PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  “Sure. We’ll meet there on Monday morning. I’ll make sure Chip has directions.”

  Sutherland took control again, “I’ll take a minute here to remind you once more, gentlemen, that you are completely on your own on this one. Due to the situation with this taking place in a friendly neighboring country, there will be no backup of any kind on this operation. There is no air support and no extraction team other than your driver, Mr. Morales, who is very reliable. You are in no way affiliated with or working for the United States government, and they have no knowledge of your existence and will deny it completely if questioned. Your paychecks come from Export Logistics, LLC, which will pay you as consultants. Which brings us to the next order of business.”

  Chip’s head was spinning. He had assumed this was some sort of CIA deal due to the presence of former SEALs and the seemingly endless bankroll. The idea that this mission was being planned by some other organization without the government’s knowledge gave him a moment’s pause. He had that sinking feeling that he sometimes got before putting on a river—a feeling that usually ended with an epic misadventure that included loss of boats and/or gear, miles of hiking, and unplanned nights shivering in the wilderness. He had been around long enough to know better than to commit to something like that. As with hidden rivers, however, the mystery of it all drew him in like a tractor-beam. There was no way he could say no.

  “This is the first mission for Export Logistics,” Sutherland was still droning in his deadpan voice, “so you’re probably wondering about the financial particulars. We’re on a tight budget, but I think you’ll find it better than military pay. It’s fifty thousand for each of you on this one. Of course, all expenses will be covered. We hope to have you home by the beginning of December, but plan to be away from Monday until then.”

  This seemed to elicit a positive response from the other men. If they weren’t going to be fighting for an accepted national ideology, at least the pay would be good. They all knew this was their only window of opportunity to stay in the game. Plus, stopping the drug cartels was a worthy cause by any moral measure.

  Although the rest of the men took it in stride, the amount of pay stunned Chip completely. Fifty grand?? That was enough to keep him kayaking comfortably for years to come. This expedition was a dream come true…if he survived it. Who cared who he would be working for? This job could set him free for the foreseeable future.

  The men all began to stand and head for the door. Sutherland turned to Duval, the only single member of the crew other than Chip. “Can you give Chip a ride back to his car in West Virginia?”

  Duval gave chip a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Sure, I’ll drive the river hippy back home.”

  Chip made his way to the door in stunned silence. He had no idea how it had happened, but he was about to become some kind of secret agent kayaking commando. Then he turned his mind back to things he could control.

  *

  Moore sat in his oversized office chair and savored his first sip of bourbon for the afternoon. It was a well-earned bit of relaxation after a difficult week of politics. The good news was that the first step was complete—the international trucking bill had passed through his committee. He had no regrets about it. With all of the ridiculous pork that rolled through congress, crossing party lines to support something as low profile as a trucking bill could hardly be seen as a great sin—and many of his peers had been bought off by worse interests than trucking companies. It would, however, be seen as a mortal sin by his party-mates. Many had already voiced displeasure with his support of it. Who cared? It would be his final fuck you to a life he was tired of living, something he should have done a long time ago. His work today would net him two million bucks, and another three would follow when the bill passed. It was enough to secure his future, and it wasn’t like his Senate income would stop completely when he left office. If his wife missed the prestige of being married to a senator, she would certainly enjoy the extra money. It might be enough to keep her around, and it might not. Moore was past the point of caring.

  He glanced fondly over to the hunting pictures on the wall in the corner. She could keep the ridiculous house in DC, and he would split time between his place in Alabama and hunting trips to Alaska. He didn’t imagine she would follow him away from this city anyhow, and he hoped that he would never have to come back. Such was life. He took another sip of Basil Hayden’s and glanced at the clock. It was 4:30, and still no call from Sam. It worried him a little, but she had missed their calls before. One thing was certain: there would be no shortage of fall formal dresses for his little girl after today.

