B00H242ZGY EBOK

by Unknown

  Branson looked at the handset he was holding in disbelief. Is he joking, he thought. “We are not in the habit of telling others our operational plans – especially those who are outspoken against what we do.”

  “That’s part of the reason these people down here distrust us so,” said Jonas. “They think we just go around doing what we want to do without their advice or consent. Give him something to make him feel good and it will go a long way,” Jonas said. “That’s how I can handle him. You let me know what’s going on and I can use some of it to keep him doing what we want.”

  Branson almost couldn’t speak. Maybe this guy was just tired and a little boastful, but if he thought this was the way to handle a dictator, they were all in trouble. He decided to calm the waters for the time being. “Very well, expect someone from the FBI and CIA down there sometime today. As we find out anything, I will let you know. The main thing is to find our people and get them back,” he said.

  “No CIA. Their guy down here is good enough. The agency is hated around here,” Jonas said.

  “I’ll pass that along. In the mean time, try and find out anything you can as well. There are fourteen Americans who need our help,” said Branson, wanting to end the conversation.

  “I will. Keep me informed,” said Jonas as the call ended.

  Branson stared at his desk. This guy’s a piece of work, he thought. And what was that all about keeping him informed? The hair on the back of the Secretary’s neck was standing on end. Something was terribly wrong. He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. It was answered after only one ring.

  “Pete, I just got off the line with Ambassador Jonas in Venezuela,” he said. “I think we have a problem.”

  The Mountains of Venezuela

  The helicopter circled the airfield before coming in for a soft landing on the pad. A black armored Chevrolet Suburban was waiting and Presidente Parente and Colonel Rojas quickly exited the craft and climbed into the car. They completely ignored the small contingent of soldiers standing stiffly at attention to one side. Once inside the car, the driver closed the door and ran to get into the front. The big vehicle pulled out of the gate and down the paved road.

  Inside the car, Parente continued his narrative on how he was to gain political control of the United States, then work his way down the isthmus and back into South America. In his mind, there was nothing to stand in his way.

  “Most nations are politically weak. They lack real leadership,” he said to Rojas. “Look at the United States. Their president lets the people in congress push him around. He can’t make a decision without working to have a clear majority, both in their congress and in public opinion. A true leader may take suggestions, but he makes decisions. Once the decision is made it must be up to the rest to get in line to make things happen. This is what we have in Venezuela. I listen to what our parliament says is a problem and the suggestions they have on its outcome and then I make the executive decision on the best way to go. Once that decision is made, the parliament decides on how to make the decision work. I say what must be done and then it simply happens. You see how that differs greatly from these other so called democratic governments? It is much more efficient,” he said taking a drink from his chilled bottled water.

  Rojas sat and took it all in. Until now he had not realized just how bad the government had gotten in Venezuela. Only people like Hitler and Stalin had wielded such power. The more he listened, the more he knew he must escape the situation. But how could he do it? Rojas was sure he was being watched and he knew the security forces in the capital were far reaching. From this point he knew he must look for every opportunity so that when the time came, he could jump.

  As Parente rattled on, the car drove through the hills until turning on a gravel road that led to a small fortress like encampment. “Ah, we are here,” said Parente.

  A small opening on the large wooden set of doors opened and a squad of men in black uniforms quickly formed a line. Standing in front of the men was the sergeant. He saluted as Parente exited the car and stepped forward. “We have been successful, Señor Presidente,” the sergeant stated formally.

  Parente returned the sergeant’s salute and then shook his hand. “Very well done. Very well done, indeed!” said Parente. “Where are the prisoners?”

  “They are under guard in our small stockade, Señor Presidente. So far they have posed few problems.”

  “Excellent. As we walk, tell be about your operation,” Parente said as he began walking toward the door. The sergeant fell in step, providing every detail of the raid the night before and his instructions to his people regarding their prisoners. As he finished his report he asked, “What shall be done with the prisoners, Señor Presidente? I ask only because that will govern how we shall ultimately treat them.”

  Parente thought a moment. “Actually sergeant, if everything goes to plan will be to eventually let them go, but plans change. I believe we can say that their fate is in the hands of the Americans. You will receive word on their outcome later.”

  From inside the cell, the mayors could hear the conversation, but only a few could understand it. Mitchell seemed most excited. “You hear what he’s saying?” he asked Patricia.

  “I heard him. Is that Parente? He keeps calling the man El Presidente,” she said in a whisper.

  “A couple of you guys help me take a look,” Mitchell said.

  Two of the younger men helped lift Mitchell up to one of the openings and he peered outside.

  Parente was giving some instructions when he noticed the face at the opening. “There is someone watching us. Who is it?” he asked sternly in a hushed tone.

  The sergeant turned and caught a glimpse before the face disappeared from sight. “I know which one, Señor Presidente. He is the one complaining about his heart medicines. Should I bring him before you?”

  Parente grinned and spoke softly. “No. Treat them well for a time and let them think we do not know. There will be a ceremony in two days. Have him ready,” he said to the man.

  The sergeant smiled broadly. “It shall be done,” he said.

