re the closest thing to family I have right now. Don’t shut that out because you’re trying to protect me.”
Nick sighed. “Okay.”
“And quit looking at me with pity in your eyes. Jennifer is gone, but I’m still here.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“And quit popping those pills and acting like they’re aspirin. Tell me what they do to you and how they make you feel. I need to know this stuff so I can tell when you’re entirely with me or off on a cloud somewhere.”
Now, Nick was nodding ferociously, coming to realize exactly what he’d been disguising all along. “Okay, they’re making me a little lethargic. I get dizzy and my legs feel like I have ankle weights. If I take them every day, the side effects seem to diminish, but I keep trying to wean myself off of them. So when stress suddenly hits, I’m forced to take them because a full-out PTSD attack could debilitate me for an hour or two at a time.”
Matt had his gun in his lap and twisted sideways so his long legs took up the entire aisle. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Listen, you don’t need to do this. I can go with Tommy and whoever and get this done.”
Even though the plane jostled a bit, Nick couldn’t help but smile. “You think I’m going to leave you alone in a jungle with Tommy?”
Even Matt had to grin at that one. “Okay, but we’re already outnumbered. One less person isn’t going to matter. It’s practically a one-man operation waiting to happen.”
Nick leaned his head back against the headrest and shut his eyes. “The Camenos own that part of the Amazon. There won’t be any capturing going on. They’ll instantly kill you, then parade your corpse around town square in Medellin for the news to see. An American spy is caught trying to destabilize the government of Colombia. You think I’m going to watch that on my TV set and be able to live the rest of my life as a normal human being?”
Matt let out a breath. “So it’s better that two spies are paraded around Medellin and Julie and Thomas live the rest of their lives without you?”
“You know, buddy, as twisted as it sounds, the answer to that question is yes.”
Matt grinned. He patted Nick’s cheek with his hand. “All right, then, let’s find this guy and get out before anyone knew what happened.”
Nick opened his manila file and returned to reviewing the documents. “Now you’re making sense.”
“I love you too,” Matt said.
Nick looked over at his partner and cocked his head.
“I was talking to my gun,” Matt deadpanned. “Jeesh. A guy can’t even get affectionate with his weapon without getting a strange look. What’s happening to this world?”
Chapter 12
They met in Walt Jackson’s office to discuss the operation instead of the War Room in the basement. It was a twenty-four- to thirty-six-hour mission, and since Walt was given the assignment, he wanted them to focus without interruptions. Defense Secretary Martin Riggs and FBI Director Louis Dutton sat on the couch, while Assistant CIA Director Jeffery Faust sat in a chair by himself. Faust was an obvious spectator and his disapproval showed with folded arms and tightly crossed legs. He was the second in charge for all international operations and he sat in the FBI’s Baltimore Field Office instead of in Langley where it should’ve been. It was apparent that he wasn’t excited about the president’s curious choice of jurisdiction.
Walt had three eighty-four-inch TV monitors set up on the wall behind his desk. He shut the blinds and dimmed the overhead lights to elucidate the images. The middle image was currently a satellite feed directly over the ten-square-mile area along the border of Brazil and Colombia. Stevie Gilpin, the FBI’s finest computer science technician, sat in Walt’s chair setting up the computer to display the necessary images on the TV monitors.
Walt paced along the wall of TVs with his computer tablet firmly clutched in his left hand, ready to bring up any essential data for the proceedings. He pointed to the left monitor which displayed the airfield in Bogota, Colombia, where President Merrick would be landing later that afternoon.
“So, when does the first transport get there?” Jeffery Faust asked. His right leg was crossed over his left and his right foot swirled tiny circles of impatience.
Defense Secretary Martin Riggs sensed the tension and it seemed he was ready to challenge the assistant CIA director’s behavior. “Why don’t you come down off that mountain, Jeff, and help us out here?”
Faust opened his arms in mock confusion. “What? All I did was ask a question. I’m not running point on this, so I need to know some data. ”
FBI Director Louis Dutton backed up Riggs’s comment. “You haven’t mentioned one valuable piece of information the entire time we’re here. Did they take Colombia off your map over at Langley?”
Before Riggs could pile on with another jab, Walt held up his hand. “Stop,” he said, then looked at Faust with a sense of compassion. “Look, Jeff, I didn’t lobby for this responsibility. It landed in my lap. This is personal to the president and he wanted someone he knew and trusted. That’s why he chose Nick and Matt. Not because the FBI is better or I’m smarter than you. So why don’t you become part of our team. We could sure use you.”
Faust gave one last pout, then unfolded his arms and gestured to the airfield in Bogota. “You’re looking at this from a two-dimensional position. If you back out from that image you’ll notice a hill less than a half mile to the south. It’ll be a good spot for a sniper to operate from.”
Walt looked at Stevie on the computer, but he didn’t need to say anything. The young tech with round glasses and lightning fast typing skills already had the image zoomed out with elevation markers added as well.
Stevie pointed the curser to the hill Faust had spoken about and planted a red X on the screen.
