by Ward Larsen
“And who’s that?”
Jorgensen smiled broadly. “That would be me.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The drone was a General Atomics RQ-1B Predator, formerly owned and maintained by the CIA. Long on the sidelines when it came to unmanned aerial vehicles, the DEA was desperate to get into the game, and had recently taken two aircraft on loan from its wayward cousin in Langley. According to McBain, the airframe was past its prime and had been destined for the scrapyard before being salvaged by the DEA—something akin to a brotherly hand-me-down on the federal level.
The Predator was controlled by two operators: one stationed near the runway outside Cali, and a second operational pilot connected to the aircraft via a Ku-band satellite link, and who worked from a nondescript bunker overlooking a gentle bend of the Panama Canal.
The letter R in the aircraft’s designation meant this particular model was intended for reconnaissance—like most older airframes, the DEA’s secondhand drone was a “looker,” having no hard points on the wings on which ordnance could be mounted. Aside from takeoff and landing, the entire mission was flown by the operator in the bunker, and he was overseen by a single supervisor. Because no weapons were carried there was little else to the chain of command, this in direct contrast to combat versions which required a JAG, well versed in the laws of war and theater rules of engagement, to be in attendance during all flight operations.
Jorgensen and McBain let Davis choose which airfield to study first. He saw no difference, and selected the nearer of the two. The request was put through to Panama, and the drone arrived on station fifteen minutes later, just before nine that morning. Soon, pictures were streaming in from twelve thousand feet above their target area. Davis was awestruck by the clarity.
“The drone has three cameras,” explained Jorgensen. “There’s a nose-mounted color feed that’s primarily used by the pilot. Then you have a variable aperture infrared for general use, and a synthetic aperture radar for looking through clouds and haze. Not all can be used simultaneously. Right now we’re looking at infrared.”
Alongside the clearing Davis saw a half dozen fifty-five gallon drums, discarded and rusting, and nearby piles of trash in which he could identify pipes, sheet metal, and an old tire. The airstrip was grass and dirt, and looked smooth from two miles overhead. In the infrared image, however, cooler splotches gave away large puddles that might be trouble spots—a pilot landing a jet would have to either steer around them or be lucky enough to miss.
“I see tracks where airplanes have landed,” he said. “Is there any way to tell how long ago they were made?”
McBain replied, “It’s hard to tell from this altitude, but there’s definitely been activity—I’d say in the last two weeks.”
“You guys have been to places like this. Would the ground be stable enough to support a forty-thousand-pound airplane?”
“It depends on the conditions,” Jorgensen answered. “If the rains have been heavy, no way. This strip looks in decent shape, but it’s impossible to say for sure without having boots on the ground. We have come up with one way to approximate.” On a separate computer screen he added an overlay to the map, irregular blobs that varied from green to amber to red. Parts of the airfield were completely blotted out.
“What’s that?” asked Davis.
“Rainfall,” said Jorgensen. “Last year Colombia got a nice upgrade to its national weather radar—it was paid for by an environmental organization that wants to track rainfall in the Amazon. Good information, and open source.”
“So, by quantifying how much rain you’ve had, you can predict how soggy a given patch of dirt is going to be?”
Jorgensen stepped the rainfall back one week and the blobs altered. “More or less. We’ve only been doing this for a few months, but it’s surprisingly accurate. We were looking for a method to study road conditions. It should work just as well on unimproved airstrips.” When the screen settled, he said, “There you are. This place got eleven centimeters of rain last week—about four inches. That’s a lot if you’re in Texas or Virginia, but here it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I could take the drone lower to get a better look, but, like I said, without actually standing on dirt there’s always going to be some guesswork involved.”
“Actually,” said Davis, “I don’t think there’s going to be any guesswork at all.”
The two DEA men looked at him. Davis pointed to the screen that was still displaying a real-time feed from the Predator. They all watched a small single-engine propeller plane turn onto final approach, skim over the high tree line, and make a gentle touchdown in the clearing.
* * *
Kehoe got out of the Cessna Caravan and stepped squarely into a puddle of mud. Fortunately he was prepared, having worn jungle boots and waterproof hunting pants. The stewardess on the G-III had given him an odd look when he’d boarded in Virginia, being clearly more accustomed to Armani suits and diamond-clipped ties. Kehoe couldn’t have cared less. He was a soldier, and soldiers knew the value of function over form. He’d stepped off the G-III immediately after landing in Bogotá, and walked no more than twenty steps to board the Cessna, a connecting flight arranged by whomever had brought him here. His new pilot’s only words had been, “Kehoe?” and after getting a nod, “Come with me.” Thirty minutes later, here he was.
It took ten full strides to reach dry land, a plot of crusted dirt and grass that looked surprisingly level. Behind him the pilot of the Cessna—the only other person in sight—stepped down from the cockpit, circled his aircraft, and kicked a heel into the soft earth. He gave Kehoe a woeful frown.
Kehoe called back in Spanish, “Will there be any problem taking off again?”
“No, is okay. The sun will be high soon and things get better. But we should not stay long. This afternoon will be hot. If big storms come … could be grounded for days.”
