Operation Norfolk

by Randy Wayne White

  The vigilante was still wearing the same mild smile, showing nothing. What in the hell was going on here? “Jerk? Not you, Chief. Why would I think you were a jerk?”

  Stevenson said, “You kidding? I was riding you from the moment you arrived. But see, those were my orders—to get on your back and not get off. The big brass sent the orders, so I didn’t have much choice, man. They wanted to make sure you stuck out the course, and they said getting you pissed at me was one sure way. Make you so pissed there was no way you’d drop out, let you think I’d run you out ’cause they said you were one man who’d never run. Ever. Said you’d hang on like grim death if I made it into a personal thing with you. Must be pretty important if they want you to stick with the program that bad, huh?”

  Hawker shrugged, trying not to show how foolish he felt. He knew from where the orders had probably come. The suggestion to have some young CPO jump on his back had probably come from Jake Hayes himself, because Hayes knew him better than anyone else. Hayes knew Hawker worked best when there was some personal challenge involved. Hayes also knew how silly Hawker might feel having to go to boot camp after all he’d been through in the past three years.

  Stevenson looked perplexed. “And you didn’t even notice how hard I was getting on you, huh?”

  “Guess I was too busy concentrating on the course to notice,” Hawker replied.

  “No kidding? Geez, I almost feel kind of bad about that. I was trying to be a real shithead. Just like those drill sergeants in the old movies, you know. Thought for sure I was getting to you, the way you looked at me sometimes. Kind of looked right through me, and, man—” The SEAL chuckled. “I don’t mind telling you that you got a real scary way of looking at people. Made me feel like you were about an inch from going for my throat.” Stevenson was shaking his head. “Anyway, Mr. Hawker, I just wanted to tell you that you are one tough old SOB. Some of the crap I put you through even made me flinch. And I’ve been in this business for seven, almost eight years now.”

  Hawker said, “I appreciate that, Chief. I really do. In fact, I’m kind of sorry it’s over. I was just starting to enjoy getting back into shape.”

  “Yeah? Man, you’re starting to make me feel real bad now. No one has ever left SEAL training, even a short course like this, saying he enjoyed it.” Stevenson eyed him suspiciously. “What you got your weight down to? One eighty-five, maybe? Man, you look like you’re getting into shape, huh?”

  “Down to two oh two from two ten.”

  “No kidding, Mr. Hawker? I’d never guess you weighed that much. But yeah, now that I take a close look at your hands, your wrists, I see you probably weigh more than folks would guess. You’re just full of surprises.”

  Hawker was smiling more broadly now. “I’ve got another surprise for you, Chief.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I’m a terrible liar. You got to me the very first day I arrived here, and I’ve spent the last two weeks dreaming of ways to make you miserable after all this was over.”

  Stevenson looked genuinely pleased. “Hey, no kidding?”

  “No kidding,” answered the vigilante. “And I’ll tell you something else. If I hadn’t hated you so much, I probably would have split. Probably would have left Coronado after the third day. Because you were, without a doubt, the nastiest, most thoughtless, toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever run into. And there was no way I was going to let such an asshole run me off.”

  Hawker had to laugh at the relief on the young CPO’s face as Stevenson said, “Mr. Hawker, I appreciate that. I really do. You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

  The vigilante took Stevenson’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly as he said, “It’s God’s honest truth, Chief. I mean every word.”

  Stevenson said, “Mr. Hawker, coming from a guy like you, that means a lot. It really does. And if I can ever do anything else for you, please let me know. Hey, you going to be sticking around Coronado for a while? Maybe we could get together, hunt up some ladies and trade stories.”

  Hawker straightened his field cap in the mirror and said, “Naw, Chief, I’d like to. But after two weeks of you running my ass off, I think I’ll take a little vacation.”

  Stevenson seemed interested. “You might try Carmel. They got some awfully pretty beach girls there.”