  The door burst open and Ortiz barreled in. He bee-lined for the bar and poured himself a vodka, then raised it for a toast that left Moore’s glass empty.

  “We did it, boss!” he exclaimed. “All you have to do now is vote for it in the Senate, and you’re a wealthy man.” He didn’t mention that he would be a million dollars richer himself—two million, if you counted what he planned to divert without Moore’s or Cardenas’ knowledge.

  “When are you gonna let ‘em know?” Moore asked, anxious to get on with it.

  “I’ll call my cousin when I leave here,” Ortiz answered. “The money will be wired to an offshore account by the end of the day.”

  Moore sighed and sank lower in his chair, so his chief-of-staff hopped up and refilled the senator’s glass from the bottle on the credenza. Ortiz was sick of kissing this man’s ass, but it was almost over. Who knew what would come next with two million dollars in his account, and with the political connections he had made. The sky was the limit.

  There were a few awkward moments while they sipped their drinks with nothing much left to say. Moore was impatient for confirmation of the money and disturbed that his daughter hadn’t called. Finally, Ortiz swallowed the last of his vodka and headed for the door.

  “I’ll call you after I talk to them,” he said before he let himself out.

  Moore nodded and stared into his glass as the door closed.

  After climbing into his Audi A5 and leaving the parking garage, Ortiz opened the glove box and removed a prepaid cell phone that he had bought with cash. The last thing he wanted was any connection between himself and his cousin’s satellite phone number. Héctor had the number to Ortiz’ Blackberry, but it was only for use in the most dire of emergencies. Otherwise, Ortiz would always call Héctor using the prepaid phone, which he replaced every two weeks. He entered the international number from memory as he crept through the busy streets, winding his way toward the interstate and the George Mason Bridge. The phone rang three times before Héctor picked up.

  “Hola.”

  “Se ha aprobado,” Ortiz said calmly. It’s been approved.

  “Bueno,” Héctor answered. “I will transfer the money. What about the next part?”

  “As long as he votes for it, there will be enough votes to pass the bill. You are certain there will be no problems in the House?”

  “It has been taken care of. You worry about your boss, we will worry about the rest.”

  Ortiz reserved the right to worry about any part of this until it was finished and the money was in his account, but he wasn’t about to bring that up with his cousin.

  “Call me tomorrow to confirm that the money is available. Then we should not talk again until just before the final vote.”

  “OK,” Ortiz said and then disconnected the phone. He dropped the car into neutral and revved the engine until it redlined, frustrated with the stopped up traffic. So much waiting…but soon, it would all be worth it.

  *

  Sam awoke, sat up on the dingy couch and looked around. Small slivers of light streamed down through the sunken windows. She was in Stuart’s basement in San Fran, she suddenly remembered. She looked at her phone to see the time and was startled to see that it was 2:17 PM…on Friday. How in the hell was it Friday? She was still dressed for the club on Tuesday night, and the short skirt and blouse clung to her from days of sweating i
n them.

  Shit! Her dad. She’d missed the call. She had to get out of here. She needed a bump to get her home in the worst fucking way. She turned on the lamp with a shaking hand and rummaged through the dresser where she knew Stuart kept it. Where was Brett? Had he even been at the club? She couldn’t remember.

  Finally! She found a vial with a little bit left in it. She tapped the powder out onto the top of the dresser then scraped it into a thin ribbon using the edge of her Stanford ID. There were several rolled bills handy. She picked one up and knocked all of the coke back. Then she pocketed the twenty for Caltrain fare back to campus. Stuart wouldn’t miss the vial or the bill. God knew he had plenty of both.

  She headed up the stairs and surreptitiously stepped from the landing out the back door without going into the apartment at all. She left through the side yard and got around the corner and a couple of blocks away before she relaxed into a steady stride. She’d call her dad from the train. By then she would hopefully come up with a good story for why she was so late with the call. He would probably already be drunk anyway. She hoped he had worked out first. She racked her brain for a new excuse to have him send her some more money.

