“Um, I don’t know.” And not knowing, though probably suspecting the joke was on him, he changed the subject abruptly. “I also have a draft of his speech after his brother dies. He’s talking about a pretty big disaster to hit the U.S. Our economy’s going to be fucked for twenty years.”
“He used the word ‘fucked’?”
“I’m still working on my Spanish, but it was in that ballpark.”
“Have you seen the satellite photos of the Colombian border?”
I’m not sure what I expected Ken Jones to say when he arrived, but I know it wasn’t that. And I wasn’t in much of a mood for surprises or left turns.
“I have a person stuck in Havana, and you’re worried about drug smuggling?” I answered.
“This has nothing to do with drugs, Dick. Except maybe the ones Hugo Chavez is using.”
The admiral nodded at the aide who’d come with him. The aide pulled up the narrow briefcase he’d brought and opened it on the table. We’d been given a ready room on the base for our meeting. The two bodyguards the admiral had brought with him—nothing I said, I’m sure—were outside the door keeping curious air farcers at bay.
In my experience, curious and air farce are pretty much a contradiction in terms, but I digress.
“This is what the border of the two countries looked like a month ago,” said the aide. I didn’t quite catch his name; it might have been Needleneck.
He laid out a series of satellite photos of Venezuela’s Apure region, the country’s western midsection. (Draw a line between Caracas and Bogotá; split the difference and you’re in Apure.) It’s your typical semi-penetrable jungle, punctuated by numerous streams and wetlands.
“Now look at these,” said Needleneck.
The photos were of the same area, but now the highways were lined with troop trucks.
“Someone’s going hunting,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Chavez is trying to get Colombia to stop going after FARC,” said the admiral. “Their campaign against the guerrillas is getting a little too successful for him.”
FARC is the Spanish abbreviation for the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, your basic nutso-commie group of crazies who have been disrupting Colombia for roughly two decades now. They support their mayhem and random acts of violence by dealing drugs, kidnapping, and whatever other illegal activities happen to strike their fancy. Just the sort of thugs Chavez would champion.
I’ll spare you the South American politics. I should mention, though, that FARC has traditionally operated on the other side of Colombia near Ecuador, and that Chavez would later claim he had sent the troops to the border because the Colombians had gone into Ecuador where the tangos were holed up. If you’re trying to squeeze logic out of that, don’t bother. The point Ken and his physique-challenged aide were trying to make was: Chavez was up to bad things.
And where did we come into the picture?
In two places. The first was Raul’s hard drive.
“The hard disk you stole from Raul’s computer contains some e-mail messages from Chavez about the troop movements, apparently notes that he’s hoping Raul will incorporate into speeches backing the mobilization,” explained Needleneck. “Chavez is looking for a specific provocation before ordering his troops in.”
“We oughta hope he follows through,” I said. “Colombia can be in Caracas inside a week.”
The Venezuelan army numbers maybe thirty-four thousand men. They have about eighty AMX 30 tanks, which are decent second-rank main battle tanks. More impressive are the Sukhois30 they’ve been buying lately to replace the F-16s they can’t fly because they’ve run out of spare parts.
Pretty good by Latin American standards. But not quite good enough if you’re comparing them to Colombia. There the army numbers over a hundred thousand, with another hundred thousand or more in the reserves. And these guys have experience fighting in the jungle, battling narco-terrorists a hell of a lot more committed to their own ideals—and money—than the Venezuelan army is to Chavez.
Colombia doesn’t have anything like the AMX, but they do have a bunch of Bradley Fighting Vehicles and lighter vehicles suited to jungle and mountain warfare. They have a dozen or so Kfir fighters, which are Israeli-made knockoffs of the Mirage III: slight advantage to Venezuela, but only slight. They have a lot of artillery and, oh yeah, American advisors with access to considerable intelligence and logistics resources.
“I don’t think either side would win in a war,” said Needleneck.