  Hawker said, “I was thinking of some place a little farther away. Like the Solomon Islands, maybe.”

  “The Solomon Islands? Yeah, sure, I guess that’d be pretty restful, huh?”

  James Hawker said, “After SEAL training, it will probably seem like a picnic.”

  seven

  They stuck him on a military transport. Flew him from San Diego to Port Moresby, New Guinea, a hell of a long flight that followed the falling sun around the globe.

  At the secret military installation outside Port Moresby, he was led to a Quonset hut on the far side of the camp and was met by three Americans dressed in plain gray suits.

  No introductions were made. One man did most of the talking, a second man speaking up only when matters of geography were discussed. The third man, a Nordic-faced agent wearing dark Ray Ban sunglasses, never spoke at all. He just watched Hawker carefully, his expression flat, cold, emotionless.

  The first man said, “We were very impressed by the way you handled the assignment in Norfolk, Mr. Hawker.”

  Hawker just nodded. What was he supposed to say—thank you very much for telling me I’m good at killing people?

  Motioning Hawker into a seat and then to a glass of iced tea on the desk beside him, the first man said, “So what do you think about New Guinea so far, Mr. Hawker?”

  On the flight in, the vigilante had watched the wild forests and black rivers peel away beneath him. At one point he saw a group of dark men scurry off into hiding, as if frightened by the great steel bird. Once on the ground, though, he had seen nothing but the military PX and the base restrooms, which smelled of disinfectant. The base there looked just like the military base he’d left in San Diego, only a lot smaller. The vigilante said, “I’m looking forward to getting into the back country, having a look around. I hear some of the aboriginal tribes are still pretty much unspoiled by contact with the outside world.”

  The CIA agent said, “What?” as if not expecting anything but a mechanical answer. “Yes,” he added, “that does sound interesting.” And that was the end of the pleasantries. Getting down to work now, the agent said, “You have been briefed on General Con Ye Cwong’s business operations?”

  Hawker said, “A little. I know what he does, but I don’t know how he does it—not that I really care. All I need is detailed data on his base of operations, help in getting there, and then I’ll be happy to cut you and your men loose.”

  The man said, “I wish it were that easy, Mr. Hawker. I know that you’re used to working alone, and I know you prefer to take the direct approach. I’m not saying you don’t do your homework. If you weren’t bright and accomplished, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Hawker said, “Then what do you mean?”

  The man said, “I mean that Cwong is not just some common crime boss. He’s not anything like those mobs you dealt with in New York and L.A. Cwong is more like a …” The agent paused, seeking just the right words. “He’s more like a king, a dictator. He demands—and receives—absolute loyalty from his people. To some of them the man is like a god. They look on him as one of the great leaders in the history of Vietnam—one of a handful of men who brought the United States of America to its knees. His people will fight to the death to protect him and his operation. And, as you can guess, Mr. Hawker, that kind of loyalty manufactures tremendous problems for people in our field to overcome.”

  Hawker said, “In other words, you have very little specific data on Cwong because his people are so loyal they can’t be bought. Or they’re so terrified of Cwong, they’re afraid to take the chance.”

  “See?” said the agent. “Your dossier says you’re smart, Mr. Hawke
r. You catch on very quickly. And you’re right—to a degree. But Cwong is involved in drug marketing in a big way. And I don’t care how strict your rules about loyalty are—when you begin dealing with drug users you’re vulnerable, because drug users have only one loyalty, and that’s to their addiction. That’s the big chink in Cwong’s armor. We have detailed data on the way drugs are moved from his island to stations nearby and then put onto boats and planes for Hawaii and then the continental United States.”

  “But that still doesn’t get me onto the island with Cwong,” Hawker protested.

  “It’ll help. See, there are two major drop stations within twenty-five miles of Cwong’s little paradise. And we’ve been able to compile plenty of data about both of them. We now know the exact expected time of drug shipments to both of the stations, how many boats are coming, and how many of Cwong’s men are expected to be on the boats.”