Walt resumed his pace. “The president is already on Air Force One.” He glanced at the time on his tablet. “Okay, so the transport arrives in Bogota an hour before Air Force One. They’ll have enough Marines and Secret Service to take on a small army. That should give them plenty of time to secure the area.”
“What about the trip to Casa de Nariño?” Faust asked skeptically.
“You’re familiar with General Henning?” Riggs asked him.
“Of course.”
“He’s handling the entire security detail while the president is there.”
Faust raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Walt said, “it’s probably overkill, but we’re taking no chances.” He pointed to the middle monitor and said, “So let’s focus on the rescue mission. Stevie, back out a little on this one as well.”
The satellite image of Amazon treetops began to get smaller.
“Hold it right there,” Walt said. As the image returned into focus, a body of water became visible in the lower right corner of the screen. “That’s it. That’s our only way in.”
Riggs nodded. “It’ll have to be amphibious. You could probably land a small twin-prop on that thing.” Then Riggs turned to look at Walt. “So who else is going besides Nick and Matt?”
Walt made eye contact with his boss.
Louis Dutton loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. “Well, Marty, that’s a damn good question. Here’s what we know. Nick and Matt are currently on a plane to Miami to pick up some equipment for the trip and get some vaccinations. They’ll be picking up an informant to take with them to Colombia . . . possibly two.”
Riggs was smart enough not to press for names and let it go, but Faust picked up on the nebulous nature of the explanation and didn’t seem satisfied.
“Who are these guys?” Faust asked. “Are they expert guides for the rainforest?”
“Yes,” Dutton said, then deliberately stopped.
“Three Navy SEALs will accompany the team,”
Walt interjected, trying to shift the conversation.
“I see,” Faust said, probably considering how far to take it. “Well, we’ll need a local plane and a pilot to fly the crew into this location. It’ll have to be a sea plane, something that can land on this lake.”
“Why not parachute?” Dutton asked.
Faust shook his head. “They’ll be picked off like fish in a barrel. Plus, there’s very little open space near the target zone. You’ll want to use something familiar to the area. A helicopter is a red flag. A small plane flying at low altitude is a commonplace occurrence. Drug runners fly past this region all day long. They wouldn’t give it a second look.”
“I agree,” Walt said. “Let’s keep it clandestine as long as possible.”
“There’s not much time. Do you want me to arrange it?” Faust asked.
Walt and Dutton exchanged glances.
“What?” Faust asked.
It made sense that the only Marine in the room would take on the true reason the FBI had been allocated the lead on the assignment. Riggs said, “On the most recent report Ken sent the president about Colombia, he stated that President Santoro hated Pablo Moreno. They were supposedly sworn enemies. The report claimed that one of your high-level operatives substantiated this finding.”
Walt could tell that Faust saw it coming. He also knew that Faust wasn’t dumb enough to look too prepared. It was almost an admission of guilt. Instead, the assistant director of the CIA did what most high-ranking officials do when their integrity was being questioned. Find the fall guy.
“I know,” Faust said with regret on his face. “This operative has been contacted and will be debriefed. We need to know where he got the bogus information.”
“No,” Walt said, suddenly sensing an opportunity. “Why don’t we give the operative some disinformation? Send him a coded message. Tell him the US government will not be sending a rescue squad to Colombia. We’ve decided to use the diplomatic approach. President Merrick will lead the entourage himself.”
Riggs nodded. “I like it. Maybe take the pressure off these guys. Divert their attention to the president’s trip instead.”
Faust shook his head in disbelief. “You’re kidding yourself if you think a presidential visit will allow these guys to sneak into the Amazon, find the president’s brother, then rescue him from the Camenos. With what? Four or five guys? That can’t be realistic. Whose idea was this?”
Faust looked around to find no one making eye contact with him.
Finally, Riggs turned to him and said, “President Merrick is the one who mandated this mission.”
Faust pursed his lips. “Well, shit, Marty. It’s a bad idea, and you know it.”
They all stared at the computer images in silence as they tried to digest the degree of difficulty they’d just condemned a couple of hard working agents to.
Walt examined the Amazon jungle with its tightly woven tree trunks and integrated undergrowth and came up with the question that no one had even thought to discuss.
“We need an exit strategy,” Walt said.
“What’s the point?” Faust replied, sardonically. “They’ll all be dead within a couple of hours.”
Walt had placated the guy long enough. He put his tablet down on the coffee table and stood over Faust with his six-foot-four frame and glared. “He’s the Commander-in-Chief, Jeff. We follow his instructions. It’s our job to make sure they work. Now, either you help us execute a plan or get the fuck out of my office.”
Faust must’ve seen how Riggs and Dutton were looking at him, just waiting for him to show a sliver of defiance. He looked up at the monitor. “Okay, first of all, how do we know he’s even in the jungle? He could be in Medellin where the Camenos headquarters are located. ”
“Tendencies,” Walt said. “Our analysts evaluated the Camenos method of operation and discovered they have a specific system for their kidnappings. They keep the victim in one of their small camps in the rainforest, away from city. It makes it difficult to find and even more challenging to stealthily advance on the secure environment. They have lookouts and treetop cameras and a pretty sophisticated security system in place. That’s why a smaller, more surgical approach is warranted.”
