by Unknown
Messina saw it as well. “You made his day. The very next morning he was outside in all his gear practicing. Their first scrimmage is tomorrow afternoon about 6. You should come and see how they look. I’m sure their coach would like to meet you.” He had a look in his eye that indicated this should be a part of some plan.
Rojas nodded. “I’ll try. It depends on how late Presidente Parente needs me. His is my first priority,” he said. “But even if I’m a little late I could still get there. When should it be over?”
“Sometime around 8 pm. The coach likes to huddle with the team and go over things for about half an hour at the end of a practice. So it may be just a little later,” Messina said.
“Good. Then I should be able to make it at some time. I may just try and get back into lacrosse. I loved playing in college. Just don’t ask me to run around the field like the kids. I hurt more now,” Rojas joked.
Messina let out a laugh and the two men started talking about a few more trivial things. After a minute or two they noticed the man in front had turned back toward the field. The two men glanced at each other and nodded. Now they knew they were definitely being watched and had to be extremely careful what they might do. As the game resumed, Messina thought about how they might share information. At the scrimmage, many parents would stand at the edge of the field to watch the play and talk among each other. That might offer some opportunities. In addition, his son had told him that one of the players was an American boy whose father was an engineer at a local construction firm. That in itself might be an opportunity. They could talk about it the next day.
Caracas
Steven Biscotti was a communications specialist assigned to the US embassy. He had been born and raised in the Italian neighborhoods of Brooklyn, and was only the second in his family to leave the family’s restaurant business and head out on his own. Always a quiet young man, he had taken very quickly to his education and got a scholarship to the Polytechnic Institute of New York, where he earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Science and Technology Studies. As he had grown up, his family had instilled in him both a love of country and his Catholic and Italian heritage, so entering the diplomatic corps had fit him like a glove.
Biscotti was nearing his two year mark at the embassy, making a name for himself by keeping the complex communications office both up to date and operating efficiently. This included very highly technical work on the many pieces of cryptologic gear they maintained. About the only thing he didn’t oversee was the embassy’s antiquated phone system.
Living alone in a small apartment on the embassy grounds, Biscotti spent his leisure time exploring Caracas and the surrounding areas and going to church. Every Thursday he left work in the late afternoon to visit the cathedral, go to confession and attend the mass. He never understood much of the homily, since most of it was in Spanish instead of English or Italian, but just being there was enough. Luckily, the priests knew English very well and his confessions were much easier. One of the priests would actually allow him to confess in Italian, which usually made him homesick. No matter who was there, the priests knew him and would often have long conversations with him. It was like going home.
Entering the cathedral, Biscotti glanced to the right and saw there was only one person waiting at the confessional. He made his way to one of the pews next to the large and ornately carved wooden confessional and knelt to say a prayer. Only a few minutes later, the curtain was pulled back and the individual left to offer her own prayers nearby. Biscotti ended his prayer and moved into the confessional, closing the curtains behind him. After preparing himself, he waited until the screened opening between the two sitting areas opened.
Glancing through the screen, he thought he recognized Father Cardoza. Smiling to himself, he said in Italian, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
There was a slight pause, which was unusual for a confession. Then Cardoza spoke, also in Italian, “Not as bad as the sins I have witnessed in recent days, my friend. Would you care to hear of my confession?”
Biscotti was totally confused. This was not normal. A priest confessing to one of his flock? Biscotti looked into the other chamber. “I am not one to hear a priest’s confession, Father.”
“In normal times, I would agree, but in this case, you may be the only one I can share this particular confession with. May I share with you?”
Now Biscotti was astounded. But he could never turn away from the request of a priest – particularly Father Cardoza. “How may I be of help, Father?”
The screen lifted slightly and a small thumb drive slid through. Father Cardoza was sweating on the other side. The seriousness of what he was doing clearly weighing on him. If he were caught with these images, Biscotti would be taken as a spy and probably shot and Cardoza would not be able to live with that and remain a priest. He summoned up his strength and continued. “My friend, just three days ago, I witnessed the devil at work in this land. I watched as one of God’s children was taken up and butchered like a common steer. Unfortunately, I could not save him, although I prayed mightily for his salvation. On that drive I have placed the images of what I saw and photographed. It is my prayer that through these images this poor man’s sacrifice will not go unpunished or in vein. I confess I can find no other way to do this except to give this to you. Please help me, even though it may place you in peril. Please take this and do what you must.”
Biscotti looked down at the little thumb drive, then back at the screen. He wondered at what might be on the drive and what it may mean. Surely the Father was troubled and was trusting in him. He placed the thumb drive in his pocket. “Father, I will gladly do as you ask. It appears that this weighs far heavier than the confessions I might bring.”
There was a chuckle from the other side. ‘You are a good Catholic, Steven. Trust me when I say what you do with this may wash away the sins of a lifetime – particularly the kinds of sins you confess.” The screen slid all the way up and the Father’s hands reached through, taking Biscotti’s. “Thank you, my son. May God’s protection be with you as you do his work, and thank you for assisting this troubled priest.”