  “So what?” said Hawker. “That still doesn’t help me get next to Cwong. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to hunt down Cwong and kill him, right?”

  All three CIA agents looked uncomfortable. The spokesman said, “Frankly, Mr. Hawker, we don’t know the specifics of your orders. And we don’t care. Our own orders say we’re supposed to provide you with all possible assistance in getting you onto the island. That’s the end of it.”

  “And what about helping me get off the island? Your orders don’t say anything about that?”

  Under the vigilante’s steady gaze, the agents now appeared even more uncomfortable. Looking somber, the first man said, “We will, of course, help you off the island … if you survive. I hope no one gave you any illusions about this operation being easy. Because it won’t be. Truth is, Mr. Hawker, I don’t think anyone much expects you to come out alive. Like I said, Cwong is not your normal street thug. He’s smart as hell and absolutely merciless.” He looked at Hawker for a moment, then added, “You want me to continue with the briefing, Mr. Hawker? Or maybe you’d like to rethink your interest in the operation.”

  The vigilante gripped his iced tea in a steady hand and swallowed it in a single gulp. “I’m listening,” he said.

  The CIA agent stared intently at Hawker. “It’s possible that choosing the night of one of Cwong’s bigger deliveries will make it easier for you to slip onto his island unseen. His protection won’t be at full strength. See, Mr. Hawker, Cwong has his own personal elite guards. Mostly upper-rank Viet Cong. They’re absolutely ruthless. I think you’d have a better chance of succeeding on your mission if you caught Cwong while some of them were away from the island.”

  “That makes sense,” said Hawker. “But how long will I have to wait?”

  The agent shrugged. “According to our monitoring stations, two small deliveries are due in about four days. But nothing really big is coming up that we know about.”

  “You just want me to sit back and wait?”

  “As I said, Mr. Hawker, our instructions are to assist you in any way we can. The final decisions as to where and how your strike will be are up to you.”

  “And you have almost no intelligence on Cwong’s island? That makes for a pretty tough choice, gentlemen.”

  The first man nodded to the second, and the second agent pulled down a large wall chart showing the multitude of islands around the Solomons. The first agent said, “I didn’t say that we had no intelligence on the island. I said we’ve been unable to get an insider to cooperate with us and feed us data. We have, of course, all the sophisticated machinery of intelligence gathering at our disposal. Through those means, we’ve compiled a fair amount of information on Cwong. We’ll tell you what we know, what might be helpful, but, of course, we can’t let you write any of it down. It’s all highly sensitive material. It is, in fact, completely illegal for us to be involved with an operation like this at all. That’s why we can offer you only limited assistance.”

  “I understand,” said Hawker.

  The second agent stepped forward, tapped the chart, and said, “Con Ye Cwong bought this island”—he touched a small, fluke-shaped island northwest of Guadalcanal—“ten years ago, not long after the fall of Saigon. Apparently others in the North Vietnamese army felt Cwong had grown too powerful. There was even a plot to have him assassinated. But they offered Cwong the option of leaving, and he jumped at the chance. Ended up in the South Pacific with about four hundred thousand in gold and U.S. currency and a handful of men. He began looking around for some remote estate to buy, and then he got wind of Kira-Kira, an island of about five thousand acres. Used to be an Australian settlement there, grew sheep, coconuts, pineapples, stuff like that. Hell of a thick jungle in the middle of the island. About fifteen years ago a couple of Japanese soldiers were discovered there, leftovers from World War II. Got blown off their ships and still weren’t sure the war was really over. They were half crazy, of course, but it gives you some idea of what the interior of the island is like. Those men lived there unseen for thirty years, unnoticed, so far off the unbeaten path they had no inkling the war was over.”

  The vigilante was getting interested in the island, interested in Cwong as a person for the first time. He listened carefully.