“They will if we help,” I told him.
Needleneck glanced at his boss.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Dick,” said Ken, dropping the other shoe.
“I’m not going to Colombia, or Venezuela. I’m getting Trace Dahlgren out of Cuba. And then Red Cell International is going to spend some of that money you owe the company on a very nice, all-expenses-paid vacation for its key stockholder.”
“We’ll take care of Ms. Dahlgren,” said Needleneck. “We’re already making inquiries through our Canadian friends.”
I know he meant that to sound encouraging, but given the Christians in Action record in Cuba, it was anything but.
“I can handle it myself,” I told him. “You’ve got other problems to worry about. This thing with Venezuela, Fidel’s surprise—”
“Dick, you don’t want to go back to Cuba yourself,” said Ken. “Haven’t you seen the bulletin?”
I shook my head. Needleneck opened his briefcase and pulled out two more pieces of paper, hard copies of electronic bulletins that had been issued to every police and army unit in the country. Page one had a picture of yours truly in a hospital corridor, along with Red. Page two had a description of our terrorist movement, which had nearly killed el Jefe before being foiled by the brave members of the security forces.
There was one encouraging note: Trace wasn’t mentioned. The Cubans hadn’t connected her with any of this. Though of course that wouldn’t stop them from doing so in the future.
With or without evidence.
“Did you manufacture this, Ken? Because it wasn’t on the hard drive.”
“It’s legitimate,” said Needleneck. “We have our sources.”
“I’m not going to Colombia,” I told them. “My job is finished. The DVDs were switched, and you got a bonus.”
“Colombia’s not the real target,” said the admiral. “Panama is.”
Needleneck’s briefcase opened again, and I was treated to another set of satellite photos, this time of the ocean.
Empty ocean, at least as far as I could see.
“What am I looking at?” I asked finally.
“Periscopes. Here, here, and here,” announced Needleneck, pointing at the pages, a note of triumph in his voice. “Chinese periscopes,” added the admiral. “Three submarines, filled with troops.”
Before we go any further, a history lesson for the grasshopper at the back of the class with a confused look on his face.
Most Americans remember, vaguely I’d guess, that the U.S. built the Panama Canal in the early twentieth century. It opened in 1914. For the next eighty-five years, we protected it, keeping it open to international shipping. Yes, partly for our benefit—the canal made it much cheaper to ship goods from the eastern U.S. to the western coast and beyond—but the rest of the world did pretty well with it, too.
We gave it “back” to the Panamanians in 1999, under an agreement Jimmy Carter had worked out when his psychoanalyst told him to get in touch with his inner Santa Claus. Carter was another favorite bubble-head of mine—Academy grad and nuclear submariner, he was smarter than shit but like many submariners he lived in his own world under the sea, or wherever . . .
I’d guess that most Americans probably think that giving the canal “back” to the Panamanians meant that Panama would take over the operation and benefit from the trade and traffic it generated. But what really happened was that Panamanian officials turned around and cut deals with foreign companies to run the canal.
And guess where those foreign companies call home.
The U.S.A.?
Bzzzzz. I thought you were sleeping, grasshopper.
The Chinese now control most of the key ports in the canal. The true communists of the twenty-first century don’t bother taking things over at the point of a rifle; they just plunk down money for it. It’s much cheaper, faster, and the only downside is that you have to host the Olympics every twenty years or so.
Back in the day, the U.S. had a permanent SpecWar detachment in the Canal Zone providing training for waterway protection, harbor security, and riverine warfare. I didn’t personally work with them, and my connection since has been limited, with an exception we’ll get into shortly. I do enjoy regular reports on the money-laundering operations by the Chinese and Russians, courtesy of a former Soviet operative there, if only for entertainment value.
Needleneck spent the next twenty minutes delivering a briefing on the Chinese military buildup over the past decade or so, concentrating largely on submarines. Some of what he said is common knowledge and not classified, including the general identity of the three Chinese submarines allegedly in the photo he showed me.