Faust rubbed the side of his face as he examined the image on the monitor with the body of water. “We’re losing the image.”
“Yeah,” Stevie said, working the keyboard at warp speed. “The satellite is moving away. We’ll have a four-hour gap until the next one passes by.”
“Well, that’s not going to work,” Faust said. “We can’t monitor this operation with those types of gaps.”
Walt nodded, then turned to Stevie. “Tell them what you’ve got.”
The young tech was entirely focused on the computer screen and didn’t seem to hear the question.
“Stevie?”
Without ever looking up, Stevie grinned audaciously. “I’ve got one of our high-altitude drones on the way. The Zephyr. It operates in the stratosphere so it can’t be detected with the naked eye. The Zephyr will send real time high-resolution video while the satellite is out of viewing range. I can have it remain in a holding pattern over the site and if someone gets sloppy on the ground, we can send Delta Force.”
“We have to be careful,” Dutton said. “Not only is this a democratic nation, but we have an unbalanced president leading the way. A Special Forces attack is an act of war. This would not be viewed favorably around the globe.”
Walt pointed to the middle screen and said, “Stevie, move out further and add borderlines.”
A moment later, Walt pointed to a spot just south and east of the Colombian border. “The Brazilian government has given us permission to station a couple of choppers at their Air Force base in Porto Velho. Team Twelve will be ready to fly in and get out within thirty minutes.” He pointed to a spot just off the west coast of Colombia. “We also have the USS George Washington on its way as well.”
Walt turned back to face the rest of the group. “The real problem is communications. Obviously there’s no cell coverage and once they’re under that jungle canopy, it’ll be near impossible for a satellite to send and receive phone or even GPS signals.”
“Wow,” Faust said. “What’s the good news?”
“The good news,” Walt said, “is one way or another, it’ll all be over by tomorrow night.”
Chapter 13
Cat Island, Bahamas, was a tiny spec on the map. Fifty miles long and barely a mile wide in most spots, it was a long strip of paradise without the nuisance of tourists kicking up the pristine pink sand with their designer sandals.
Although it was only an hour flight from Miami, it got virtually no attention from the outside world and that’s exactly how Anton Kalinikov liked it. He sat in a wicker chair on the patio of the Greenwood Beach Resort, sipping his iced coffee and reading the morning paper on his iPad, while his wife snorkeled in the Atlantic Ocean just a hundred feet away. Every now and then he’d look up and see her gliding along the shoreline in pure ecstasy.
Once the KGB was disbanded in 1991, Kalinikov lost his job. After a couple of months without work, he discovered an underground network of overpaid professionals who were looking to mold their respective countries by manipulating the leaders who ran them. This is where Kalinikov was able to utilize his best skill set. His ability to kill. Once it became obvious he was a master assassin, he was sought after by the highest bidder. But he never would do more than one job a year and never twice in the same country. This way he made sure to avoid detection without returning to the scene.
After a good long run, he decided to end the stress that came with the job and spend more time enjoying life. He had holed away over five million dollars during his career and now he and his wife would live quite comfortably on the interest alone for the rest of their lives. When he first visited the Bahamas, he was vacationing at nearby Paradise Island, Nassau, where the activities were endless. The casinos, the amusement parks, the restaurants, the golf c
ourses, there was enough action to keep a tourist busy for a month before they did the same thing twice.
It was by complete accident that he stumbled upon Cat Island. As an avid boater, Kalinikov rented a forty-foot yacht to cruise around and found the place by pure chance. The island was home to less than two thousand people with little to do but snorkel, sightsee and play on the beach. Not much competition for the bright lights and wild entertainment Nassau offered, which was a hundred miles closer to the US mainland. In preparation for retirement, he purchased a home years earlier, just a five-minute walk from the sixteen-room resort where he was now a regular customer.
Kalinikov sipped his coffee and took in the ocean breeze, never losing his fascination for the palm trees, the warm climate, or the stretch of wooden planks imbedded in the sand pretending to be a boardwalk. In all of his professional life, he’d used disguises to fend off any direct evidence against him, but the new world had changed the game. With digital technology and ubiquitous surveillance cameras, Kalinikov knew he’d chosen a good time to retire.
As Kalinikov peered up to spy his wife again, a man approached from the right side of the boardwalk. He veered off the stretch of planks and headed toward Kalinikov’s table. By the time the assassin looked up, his radar was too late. The man was already there, holding his hands away from his body to show no weapons. His mouth grinned, but his eyes were sad, almost as if he was ashamed to be there.
“I’m unarmed,” the man said. His eyes were worn, as if he’d walked all night to get there.
Instinctively, Kalinikov pulled the gun from his shorts waistband. He kept it trained on the intruder under the table. There was something familiar about the man. His informal demeanor was not forced or insincere.
“It’s me,” the man said. “Tommy Bracco. Remember that bar in Payson, Arizona? We shared a drink together.”
Kalinikov remembered. The FBI agent’s cousin. The gangster. He considered shooting the man, then scooping up his body and disposing of him. He might be able to do it quickly enough to avoid detection from the only employee working the patio bar that morning. But something about the man made him pause. How had he lost his touch so quickly?