Kehoe had no intention of staying that long. “I’ll make it quick. Be ready.”
The pilot waved to say he would, and Kehoe turned away without another word. He had long ago concluded that specialists worked most effectively when you let them do their jobs. Pilots in particular became unmanageable if you tried to tell them their business. They were also consistently rational when put in difficult situations—in no small part, because their lives were at stake too.
The forest was still on the breezeless morning, the only noise the tic tic cool down of the Cessna’s engine, the only smell the faint burn of spent avgas. Ahead of him a lone dirt road curved away into the emerald wall, and he walked in that direction with the suitcase in hand. Kehoe had gone no more than twenty yards when a muffled roar broke the silence. A pair of jeeps rumbled into the clearing. Right on time.
So far, so good, he thought.
He made an effort to stand straight and tall, well aware of the delicacy of his situation. Kehoe had crossed the point of no return when the Cessna landed five minutes earlier. He was alone in the middle of a foreign jungle, about to engage a group of well-documented killers, and chained to his wrist was an oversized briefcase containing seven million U.S. dollars.
The odds of complications were, to say the least, significant.
He walked toward the jeeps through what felt like a steam bath, the early sun already torrid, sucking moisture from the ground and infusing it into the air. The jeeps looked identical, some kind of Chinese knockoff of the classic World War II U.S. Army Willys. He counted seven men—at least he guessed they were men, a point left in question as they were all wearing ski masks.
Kehoe knew instantly who was in charge. Lead vehicle, passenger side. He wore fatigues that were cleaner than the rest, and was the first to dismount. A stocky man, his long hair extended out the back of his knit mask, which had to be a miserable thing to wear in this kind of heat. By his build and movement Kehoe knew he was young, and he would say the same about the others. He also saw they were not well trained, written in the way they held their weapons and the fact that
everyone’s eyes were locked on him. None of it came as a surprise.
The armies here were like those in so many other jungles he’d seen, comprised of kids who had been recruited—if that word could be used—either at the point of a gun or, in the best case, because their families had taken fifty dollars for the contribution of an able-bodied young male. Seventeen-year-old kids, who should have been in school or plowing hillsides, were instead fed, given a gun and fatigues, and issued a few rounds of ammunition to shoot at a tree stump. Basic training complete.
And having sorted through all that, he knew there was only one man who mattered right now.
The commander approached him and drew to a stop. “Welcome to Colombia. I hope your journey was uneventful.”
The first surprise—his English was good, nearly without accent. It made Kehoe think the man had a heavy hand in the scheme. He’d like very much to see the face behind the mask, since that was his secondary mission. All he needed was one glimpse. Tactical abilities aside, Kehoe had been selected for this op for one very specific reason—he had an astonishing memory, particularly when it came to faces.
“I’d like to do this as quickly as possible,” Kehoe said, his eyes quietly snapshotting details as best he could. An old serial number on one jeep, a bracelet on the leader’s wrist.
“I’m sure you would,” said the commander.
“I don’t see the girl,” said Kehoe in the most casual voice he could muster.
“In time. There are preliminaries.” The commander nodded to his men, and two closed in on Kehoe. The American assumed the stance, legs wide and arms outstretched, and took a head-to-toe pat down. They would be looking less for weapons than wires or tracking devices. Holding the briefcase at arm’s length, an impatient Kehoe said, “Please hurry—this is a lot of money and it’s very heavy.”
The men stepped back, and one nodded to say they were finished. At that point one of the soldiers produced a black hood. Kehoe had been expecting it, so he made no protest as the man drew it over his head. He imagined everyone else ripping off their own sweater-knit masks with blessed relief. From this point forward, if anyone was going to be uncomfortable, it was him.
Someone took his elbow and guided him toward the jeep. He was pushed left and right, and could tell by the feel of the sidewall that he was being backed into a front passenger seat, almost certainly the second vehicle.
Sound became more important than sight. A pair of soldiers murmured, the words unintelligible, and rifle butts clanked to the jeep’s metal floorpan. Waiting for the engines to crank to life, Kehoe thought he heard another faint sound, vaguely familiar, like the buzz of a distant insect. There was a hopeless urge to look up at the sky, and in a mischievous moment, as he sat baking in a black hood, he wondered if he could manage some kind of stretch that would appear as a wave from above. He knew it was a drone, likely under the command of some distant Air Expeditionary Group tasked to monitor his progress. Kehoe had been specifically briefed to expect no support, but it didn’t surprise him that someone was watching. Yes, he thought, the admiral leaves nothing to chance. All the same, it wasn’t much comfort. If things went badly, there was no chance of the drone facilitating a rescue—the cameras overhead would only record his demise.
If the Colombians knew what was in the sky above them, Kehoe heard no mention of it. As the Cessna pilot had noted on their arrival, the visibility in the valley was marginal, the low morning sunlight diffusing like a veil in the still, humid air. Even if they heard the drone, they could never see it.
The jeeps came to life, rattled into gear, and soon they were splashing with purpose into the heart of the jungle.
THIRTY-NINE
“Track them!” said Davis.