Biscotti kissed the priest’s hands. “I will let you know what happens.”
The priest’s hands tightened. “No. Do not come back except for your usual confessions. From what I have seen, I will know if your work is done easily enough. Now do not stay for mass tonight. Return to your duties and contemplate how this must be done. God be with you,” Cardoza said releasing Biscotti’s hands and giving the sign of the cross.
Biscotti left the confessional quietly and walked out of the rapidly filling cathedral into the evening air. Taking a few breaths, he made his way back to his car and then to the embassy grounds, careful not to speed or do anything out of the ordinary. In his training he had once been told that any member of the diplomatic staff might be singled out to pass along information, but he had never expected it from a Catholic priest. Upon arrival at the embassy, he made his way to his office in the communications section. There was an isolated computer there with all the bells and whistles. He called in the local station agent and checked the drive for viruses while he waited.
Rick Lozier had been up for days trying to get information to help out with the hostage situation. When he came into the communications section he looked bone tired. Biscotti waved him over and he pulled up a chair next to him. “What’ya got Steven?”
Biscotti went over what had happened at the confessional. With every word, Lozier sat up a little straighter. “Let’s see what we have then,” Lozier said turning to the screen.
Biscotti opened the drive to see twenty jpeg images and a Word document. “Open the document first,” Lozier said.
The only thing was a latitude and longitude, and a note saying all photos taken from this point. “The camera was looking to the east,” it said.
Opening the first photo, the image showed the courtyard with the people dancing beneath the obelisk with what looked like a high pries
t facing toward it with his hands raised. The second showed the old man being led out to be tied to the post. The third showed the old man struggling against the ropes and the high priest facing him.
Lozier suddenly sat up. “My God! That’s one of our hostages,” he gasped.
Biscotti was pointing to the other figure. “Isn’t that Parente?”
Lozier got closer to the screen. “Holy shit,” he said in astonishment. “Open more.”
The next photo showed Parente holding up the black dagger. The next saw it embedded deep into Mitchell’s chest, still clasped in Parente’s hands. It was the photo of Parente holding up Mitchell’s still beating heart that infuriated Lozier. “That son of a bitch. He’s a goddamned murderer. I want you to make copies of these and send them on a secure line to Langley immediately. I know some people who want to see these pictures.”
“Shall I show them to the Ambassador?” asked Biscotti.
“No. As of now, these are the property of the CIA and have a classification far above his level. I’m going to ask you to keep this all to yourself. You say a priest took these?”
“Yes, he was born in America and takes a lot of nature photos,” said Biscotti.
Lozier chuckled. “Well, after this me may just get a medal. Now show me the rest of these images.”
The rest of the photos were opened rapidly. Again, the details were damning. They proceeded until few were left in the compound. The last one showed something that really got Lozier hopping. It was the sight of a small lighted compound with a white panel truck sitting under the branches of a large tree.
Chapter 9
Deployment
CIA, Langley, Virginia
It only took ten minutes to transmit the images via a secure satellite link to the CIA in Langley, Virginia, and for them to be enhanced, printed and on the Director’s desk. During that time, Lozier had called personally and relayed the information. Jeff Dunning immediately picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. Two voices later and he was talking to the President.
“Boss, I know where they are.”
The President nearly jumped out of his chair. “Jeff, what have you got?”
“The whole thing, Mister President. A latitude and longitude and photos. But you’re not going to like the worst part.”
The President sat back down. “Okay, give me the bad news.”
Dunning took a breath. “Sir, I also have one of our hostages being massacred in some sort of ceremony.”
“What do you mean massacred?”
“I mean someone plunging a knife into his chest,” he paused a second, “and cutting out his heart.”
“Oh my God,” gasped O’Bannon on the other side. “Who was it?”
“It looks like Jim Mitchell. The photos are quite clear and detailed. It also shows the man who killed him. It was President Parente.”
Now even O’Bannon was angry, but he held it back while collecting his thoughts. “Jim, make copies of those photos and come to my office. I’m calling an emergency meeting with you, the FBI, State and the Joint Chiefs. Be here in an hour.”
“Yes Mister President,” said Dunning as the line went dead.
O’Bannon hung up the phone and looked down at the desk. How could this be happening? The man was murdering the hostages. That meant time was extremely limited. He reached over and hit the intercom. Beverly, get hold of the FBI, State, and the Joint Chiefs and tell them I want them here in one hour. Include General Richardson and Admiral Hammond in that meeting if they are available. Can you arrange some coffee and a few snacks? This may be a long meeting,” he said calmly.
“Yes, Mister President,” came the reply.
“Thanks Beverly. And call the Chief of Staff to my office.”
“Yes sir.”
It only took a minute before the door opened and Jim Butler stepped into the room. He could tell by the look on the President’s face that something was happening. “Bev said you were on fire. Who do I shoot?” Butler said in a joking manner.
The President grinned slightly. “Hammond was right. Damned if I know how he does it, but Hammond was right. We’ve found the hostages. They’re in Venezuela.