They were Chinese Type 039 Song-class boats, homegrown attack submarines propelled by diesel engines and capable of launching cruise missiles. Their presence that far from Chinese waters surprised many analysts, since diesel boats didn’t have long-range capabilities. (That must be why German U-boats never sailed off the American coast during World War II, and American submarines never choked up Japanese trade. Oh, wait a minute . . . )
The discussion of the submarines and the rest of the Chinese navy was fascinating, but didn’t have much to do really with our story. More germane was an ancient merchant ship—ironically of Panamanian registry—that had rendezvoused with the submarines roughly twelve hours before. The ship had left Cuba five days before, taking a very leisurely pace as it sailed through the canal.
Its cargo was described as tools and machinery.
Since when does Cuba export tools and machinery?
It doesn’t.
It exports cigars, a bit of sugar if the harvest is good . . . and armed mercenaries, which it did often to Africa and places like Grenada during the latter stages of the Cold War. Now, according to the Christians in Action, they’d decided to stay at home and train others.
Venezuelans, in this case.
Their target was a port installation run by Hutchinson Ports—a Chinese company—at Cristobal on the eastern end of the Panama Canal. According to the admiral, they were now aboard the Chinese subs.
Huh?
The Chinese were helping attack their own installations?
Huh?
Say again: Huh?
I love conspiracy theories as much as anyone, but by this time my head was spinning. I couldn’t see why the Chinese would be transporting saboteurs targeting a port run by a Chinese company. And outside of general principles, I couldn’t understand why the Venezuelans were involved, or what this had to do with the border of Colombia.
I could see the profit motive for Cuba, I understood the import of the evidence on Raul’s hard drive, but I couldn’t quite fathom all of the connections. And having had more experience with the CIA than I’m comfortable admitting, even under oath, I was somewhat skeptical, even when they showed me encrypted and coded radio transmissions cinching the connections.
I turned to Ken.
“What exactly is it that’s going on?” I asked. “Just give me a two-minute no-shitter.”
“The Venezuelans—disguised as Colombian terrorists—are going to stage a takeover,” said Ken. “Chavez is going to send a force to help subdue them. The Chinese will use this as a pretense to move troops into their facilities in the Canal Zone. There’ll be escalation from there.”
“The Chinese want to take over the canal,” added Needleneck. “It’ll reduce their shipping costs to Europe dramatically, giving them inroads to the one major market they don’t control right now. Chavez wants to help, partly to cement a new oil deal, and partly because he figures that anything that will hurt the U.S. is good for him. Cuba’s involved because of the cash and because Fidel and Raul see this as the ultimate fuck you to the U.S. You saw what Fidel said in his tape. This is it.”
Whoa, Nellie. Stop the tape right there.
This was what Ken thought was Fidel’s big surprise?
“That was supposed to happen after he died,” I pointed out. “He’s not dead yet. He’s getting there, but very slowly.”
Needleneck shrugged. “The doctors turned out to be a little better than he thought. Finally, a real Cuban medical miracle.”
I knew they were wrong. Oh, I’m sure that in a general way, Fidel and his bro were convinced that anything that screwed us was good for the world, and vice versa. I could see them giving the OK to train the men. They needed the cash, and weren’t in much of a position to deny Venezuela anything—if Chavez stopped supplying cheap Venezuelan oil to the island, they’d be right back where they were at the end of the Soviet Union.
But I’d heard Raul ranting about Chavez, and knew from our tête-àtête that Fidel wasn’t crazy about him, either. Fidel wasn’t about to outsource his revenge. Besides, this was too small from his point of view to satisfy his rage. If his history showed anything, it was that he thought big. Megalomaniacs usually do.
“We need you to work with the Panamanians to cut this off,” said Ken. “We need some cover here—the U.S. can’t just barge in. But if you said you had information, and then volunteered to help the Panamanian Public Force,31 they’d go for it in a heartbeat.”