  Aboard USS Kings Mountain

  “I asked to meet with you this afternoon to help me think through some things. Normally I have my staff to do it, but today you will have that task,” said Hammond before the fourteen officers seated around the wardroom table. He had already come to some conclusions about the abduction, but he wanted to make sure that they made sense. After all, with Patricia one of the victims, he needed to make sure he was thinking through the problem in an unbiased way. “Since Captain Davis kindly offered you up as guinea pigs, I thought I would take advantage of your minds,” he said with a grin.

  The men and women around the table returned the smile and seemed to relax a bit. Hammond took his seat at the head of the table. Davis was to his right. The XO, Commander Pat Schuetz, was on the left. The rest were a mix of younger eyes watching him from around the table; some eager and some wary of the task ahead. Hammond plowed on.

  “You all know the situation from last night. We have the following information…” he said as he quickly laid out the facts as they were known. Fortunately, his staff had forwarded a briefing via email and his Chief of Staff had talked over the secure phone. He knew all they had. “Now where do we go from here?” Hammond asked finally.

  “If a truck matching the description was seen going into Venezuela, I’d start there,” said a lieutenant sitting down the table. “Do you think this is a government thing, or is this some terrorist faction?”

  “We don’t know as yet,” Hammond said.

  At the end of the table someone was typing furiously into a laptop. After some additional arguments she chimed in. “There’s only one terrorist group that might pose a threat in the area. They’re called the FARC. But according to this, they have become a fairly mainstream political organization. Their terrorist activities stopped a good five years ago,” she said pointing to the laptop screen. “They operate mostly out of Colombia,
but have crossed the borders on numerous occasions.”

  “Could someone from another of the South American countries do this?” asked an ensign at the end of the table.

  “I doubt it,” said Schuetz. He had majored in international studies with an emphasis on Latin America. “The distances are pretty big around there. You have Guyana on one side of Venezuela, Brazil down south and Peru and Ecuador on the other side of Colombia. It’s around a thousand miles to any of these borders, and their roads aren’t much more than dirt strips.”

  “How bad would it be to transport all fourteen of these people over a long distance?” asked a lieutenant junior grade.

  There was a chuckle from another lieutenant. “You ever tried to lift a drunk?” he asked. “It’s worse than lifting bags of cement. Then you get them in a vehicle, and they just bounce around. I assume they aren’t trying to kill these people, so you have to worry about getting too bumpy with them. Since it sounds like they were drugged, you also have to worry about them waking up. So they can’t be on the road that long.”

  The arguments went back and forth. Some thought it was terrorists, some thought governments, and some simply argued about how it could have been done in any case. At the end of the table one young man sat quietly the whole time, listening carefully. Hammond noticed the look on the young man’s face and recognized something. He was thinking the problem, not arguing, but putting pieces together. The argument had come to the possibility of the Colombian government actually doing it when he sat up and spoke.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” the young officer finally said. The people around the table got quiet.

  “What do you mean?” asked another.

  “Look, everybody’s trying to guess at who did it and where they might be, but what we really need to think about is why it was done. You know that, and it will point to our captor,” he said calmly. “After all, when someone kidnaps a person or people, it is to make some sort of statement. It can be as simple as ‘you pissed me off and I’m gonna get you,’ or as complicated as a political power play. In any case they want something. What do they want?” he asked.

  Hammond smiled inwardly. His guess had been right and this kid had nailed it. “No one has made any demands so far,” he said.

  “Then it will be soon. The idea is to get your hostages and let your enemy know as soon as possible. I mean, that’s the whole idea. Why do it if you don’t let people know what you want?” the young officer asked.

  After a moment Hammond smiled at the man and said, “Something tells me you’ve already worked it out.”

  The young man’s face turned red. He had put his neck out for chopping, but he couldn’t stop now. “Yes sir, I think so.”

  Hammond urged him on. “Go ahead. It never hurts to hear a point of view.”

  The officer raised a finger. “First, it is too big an operation to be a terrorist group. You mentioned that the border guards seemed to let the truck pass through. That tells me they knew the people. If so, it was a government backed thing,” he said counting off on his fingers. “Although we don’t have a stellar relationship with the Latin American nations, it’s been pretty good as of late and we have been doing a lot to make things better. Colombia’s president has everything to lose and nothing to gain since we just concluded that big trade deal with them. He’s even visited Washington twice during this presidency. Why jeopardize that? I agree with the XO. Distances are key. With them being drugged and in a truck, they just can’t go that far unless they have a plane hidden somewhere. So it’s either Colombia or Venezuela. President Parente is not a friend of the United States, we all know that. But he isn’t so stupid as to carry something like this off and risk the scorn of the world over something small. He loves to boast and brag about his leadership and he has tried to extend that to have influence in his neighbors. What if he could show some of these smaller countries just what a big man he is? It would stroke his ego a long way. Now let’s look at what has happened. A group of American mayors has been kidnapped. Why Americans? Why no hostage demand? And why now? I believe this tells us exactly why it’s been done.”

