The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3)

by Stanley Salmons

  “Okay, go on.”

  “Large syndicates always have lawyers working for them. Someone must have come across your picture in the media and brought it to their attention.”

  “But that was well over two years ago!”

  “They may not have made the connection at the time. But what it says to me is that this is no knee-jerk reaction. They’ve had the opportunity to prepare a case. No doubt that’s where the money’s coming from. As I said, formally the suit’s being brought by his one-time partner.” His lips tightened. “She may or may not have had a choice in the matter.”

  I shook my head. “What do they hope to achieve?”

  “Their stated demand is for the body. The only way that could happen is if you agreed to another whole body transplant. I imagine there’s little chance of that—”

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  “Right. So in one sense the suit is frivolous.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “The claimants know that perfectly well, so there’ll be a fallback position. We can only speculate as to what that might be, but it’s not hard. They’d say that since the army is evading the bill for an extremely expensive operation—”

  I pointed a finger at him. “And months of rehabilitation—”

  “—and, as you say, months of rehabilitation, the least the court can do is award the costs of bringing the suit, together with damages for all the distress caused by failure to return the body – lack of closure for the grieving partner, bereavement counselling, and so on and so forth. Of course they’re probably expecting it won’t go that far. They’ll hope the Army will settle out of court.”

  “And will it?”

  “Absolutely not. We’d defend the case. But of course they don’t know that.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then I said, “So I’m a test case. There’s never been one like it before.”

  “That’s right. There are very few of these whole body transplants and the recipients tend to keep a low profile anyway. You were an exception.”

  “Terrific.”

  Harken entered the conversation. “Look, Jim, the service isn’t going to contest that you were the recipient of this man’s body, so at this stage there’d be no need for you to get involved. But there could be keen media interest, and they know where to find you. Mr Godstall and I discussed this before you arrived, and we think it’d be best for all concerned if you disappeared for a while.”

  I was trying to figure out what he meant by that when his cell phone buzzed. He picked it up from his desk, glanced at the screen, and said, "Excuse me, I'd better take this."

  He got up, went to the far corner of the room, and stood with his back to us. Godstall and I waited in polite silence. Harken was speaking in a low voice, but I caught some of it, especially when he said, “I’ve got Jim Slater with me at the moment…” Then louder, “All right, be there in a few minutes.”

  Godstall was already gathering his papers together as Harken came back.

  "That was Bob Cressington, Secretary of Defense. Something urgent's cropped up so we'll have to stop there. Thanks for coming, Godstall. When are the parties likely to meet on this?"

  “Next week."

  "You'll keep us informed."

  "Of course."

  We shook hands and Godstall left. I watched him go, then turned to Wendell. "I'll be off as well, then."

  "No, Bob was pleased to know you were around. You're to come, too."

  4

  He led the way up to the fifth floor, E ring, where the most senior people hang out. As Wendell was a one-star General I thought security might wave him through. Not a bit of it. In fact they were still grilling us when Bob Cressington’s PA hurried out to the checkpoint, had a brief word with security, and conducted us to Bob’s office.

  Bob rose from his desk and extended a hand. “Jim! Bit of luck you’re here – two birds with one stone. Come and sit down.”

  Thanks to the lousy weather outside, the window admitted only a feeble light into the room, but the ceiling panels had boosted it to the regulation level. Bob’s jacket was hanging over the back of his desk chair. His shirt still took a dead straight line as it disappeared behind his waistband; evidently he hadn’t let himself go to seed since being appointed. Perhaps he and Harken ran those five or ten ks together. His hair was greying even more than Harken’s but there was plenty of it, and his face was tanned and youthful. We took seats.

  “Jim, Wendell, we have a situation in the Republic of Honduras.”

  I was familiar with most of the current trouble spots. Problems in the Honduras usually stemmed from drug cartels and people-trafficking. If someone wanted to involve the SAF it was probably people-trafficking.

  “People-trafficking,” Bob went on, confirming my guess. “Mainly women, of course.”

  Wendell said, “I thought that business had declined.”

  “Only if you believe the claims put out by their administration. In the past the girls would be offered well-paid jobs here in the States. When they arrived they’d be delivered to brothels. The government mounted a major educational program to raise awareness of what was going on. It worked well – too well, in a way, because it forced the gangs to switch tactics. These days they no longer persuade; they just snatch young women from the streets.”

  That did move it up a gear. The old scam could be managed by cheap pimps and go-betweens; now it would be in the hands of professionals. But this was an ongoing problem. I was waiting to know why we had to get involved.

  “Yesterday evening a young woman was kidnapped in the capital, Tegucigalpa. Only this wasn’t just any young woman; this one was the seventeen-year-old daughter of the United States Ambassador.”

  Oh, shit.

  Wendell sucked his breath in through his teeth. “What in hell’s name was she doing on the street?”

  “I understand she’s a rather independent, headstrong girl. She was bored with being confined to the safety of the Embassy compound, gave her parents a hard time over it. She’d studied Spanish so why couldn’t she get out and absorb some of the local colour?”