“It has to be launched quickly—the assault is set for tomorrow night,” said Needleneck.
“We’ll provide assistance,” said Ken. “All we need from you is political cover—the usual ability to say we’re arm’s length from the situation. You understand.”
Sure. When the shit hits the fan, it flies all over Dick, not everybody else.
“Tell the Panamanians you uncovered the plot in Cuba,” added Ken. “That will cut off any questions about our involvement.”
“The Cubans already know you were in Cuba,” added Needleneck. “They’ve connected you with the attack. They’re preparing a formal protest to the UN.”
“It mentions me by name?”
I looked at Ken. He nodded solemnly.
Needleneck opened the briefcase once more and produced yet another intercepted Cuban document. I was, in fact, named as the suspected force behind the raid, hired by the U.S. government.
I was completely flattered. And I was pissed. Linking my name to the operation put Trace in even more danger. Now if the Cubans figured out who she was, they’d be sure to grant her permanent residency in one of their jails . . . if not cemeteries.
“How much help did the Cubans have deciding I was involved?” I asked Ken.
“We’re going to help you get your girl out,” he answered, ducking the question. “We’re working with the Canadians. You have nothing to worry about as far as that’s concerned. Her identity will be protected. We’ll get her out. That’s a personal guarantee. Me to you.”
“Great,” I said, getting up.
“Great as in, you’re going to help?” asked Needleneck.
“Great as in, don’t do me any favors.”
“You’re not being cooperative here, Dick,” said Ken.
I imagine he said some other things as well, but I didn’t stick around to hear them.
( III )
The first order of business was to find out where Trace was.
We started with the assumption that she would be taken to Villa Marista, the state security headquarters in Havana, where she’d be questioned and probably tortured while the authorities decided whether to a) shoot her full of Thorazine and send her to the political wing at Mazorra for electroshock therapy, or b) just shoot her.
How long she would be kept there was anyone and everyone’s guess; the average of the many sour
ces we consulted seemed to be about a week and a half.
Danny hopped on a plane to Miami to press our friends there for contacts and additional information. Meanwhile, I needed to get some people into Havana ASAP. Mongoose hadn’t landed in Toronto yet; Sean was in Europe and out of commission as far as this operation was concerned. Red, Doc, and I were “burned,” likely to be arrested if not shot as soon as we were spotted. The only shooters I had who were immediately available were Shotgun and Junior. Shotgun didn’t speak particularly good Spanish and Junior’s didn’t sound very Cuban. And neither knew his way around Havana.
Not that either of them would let that stand in the way of helping Trace.
“Kick ass, Dick. When’s the plane?” asked Shotgun.
“There’s a flight from Miami to Mexico that you can take if you get to the airport in an hour,” I told him. “We’ll get someone from Homeland Security to walk you to the gate.”
“Kick ass.”
“You’re going as a Canadian tourist.”
“I are Canadian, eh?”
“Just don’t stop at every snack bar and fast-food shop on the way.”
“Kick ass.”
Junior needed even less encouragement. He’d just gotten off a plane in Jamaica when I got ahold of him. We booked him on a flight and then into a hotel as a doctor from Belgium involved in an international exchange.
“Belgium?” he asked. “Why not Spain?”
“Because your Spanish sounds like you picked it up in Des Moines,” I told him. “Just go there and keep your mouth shut. Take two of the sat phones that look like cell phones. Just two; if they see more than that they’ll either get greedy or suspicious. We’ll call with more instructions.”
“On my way.”
With Red now known to the Cubans, I reached outside of Red Cell International for a fresh face. The face I had in mind was fresh, but not particularly young—Edward “Crusty” Lopez had blown out more than sixty candles at his last birthday party.
How many more is a closely guarded secret, known only to those at the party. But I wouldn’t trust Crusty to have used the right number anyway.
RW15 - Seize the Day Page 28