  8

  Thursday, November 3rd

  CHIP PULLED THE extended stock of the Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun firmly against his shoulder and nestled his cheek against the back corner of the gun. He lined up the tritium on the front sight post over his target through the circular rear sight. The gun had been fitted with a suppressor and a three-round-burst trigger group, although it was set on semi-automatic right now. He pulled the trigger and the gun jumped, popping a hole in the upper left arm of a human silhouette target facing him twenty-five yards downrange. He still found himself flinching from the expected noise and surprised when the gun only made a quiet cough.

  “You’re jerking the trigger too much,” Harris advised him again. Chip knew. He was getting it right sometimes but still rushing things occasionally. It was frustrating. “Just squeeze gently,” Harris continued for the hundredth time.

  Chip squeezed the trigger again slowly and was rewarded with the appearance of a point of light shining through a hole in the center of his target’s chest.

  “That’s it,” Harris encouraged, nodding with approval.

  The shooting range was part of a facility that the guys simply called “The Woods.” It primarily consisted of a cabin nestled in a small, wooded mountain valley about two and a half hours west of DC in West Virginia. The land and cabin had recently been acquired by Export Logistics—steep land in rural West Virginia could still be had for next to nothing. The men had spent several weeks there in the summer, fixing up the cabin and constructing the shooting range and other training facilities.

  Chip had lived there with the team since Monday. His training with the MP7 and the Sig Sauer P229 9mm pistol he’d been issued was accompanied by physical training, communications training, and detailed study of every aspect of their mission from the time they would leave this facility in eight days until they crossed the border back into the United States. They also practiced rock climbing, setting ropes, lowering boats, and rappelling on a small band of sandstone cliffs that ran along one rim of the small mountain valley.

  Although Chip had shot guns many times before, he’d never had any formal training. When he was about ten years old, his father had taught him to work a handgun, a rifle, and a shotgun and had given him a list of basic rules. Never point a gun at anything you don’t want to shoot. Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire. He remembered having to memorize the rules and recite them back to his dad. Make sure of your target before you shoot. Never point a loaded gun at anybody. That last rule was giving him trouble now. Practicing on human silhouette targets made it clear that the training was for the expressed purpose of violating that rule.

  The firearms practice was definitely the coolest part so far—aside from their whitewater training in West Virginia and the Northwest, of course. He’d been practicing with the MP7 twice daily in both single shot and three-round-burst modes. It was unlike any gun he’d shot before. He’d fired rifles and shotguns many times and had even shot a deer on a hunting trip with his dad when he was fourteen. Instead of the feeling of history and perhaps even artistry conveyed by the carved wooden stocks and decorative trigger guards on the guns he’d previously hunted with, the MP7 had the cold, businesslike manner of a human-killing machine. Where the other guns had felt like tools, this one was definitely a weapon. He was starting to know his weapon inside and out—he’d been required to disassemble, clean, and reassemble it twice each day. The intimate knowledge of its inner workings hadn’t brought him any closer to reconciliation with its designed purpose of taking human lives. Though he had no intentions of going on this mission without it, questions haunted the back of his mind.

  Could he do it? Could he frame a man in his sights, squeeze the trigger and get the job done? Could he take a human life? And would he do it? Or would he freeze up? Or turn tail and run? He still vividly remembered the deer from half his lifetime ago. He could still see it in his mind’s eye, standing in the crosshairs of his rifle scope. It hadn’t been easy. As he’d watched it magnified through the circle of glass, he’d thought about the life he was about to take. It wasn’t like the squirrels or rabbits, quail or doves he’d shot before and since. It was a big, living, breathing mammal, just like him. He remembered trying to calm his racing heart, trying to stop the deer from bobbing spastically up and down in the picture through his scope.