“I will,” Jorgensen replied. “But the drone only has enough fuel to stay on station for another twenty minutes. Let’s hope they’re not going far.”
“The guy who just arrived had something in his hand,” said Davis. “Could have been a suitcase.”
“What are the chances of us stumbling onto the payoff?” said a skeptical McBain.
“If the girl who could decide our next presidential election is being held hostage nearby? I’d say the chances are extremely high. We narrowed it down to two airstrips, and then we guessed right. If you think about it, the timing is perfect—a few days for Stuyvesant to worry, come to the right conclusion, and raise a lot of cash. This has payoff written all over it. Those jeeps are going to lead us right to the girls.”
“Hang on,” said McBain. “That little prop job didn’t fly here all the way from the States. If this is the transaction, then the guy carrying the briefcase switched airplanes somewhere—probably right under our noses in Bogotá. If we maneuver the drone and get the tail number of that Cessna we might be able to verify where it came from. I’m thinking a jet landed at the same airport this morning after a long flight from the States.”
“Maybe,” said Davis, “but this is no time to overanalyze. We’re too close, with eyes on target right now—I say we shadow the jeeps and nothing else.”
All three men watched the display. The two vehicles disappeared under the jungle canopy, then reappeared a quarter mile later. The road was no more than a worn path through the forest that was lost occasionally under foliage. The hard part would be forks or intersections—if the jeeps made a turn under cover they could lose contact. Davis kept his eyes locked to the screen, his hands gripping the table every time they lost sight. Passive surveillance required considerable patience—never one of his virtues.
“Do you guys have an airplane?”
Jorgensen looked at him skeptically. “An airplane? We’ve got a fleet, but not in Bogotá.”
“Do you have anything here?”
“Jammer, if you’re thinking about—”
“I’m not thinking, I’m acting. If you don’t have an airplane, I’ll go to the airport and steal one. I only wanted to give you the chance to keep me from embarrassing our country again.”
Jorgensen shook his head dismissively.
McBain smiled. He said, “There’s a Twin Comanche we confiscated, keep it in a hangar we share with the government. It’s nothing tactical, we just use it for shuttling personnel. No surveillance suite in the electronics bay, no hardened floor.”
“Hardened floor?” Davis repeated.
“Certain farmers don’t like airplanes nosing around their crops, for obvious reasons. They have a tendency to take potshots at anything flying low.”
“But it runs?”
“Usually,” Jorgensen said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a pilot. The guy who’s checked out is on temporary duty in Panama.”
“Do you have the keys?”
Jorgensen gave him a look that asked if he was serious.
Davis shot one back that said: Stay out of my way.
McBain broke the impasse. “Jammer’s right, we need to do something. There’s no telling how this will play out. We have to get both girls. They might or might not be released safely in the next hour, but this is our chance to get close, to have some insurance. If the exchange doesn’t go well, this group is going to vaporize into the jungle. We got lucky once, but finding them a second time could prove way harder.” He addressed Davis. “Have you flown a Twin Comanche?”
“Of course.”
“That settles it,” said McBain. “I’ll come with you.”
Both of them looked at Jorgensen, who relented. “All right, it’s your funeral. I’ll stay here and keep the surveillance for as long as I can. But like I said, we have less than twenty minutes of fuel—then the drone goes home.”
McBain was already packing, stuffing a sat-phone and binoculars into a duffel bag.
“How long does it take for the drone to get back to its home station?” Davis asked.
“We fly it out of a remote strip west of Cali—about thirty minutes from where it is now.”
“So you can stay on station for an hour, maybe more. There’s got to be an emergency reser
ve padded into the fuel numbers.”
Jorgensen, who was legally in charge and therefore responsible for the asset, said, “Are you suggesting we run this bird out of fuel and let it crash?”
“If that’s what it takes to get this mission done,” Davis said, “then, yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“We’re talking about a three-million-dollar aircraft.”
“No, we’re talking about two young girls. Anyway, my boss will cover it.”
McBain went to a closet across the room and pulled out a pair of lethal-looking weapons—black Heckler & Koch MP5s. “You ever used one of these?” he asked Davis.
“Hasn’t everybody?”
McBain reared back and threw one of the guns at him from across the room.
“What the—” Davis reached with a long arm, but the throw was terrible and he barely touched the stock before the gun thudded to the floor. “Is that damned thing loaded?”
McBain laughed. “Easy, big guy. It’s a fac.”
“A what?”
“A facsimile, a training gun. We use them when we run exercises with the police and the army.”
“I don’t suppose you have any real ones?”
“Sure,” said McBain, “in an armory on the other side of town. This time of day it’ll take us an hour to drive there and back.”
Davis picked up the faux MP5. Most of the training guns he’d seen before were blue, but these had the matte-black finish of the real deal—at least from a distance. “I guess it’s better than nothing.”
“That depends on which end you’re looking at,” said Jorgensen. “Down here, sometimes no weapon is better than one that doesn’t work. It’s situational, so be careful where you show them.”
“Situational,” Davis repeated. He slotted the training guns into a nylon bag. “Got any fake hand grenades? Maybe a paper mache howitzer?”