  The people in the wardroom sat silent for a moment until the young woman at the computer sat up. “The election,” she blurted out. “The media will have a field day just like the Iranian hostages back in the 70’s. With no real indication of who did it or where they are, the President will have a heck of a time getting them back before the vote and in the mean time the public has just enough time to get annoyed and change sides. The opposition would be crazy not to take advantage of this,” she said.

  Heads around the room were nodding and voicing their agreement. Hammond looked at Davis and smiled. “I think we have all come to the same conclusion.” He nodded toward the young officer who found the answer. “Keep an eye on him Brian. He’ll go places,” he said before thanking the group and closing the meeting. He had come to the same conclusion that morning. Now he had to take it to his friends.

  South Carolina

  The swamps of South Carolina were stifling hot in late September. Mosquitoes were everywhere and were joined by seemingly every other insect in the world, not to mention a few snakes. Major Josh Pegram stood in his command post and scanned the surrounding area for the enemy. In the gamming situation, he and his troops had a hostage and the opposing force was tasked with rescuing the hostage without getting him killed. The command post was in the middle of the swamp and the rescuers would have to crawl through it to get the man out. So far, no team had been able to do it. The combination of heat and insects seemed to always cause something to give the other team away. Special Team Five had been training up for this mission for three weeks. They had left the kick off point three days ago. So far there had been no sign of them. Pegram chuckled at the idea that they might have gotten lost.

  This team was a pretty good one. The captain in charge was better than most and listened to his people. But it was the enlisted leadership that had impressed Pegram - especially Master Sergeant Dale Ricks. At first he was skeptical. Ricks didn’t have his legs. He had lost them during the last war. But obviously that hadn’t stopped him. He could outrun, jump or kick any man in the outfit. He was smart too. He had learned a lot of evasion techniques during the war and was eager to pass those along to his people. Where some people might just give up and walk away, Ricks would just move faster. Yet, he was the most pleasant guy to be around. Not bad at all.

  One of his men came around the corner. “Sir, one of the guys heard something on the other side.”

  Pegram grabbed the field glasses and walked to the other side of the compound. The compound was literally a small island only about three feet higher than the surrounding swamp. There was one narrow path that snaked to it. Pegram lifted his glasses and scanned in the direction the young man was pointing. “What did it sound like?” he asked.

  The younger sentry was also scanning the area. “Can’t place it, sir. It just wasn’t like the rest of the sounds,” he said quietly. A third man joined in with his binoculars. After a minute, a second sound, almost like something clinking against a glass jar was faintly heard above the cacophony of life surrounding the compound.

  Pegram was expecting something. “Get the rest of the squad up here.”

  Within a minute five more people were along the mud wall, rifles in hand. They spread themselves along the wall and waited. The marshy waters surrounding the compound remained a flat calm. There was no sign of anything amiss. After a few minutes Pegram began a circle of the compound. About three quarters of his men were at the one wall while the others remained at their posts on the other three. He rounded the corner of the tent at the center of the island. Inside the tent an observer was posing as the hostage and watching through the tent windows. He was watching intently.

  Pegram walked up to the sentry on the door side of the tent opposite the others. “See anything out here?” he asked. The soldier didn’t respond. Pegram nudged him and the young man turned his head and stared at
him. There was a bright yellow paintball splotch at the dead center of his helmet. Pegram started to respond when two paintballs hit him – one in the head and one in the center of his chest. As per the exercise rules, Pegram sat down and didn’t make a sound.

  A figure that looked like some sort of swamp monster emerged from the tent and made a hand signal. Three men suddenly materialized from the front of the mud wall and quietly climbed over. They were dripping with mud, moss and the tarry black ooze from the swamp. The figure from the tent then spoke into a small microphone seemingly attached to his cheek.

  The sound was heard again. This time there was some stirring in the water. Now all the men rushed to the one side of the island and aimed their rifles toward the disturbance. One man called for the Major.

  Suddenly each of the men found himself hit several times with the paintballs – not from the direction of the disturbance, but from the island itself. It took only a moment and Special Team Five gathered around the observer. The defending team sat dejected along the wall where they fell. The observer took in a deep breath. “Nice to be a free man again. Where’s the coffee?”

  The faces of the team broke into wide grins and one peeled off his hat and leaned against the wall. “I had some doughnuts, but an alligator ate ‘em,” said Ricks. The men chuckled around him.

  “Damn it, when did you get here, Ricks?” asked Pegram, finally getting up from the ground. “We haven’t seen anything move in this water all day,” he said.

  Ricks gave him a jaunty look. “We got here last night, Major,” he said. “It took us till nearly dawn to get in position, then we wanted to let you guys get a little tired. Right after lunch most of these guys looked like they needed a nap.”

  “Shit,” Pegram said, disgusted.

  Captain Gregg Chapman was standing on the outside of the wall, leaning against it. He had let Ricks lead this one in. But even he had been only ten feet away when it had all gone down. On top of his hat was a set of weeds and a stick that matched perfectly with the surrounding swamp. “Okay people, let’s get our hostage back to safety. The quicker we get back, the quicker we can crawl out of these suits,” he said. “Let’s do this by the book. Carter, take point. Griffiths, Jones, right and left.” He turned to the Major. “We’ll see you at debriefing, sir.”