  Wendell said, “I imagine she’s absorbed a lot more local colour than she bargained for. Where the hell were the DSS during all this?”

  I knew what he was saying. It’s the job of the US Diplomatic Security Service to protect the embassies and their personnel.

  “The operatives are sourced locally, and cover is limited. The Ambassador had an official engagement – the funeral of a high government office-holder. The security detail went with him, leaving just one car and its driver. The young lady saw her chance. The driver was security trained and she must have persuaded him that was good enough.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “According to the driver they’d slowed to a crawl along a busy street. Then without warning she opened the door, shouted ‘Wait here’, and ran off.”

  “He should have gone after her,” I said.

  “Yes, he should have. He said there were cars all round him, horns blaring. He thought she’d be back in a couple of minutes, so he pulled over and waited. When she didn’t show he phoned the Embassy and the Embassy contacted the police. No one’s seen hide nor hair of her since.”

  Wendell said, “Any ransom note?”

  “No. Which suggests the gang doesn’t realize who it is they’ve lifted. At least not yet.”

  “I’d have thought this spirited young lady would have told them by now – in no uncertain terms.”

  “She may not have had the chance: they usually drug the girls to make them easier to handle. The Ambassador and his wife are frantic. They don’t think the local police force or army can get her out safely; he wants our special forces to do it. He’s used his influence with the Honduras government. They’ve agreed to a ‘temporary foreign presence’ so we can operate there.”

  Wendell looked at me.

  I said, “What if they’ve spirited her out of the country already?�
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  “There’s a good chance that hasn’t happened yet. From what I understand the usual procedure is to collect a dozen or so of these girls together before sending them up the line – that way they can save on transport costs.”

  “Then we’ll have to move fast.”

  “Correct.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Fiona. Fiona Rees-Williams. Can you handle it?”

  “Well sure, but we have to find her first. Locating a kidnap victim in a city that size is like looking for one bullet in an entire armoury. Do we have any leads?”

  Bob nodded. “The police went to the spot where she ran off and asked around. Had anyone seen anything? As usual nobody had. Then they offered a reward for information leading to… you know the score. After that everyone had seen the entire thing. Most of the statements were worthless, of course, but two accounts matched, and one man accurately described what the girl was wearing: an embroidered blouse and blue trousers. Seems she was bundled into a small car, a red Kabayashi.”

  “Registration?”

  “He only saw the rear plate and it was covered in mud, probably deliberately. The police are out in force, and they’ve called in the reserves, too. They’re cruising the city, looking for that car.”

  “How reliable was the sighting?”

  “We think the guy was a good witness. She was certainly wearing the outfit he described. He was sure of the make of car because he’s been thinking of buying a small hydrogen-electric himself. He said this one had a big dent in the rear offside wing.”

  I still wasn’t convinced it was a job for the SAF. “Suppose the police find it. Why do they want us to extract her? The cops or army could throw a cordon round the house, then use a hostage negotiator.”

  Bob grimaced. “The police say they’ve tried that in the past. The gang will just come out holding a gun to her head. They’ll use her as a human shield until they drive off and then we’ve lost her and we’ve lost the gang members as well. No, it has to be an extraction.”

  Now I was convinced. “Okay, I’ve got the picture. Where do we make our insertion?”

  “Soto Cano Air Base. It’s a Honduran military base, but the US Joint Task Force Bravo is headquartered there. They’ll provide air support if you need it. You shouldn’t need it.”

  “They’ll have Rotofans, won’t they? Don’t you want to get them involved in the search?”

  “No, I don’t want to use them at this stage. If the gang sees one of those things overhead all sorts of things could happen. They may kill the girls and run. Or it’ll click that they’ve pulled a high-value hostage, which could make things worse. In any case Rotofans aren’t much help in an urban environment.”

  I was thinking it through. “We’ve already got what we need in the arsenal: body armour, night-vision gear, small arms, multirifles, flashbangs, good-nites…”

  Bob blinked, and turned to Wendell. “What in hell are ‘good-nites’?”

  “Army slang for gas grenades,” Wendell replied. “Disperse a highly volatile, short-acting anaesthetic gas. Developed for riot control but ideal for an operation like this.”

  “I’ll need a special reconnaissance team,” I said.

  Harken nodded. “I’ll organize that.” He spoke quietly into his phone. The message would be on his desk screen when he got back to his office.

  “We don’t need any heavy vehicles,” I continued, “just all-terrains. Better take ten, in case the recon team comes without any. Can I have a US Air Force Leviathon standing by at Raleigh-Durham?”

  Harken said, “I’ll arrange that, too.” He spoke into his phone again.

  “We may need to take over a few houses. Could be some damage. Will the residents be compensated?”

  “Sure,” Bob said. “The Embassy will cover anything like that.”

  I pushed my chair back. “Right, I’d better get things moving.”

  “Jim.”

  “Yes, Wendell?”

  “In view of our recent conversation I think it would be a good idea if you took command of this operation yourself.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I’d normally coordinate something like this from my office, Wendell. Then I can provide logistical support in case of problems.”