  The second agent said, “As you know, Cwong really has two main business operations going at the same time. One of those businesses is drug trafficking. That’s how he made his fortune. Now he continues the business not just for profit, but out of genuine hatred for the American military. Truth is, we think he’d give the drugs away for free because he knows it’s one of the surest methods of subversion available. A high percentage of military intelligence leaks have been traced directly or indirectly to drug dependence, and Cwong’s organization is almost always at the root of it. But he’s willing to trade drugs for something other than military secrets. He often trades for weaponry. American weaponry stolen by military personnel so they can keep their habits supplied, or so they can profit by selling the drugs to service people who are addicts. It’s not just nickel-and-dime stuff, either. Five months ago ten gross of M-16s turned up missing from a military base on Guam. Not long after that an experimental Chrysler-made ATC full-track amphibian disappeared from the base at Honolulu—”

  “They stole a tank?” Hawker asked incredulously.

  “It’s more than just a tank,” the first agent cut in. “When we said experimental, we meant just that. This vehicle was capable of crossing five miles of heavy sea, driving up a rocky beach, ramming its way through thick jungle, and then attacking with either conventional ordnance or new laser weaponry. How in the hell they got it out, no one knows to this day. But a sting operation turned up an in-house drug ring that almost undoubtedly dealt with General Cwong. Cwong’s become one of the world’s leading armament and munitions dealers to outlaw groups around the world. He supplies any terrorist organization, so long as it has the money and so long as it’s fighting the Western world. He’s kind of like those stolen car dealers back in New York or L.A. A buyer tells Cwong what’s needed, and Cwong’s organization goes to work trying to steal it. He’s got one hell of a big arsenal on that little island of his. And he blew a channel through the coral reef that surrounds the place so deep draft vessels can get in and out. But that channel is the only way to get in, so he has his own little fortress, like a separate country, really.”

  Hawker nodded. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why the United States just doesn’t go in there under the guise of making some arrests, then use it as an excuse to blow the place apart. I mean, it sounds like you have enough proof.”

  The first agent said, “We’d like to. No, we’d love to. General Cwong has been a thorn in our side for too long. And if Kira-Kira was a U.S. or British protectorate, we’d take every legal means available to us to put him out of business. But it isn’t. It’s part of a small archipelago controlled by the French”—the agent cleared his throat uncomfortably—“and, if you know anything about the political workings of the French, you can understand why our hands are tied.”

&
nbsp; Hawker knew about the French. The French were, and had always been, the crybabies of the Western world. Politically they were forever getting themselves into trouble, and then they sat cowering in the corner while braver allies bailed them out—only to bite the hands of those same allies the moment the trouble was past. Personally the French people Hawker had known had been aloof, self-important snobs who seemed to go to great lengths not to bathe. On both levels, the French were first in only two areas: the first to cry for help and the first to refuse to help. He was not surprised the French had offered asylum to General Cwong. Fat bribes could smooth out nearly any wrong—including a hundred years of stormy French and Vietnamese history.

  “So free-lancing is your only choice,” Hawker said.

  “Right,” said the first agent. “And if you’re linked to us in any way … well, let’s just say it will be very unpleasant for all concerned.”

  Hawker almost said, Which is why you’d prefer it if I didn’t make it out alive, but didn’t. Instead he nodded to the charts and said, “Then let’s get to work. I want every scrap of information you have. Everything. Everything from Cwong’s muster power to his personal habits.”

  The second agent unrolled another bundle of charts while the third one lifted a large dossier file onto the table. The first agent said, “I think maybe we’d better send for some coffee, Mr. Hawker. We’re going to be here for quite a spell.”

  eight

  The three agents cut him loose around 10 P.M. They gave him a big brown envelope, which he opened after the government car deposited him on one of the back streets of Port Moresby, down by the wharfs. In it he found five thousand dollars in cash—twenties, fifties, and hundreds—all used bills. He folded the bills in four thick stacks, stuck one in each pocket of his khaki sea-worsted slacks, and buttoned the pockets shut.