  When he’d finally pulled the trigger, he’d been startled to see the deer flip into the air and land squirming on its back. His shot hadn’t killed it, and he’d watched it for only a few confused seconds before firing another shot to end the wounded buck’s suffering.

  Chip steadily squeezed the trigger of the MP7 and sent another round into the center of his target. Duval looked up from the station next to him and gave him a wink of approval. “Give that fucker hell!” he said quietly but fervently.

  Chip couldn’t help but grin at his friend’s antics, but he was also in awe of the other man’s skills with a gun. Duval could fire a whole magazine and leave a single hole no bigger than a quarter in the center of his target’s chest or head. Although the other three men weren’t quite the virtuoso that Duval was, they were close. It was an integral part of their job, which they did better than anyone in the world. They had the same sort of mental fortitude that allowed Chip to shut out distractions and fear in order to completely focus as he sat in his kayak above a sixty-foot falls. Except that they faced other men with weapons. They pulled triggers, and they took lives. Just like Chip sitting above a waterfall, they wouldn’t be paralyzed with doubts or swayed by emotion. They were driven by duty, steadied by experience, and they would do their jobs. That sense of purpose and duty was a motivation that Chip was still struggling to understand.

  He knew if it came down to it, he could fire on another human in self-defense. He trusted himself to react well under pressure; he always had. If it was him or the other guy, let it be the other guy every time—there would be no hesitation or moral quandary. But he was also well aware of the difference between action and reaction. When he thought of what the other men were planning to do—aiming their weapons and firing on a sleeping man—he had no idea if he possessed that kind of willpower.

  Chip popped a fresh magazine of subsonic ammo into his MP7, turned to the next target and chambered a round. He switched modes with the selector near his thumb to the three round burst setting and squeezed the trigger again. The first one hit dead center, and the next two walked off the target to his right. There was still a lot of work to do before he would be ready for this trip.

  *

  Chip shoveled pasta and meat sauce into his mouth. He was even hungrier after a day of training at The Woods than he was after a full day of guiding rafts at his regular job. It was Harris’ night to cook, which usually meant pretty good eating. On Duval’s nigh
t it was hard to choke anything down. He was the type to pick one—and only one—seasoning each night and then smother the food with far more than the recommended amount. Then he would smirk at the looks on the other guys’ faces as they tried to finish their meals. He seemed to be unfazed by his own culinary train wrecks, just like he was unfazed by every other discomfort they had experienced over the last month. It was hard to get very mad at a guy who was always willing to pull twice his weight without complaint. However, that didn’t mean they wanted to keep eating his cooking. Despite multiple attempts by the others to trade nights or take Duval’s turn, he refused to be seen as shirking his duties by not cooking when his time came up in the rotation.

  Tonight, Duval and Roberts were jawing back and forth as they played video games on a Playstation while they ate. Call of Duty was a habit they had picked up in long hours of waiting to deploy on missions with the SEALs. They outperformed Chip at the game just as readily as they did at everything else at The Woods except for maybe the rock climbing, which Chip was already familiar with. Unlike all of the other tasks that they executed with silent, machine-like precision, Call of Duty got them fired up and shouting. They were playing Black Ops, although they were giddy as nerdy school kids in anticipation of the release of a new version of the game next week. Chip had taken to giving them shit about it. High tech entertainment at rafting outposts still primarily consisted of scratchy old VHS kayaking videos and porn. Chip got a kick out of the idea that these elite warriors were addicted to a kids’ video game system, and he jokingly told them so every night. It was the least he could do after they razzed him twice a day when he lagged behind—far behind—on their runs. Chip wasn’t usually much of a runner—in fact, he believed the only appropriate time to run was when you were being chased. The men had pointed out that if he were chased for any distance on this mission, he’d be glad that he’d practiced running beforehand. There was no arguing with logic like that. He also remembered how out of breath he had been during his sprint to rescue Daniel. That was even more motivation. Chip had begun running with the team daily only a couple of days into their training in the Northwest.