  “This isn’t a normal operation, and you’re not in a normal situation. And having a recon team means there’s another Battalian involved, so you’d have every reason to be in charge. Who would you normally assign?”

  I answered without hesitation. “Tommy Geiger.”

  “All right, appoint Major Geiger as XO and let him do the coordinating while you go with the men.”

  Lead an operation instead of sitting behind a desk? I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “Yes, sir!”

  Bob leaned forward, and he wasn’t grinning. “Jim, we need a big success here. The whole incident’s a nightmare – for the Honduran government and for us. Part of our mission there is to support democracy and human rights. Having the Ambassador’s daughter abducted is a major embarrassment. The President herself wants me to keep her informed.”

  “I understand. I’ll contact Tommy on my way back, and he can have the guys battle-ready by the time I arrive. If the Leviathan’s at the airport we can start loading in a couple of hours.”

  5

  It was one o’clock in the morning when we landed at Soto Cano Air Base. The Base Commander was expecting us. We shook hands.

  “Pat Banstead,” he said. “I gather this is a hostage extraction.”

  He’d evidently been told that much, but not who the hostage was.

  “That’s right. Any word from the local cops?”

  “Not yet.” He waved a hand. “We’re a bit tight for accommodation here but we’ve emptied a hangar. You’re welcome to use that for the moment.”

  “Thanks.”

  We unloaded the all-terrains and lined them up, ready to drive out at a moment’s notice. Then one of Banstead’s men led us to the hangar. It was a huge space smelling faintly of oil and hot metal, and the concrete floor was patterned with dark stains. Still, it was dry in here, and retained some of the warmth of the day. My guys settled themselves in. They were used to periods of enforced inactivity during a mission, and they’d had to put up with a lot worse than this.

  The delay weighed more heavily with me. We’d moved fast and gained an hour with the time shift, and now we had to wait around doing nothing. I checked my watch and started to pace back and forth.

  An hour later Special Forces Reconnaissance Detachment Alpha landed in another Leviathan. I was standing on the apron as they disembarked eight men and two vehicles. Their Commanding Officer came forward and introduced himself: Major Ferenczi. He hadn’t been fully briefed, so I filled him in. Then I led his people to the hangar where my guys were installed. They gave each other perfunctory waves and the recon team settled down in a separate group.

  The waiting began again and dragged on, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, forty…

  My two Captains, Cliff Marshall and Sam Govind, sauntered over.

  “Okay, Jim?” Sam asked.

  They’d obviously noticed my growing frustration. I grimaced. “Time’s getting on,” I said. “What are those cops up to? We need to get moving.”

  Cliff frowned. “You think they know where the safe houses are?”

  “No. These gangs probably identify a suitable house, snatch the girls, and shift them out of the country as fast as they can. Two or three days and it’s all over – creates too many problems if it takes any longer than that. And they won’t risk using the same house again. People start to notice.”

  “So how are the cops going to find it?” Cliff asked.

  “The red Kabayashi – that’s the key. The girl was either unconscious or drugged when they took her inside, otherwise she’d have made a lot of noise and kidnappers don’t like a lot of noise. They’d have had to carry or support her, which means the house they took her to must be close to that car.”

&nb
sp; “They could have moved it.”

  “Why bother? Right now they have no idea what they’ve stirred up.”

  Sam said, “Looks like we just have to wait.”

  “Yeah, but for how long? The Ambassador’s daughter may be the first kidnap, in which case we have a bit of time. Or she may be the last, in which case we have no time at all.”

  He nodded. “See what you mean.”

  “And,” I said, tapping my watch, “it’s already getting on for three o’clock. Sunrise here is around six, and I want to go in while it’s still dark.”

  Sam said, “Out of our hands, Jim. Just have to hope the local boys are up to the job.”

  Sam and Cliff rejoined the rest of the squad. Maybe I should have done the same but I couldn’t relax. I hadn’t been out on a mission for quite a while and I wanted this to go well – for us and for the Ambassador and his family. I looked at my watch yet again, bit my lip, and started to pace again.

  Another hour went by. Then I heard the hiss of tyres on the approach road. I signalled to Sam, Cliff, and Major Ferenczi and we were waiting as the police cruiser rolled up. Two cops got out. One of them, presumably the more senior of the two, delivered the good news. They’d spotted the red Kabayashi.

  Surprisingly, perhaps, it was parked in a fairly well-to-do residential area. Yes, there was a big dent in the rear offside wing and there was still mud on the number plate. No, they hadn’t approached the car, they’d been told not to. They’d just called it in, and they had orders to come straight to the base and lead us there.

  I turned to Ferenczi. “How’s your Spanish?”

  He shrugged. “I got the gist of it.”

  “Okay, we’ll follow these guys. I’ll come with you. Sam, Cliff, get your people and follow on. Drive with unequal spacing – I don’t want this sounding like a convoy.”

  Minutes later the police cruiser was weaving through the night with a procession of all-terrains strung out at various intervals behind it. Eventually it slowed and braked to a halt. We pulled in behind it and the vehicles drew up one after another. I got out and went forward on foot with just the cops, my two captains, and Ferenczi.