“Damn! Now we can get somewhere,” Butler said rubbing his hands together. “That explains the meeting Bev mentioned. Are they all safe?”
The President looked more somber and shook his head. “Dunning says he has photos a Parente killing one of our people. He’s coming over with them now.”
Butler got a stunned look. “It wasn’t Patricia was it?”
Again, the President shook his head. “No, it was Jim Mitchell. Dunning said it was some sort of ceremony.”
Butler got a stern look. “You know what this means. It means Parente is planning on killing all of them. We need to get hot on this. At least the team is ready. Just a day to brief them and they will be on their way. Is Claire on her way to this meeting?”
O’Bannon nodded. “She and Hammond both.”
Butler shook his head. “No, Roger is on his way from Panama. He’s stopping at Davis Monthan to talk to the General there. He told me how he plans on getting those people back. It’s tricky, but should work. At least they won’t have to walk home.”
“I hope you’re right. We’re sticking our necks way out on this one. It means everything has to go in our favor. If it doesn’t, there will be a whole lot of dead people and a new president in the next 30 days.”
Davis Monthan, AFB
Roger Hammond walked into General Brinson’s office and extended his hand. “Richard, how are you? Thanks for waiting up,” Hammond said. It was nine in the evening and Brinson had waited for Hammond’s plane to come in.
General Richard Brinson came around his desk to greet his friend. “Not bad Roger. How was the flight?” Brinson had been in charge of the 309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group (AMARG), better known as the “Boneyard,” at the start of the last war. After one meeting with Roger Hammond he was flying high bringing all his old warbirds back to life. That alone had earned him his star and command of Davis Monthan Air Force Base. They had become good friends.
“I’m getting too old for all this flying. Give me something that floats,” Hammond joked. “Did you think about what I mentioned in my call?”
Brinson chuckled. “If it was anyone else I would have said a few rash things, I think I have just the thing. You don’t know how lucky you are. Just last week we got this Candid that used to be in Cuba. They sold it to the Nicaraguans, who finally gave up on all the maintenance. They sold it to some millionaire who had no idea what he was getting, so it finally ended up here. It was next in line for getting dismantled when you called. Since the last owner flew it here, there’s not much to do but give it a good once over. Why something so big? Wouldn’t a C-130 do just as well?”
“I would prefer it, but we need something that won’t arouse suspicions. The Venezuelans are in love with the Cubans from way back. They buy some of their equipment from them. We need something big enough to carry a medical bay and room to be comfortable and fed. It also needs to be a little faster than a turboprop,” Hammond said.
“Mind telling me what this is for,” Brinson asked. “My orders were to provide whatever you need with no questions asked, but I’d like to know what it will be used for so my guys can work their magic.”
Hammond got up and closed the door. He sat back down and looked Brinson in the eye. “You deserve that Richard. It can’t go out of this room.” He paused to make his point. “We’re getting ready to get those hostages back and we need a way to get them out quickly. I’m assuming the worst, so that’s why we need the medical bay and anything else we can think of to get those poor people back home. When we find out where they are, I’m hoping there will be some sort of airstrip nearby where we can get in and out really fast. I’m gambling that it will be somewhere in Venezuela. They seem to have these little strips almost everywhere. So now you know. What do you think?”
Brinson thought a moment. �
��I’d rather take a turboprop anyway, but the Candid should do nicely. It’s got the cargo space and can land and take off from a relatively short space. It can even land it on a dirt field. There’s plenty of space and I like the power availability much better.” Brinson nodded his head. “It’ll do. Let’s go take a look,” he said as he got up and grabbed his cover.
The men exited the building and got into Brinson’s car. It only took a few minutes and they came upon a fairly large four engine jet parked on a ramp next to one of the hangers. In the glow of the outdoor lights you could just see the faded markings of the Nicaraguan Air Force still on the side and a team of men and women working around the plane. A cowling was off and several people were working on an engine while the others were darting in and out of the plane carrying instruments and tools. It appeared that Brinson had anticipated the urgency of Hammond’s request.
Brinson parked the car beside the aircraft and the men stepped out to the salutes of the people working nearby. The rear of the plane was open and the two men walked up the ramp and into the aircraft.
The inside of the aircraft was quite large. It was nothing like a C-5, but large enough to drive a truck into. The deck was slotted and had numerous gripes where equipment could be attached. Unlike most American heavy lifters, the front of the plane didn’t open. Instead was a large windowed area, with ladders going to an upper deck housing the cockpit and crew. Brinson begin pointing things out.
“I’d put one of our portable galleys up forward and then fit a medical bay just aft of that. I can put seating up forward under the cockpit and maybe some cots back aft. How many should we seat?” asked Brinson.
“Maybe as many as thirty six along with any other medical people and crew.”
“I’ll install fifty. This will place most of the weight under the wing and balance it out. It shouldn’t be any less comfortable than your standard coast-to-coast flight. I’ll also see to stocking up some really good meals. They’ll probably be a little worse for the wear. You want us to dig up a medical team?”
