The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  Sergio gave him a sidelong glance, put the car into gear and smoothly rolled onto the Transamerica for the long drive south.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lilliana approached the bed. The man reclining against a stack of pillows had a bandage swathed around his head and an IV running into his arm. He looked pale and seemed uncomfortable in his hospital-gown, but beyond that, appeared unharmed.

  Hearing her enter the room, or perhaps smelling her perfume, he opened his eyes, taking her in. Nice looking late-twenties Panamanian woman holding an oversized paper tablet. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, wondering if this was an hallucination. No, she was still there, and was pulling a chair up alongside his bed.

  “Manuel, my name’s Lilliana Cruz. The embassy sent me over to help create a likeness of the man you saw with the fellow everyone is referring to as ‘the cook’. I’m a sketch artist and I sometimes work with the police. How are you feeling?” Lilliana asked. “Are you up to this?”

  “I…well…sure – I suppose I am. It’s not like I have anything else to do tonight.” Manuel looked around for a wall clock. “What time is it, anyway? They took all my clothes and watch...”

  Lilliana checked her watch. “It’s two in the morning. I’m sorry to intrude so late, but this is apparently very important. They got me out of bed to come here.” Lilliana shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

  “No, don’t worry. After everything that’s happened tonight, this is the one pleasant thing I’ll remember,” Manuel said, smiling at her. He gestured at the bedside chair. “You may as well sit down…”

  “I hope it will be pleasant, Manuel. Let’s start with a few questions. Are you married?” she asked before easing into the seat.

  “No. It’s just me. I’m single.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No,” Manuel answered.

  “How old are you?” she inquired.

  “Thirty-one.”

  “And you live in Panama City, or one of the surrounding colonias?”

  “The city.”

  “Alone, or with someone?”

  “By myself,” Manuel said testily. He wasn’t expecting the third-degree.

  “Any brothers or sisters?” Lilliana probed.

  “One brother. Older. What does this have to do with describing the man I saw?” Manuel asked, defensive about the strange line of questioning.

  Lilliana removed her glasses and buffed the lenses on her skirt. She met Manuel’s eyes. “Honestly? Nothing,” she admitted. “I just wanted to know something about you before we start.”

  “Oh...Is that some sort of relaxation technique they teach you so I’ll remember things more accurately?” Manuel was puzzled now, rather than rankled.

  “Yes...well, truthfully, no. I just think you’re a good-looking man and I wanted to know more about you,” Lilliana said softly. She flipped open her sketch pad.

  Manuel was caught completely off guard. He studied her carefully. Lilliana looked like she worked out and watched her weight. She had a nice body and a pretty face, especially when she lost the glasses. This suddenly got interesting for him.

  Lilliana bent forward. He could feel her sweet, warm breath on his face. “Alright, Manuel, let’s start with some basics on the man. What was he wearing?”

  Chapter 17

  The huge transport plane lifted into the night sky, its massive turbines propelling it quickly to 40,000 feet. The lights of the East Coast receded behind it as the SEAL Six team settled in for the last rest they’d have for several days.

  Their staging destination was Ghazi Air Force base. Many missions were launched from there into nearby Afghanistan, and the U.S. had a large presence in the region. All of the necessary large equipment had been shipped out a few days earlier, so when the team hit the ground they’d be ready to go.

  The plan called for them to be at the base by late morning, and after a briefing and equipment check, to be ready to load up onto the helicopters at nightfall. This was a relatively small scale operation, but there were a lot of moving parts involved, all of which had to function together seamlessly to create a successful outcome.

  The weather at Ghazi was iffy as of an hour ago, and they’d continue to monitor it throughout the flight. In the end, they could plan everything to the most minute detail, but if Mother Nature threw them a curve, there wasn’t a lot anyone could do but wait and be patient.

  ~ ~ ~

  The police cruiser’s headlights seemed inadequate as it rolled down the Transamerican highway. Road lights were all but absent, and the surrounding jungle was inky black. The incessant rain showers had left the pavement in rough shape in spite of the efforts of the nighttime maintenance crews they passed. A road in the middle of a jungle was very much like a bridge – you were never done with it; rather, you had to begin repairs at the start of the road all over again once you’d reached the far end.

  There was long-term job security in maintaining the Panamanian stretch of the Transamerican Highway, that was for sure.

  Sergio’s cruiser crawled by the working men, most of whom leaned on their shovels and chatted as they watched a bulldozer-like contrivance distribute tarry asphalt on a section of highway. Some things were perennial regardless of what country you lived in – and road workers doing as little as humanly possible for long periods of time was a constant.

  At the end of the section that was under construction, near a tiny hamlet, a uniformed policeman waved them down. Seeing Sergio, he didn’t bother asking for papers. The two exchanged pleasantries, agreed that it was going to be a wet one this year, and commiserated at the cruel luck that had them working the midnight to dawn shift. The policeman only glanced at Al, who was dozing after all the beer had hit bottom, and then signaled to Sergio to proceed on his way.

  Al woke up as they pulled back onto the road.

  “Are we there yet?” he asked, only half joking.

  “About ninety more miles to go, amigo. It will take around four hours, at least, not counting any more stops,” Sergio replied, checking his watch. “If we’re lucky, we’ll hit Meteti at five. If this slows any further, maybe six.”

  “You drive like a grandmother,” Al protested.

  “Do you want to get there, or plow into a horse or run off the road? We almost broke an axle about five miles back, where part of the road had collapsed,” Sergio reminded.

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re probably just too cheap to open this jalopy up and give it gas,” Al said.

  “No, the truth is I’ve never driven this stretch of road late at night, but I’ve heard horror stories about the general condition, as well as about animals and drunks, so if it’s all the same to you I’ll drive at my own pace and get us there in one piece,” Sergio advised.

  They watched the rolling hills go by in silence. Soon, they were winding their way up an incline, and then found themselves on a bridge, suspended high above a river. Just on the other side of the bridge there was another roadblock. This time, there were two police cruisers. One of the officers shined his flashlight across their windshield, motioning for Sergio to pull over. They did, and the officer demanded to see both Al and Ernesto’s paperwork.

  The cop regarded Al’s passport, and then scrutinized Ernesto’s papers.

  “What’s this supposed to be?” he demanded.

  “That’s a photocopy of his passport, officer. He had his original stolen. It’s one of the reasons I’m with him,” Al explained.

  The cop studied the paper again, and then handed it back to Al, who gave it to Ernesto.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  “Yaviza, down in Darien,” Sergio said.

  “That’s an extremely dangerous part of the highway. What’s the purpose of the trip?” the cop asked.

  “They have reservations with an eco-tour in one of the private reserves there,” Sergio explained.

  “So why are you, a policeman, driving them in the middle of the night?” the cop queried.

  Fair quest
ion.

  Al interrupted the discussion, pulling out his passport again.

  “Officer, my car broke down, and this man was kind enough to volunteer to get us to our destination. As you see, I’m a diplomat stationed in Panama City with the U.S. Embassy, and my guest is a VIP. I explained to your colleague here about the importance of us getting to the resort for the morning’s meetings, and he was kind enough to volunteer to drive us – a selfless act that will not go unnoticed when I get back to the Embassy,” Al blustered. “The retreat we are supposed to be at is hosting a number of diplomats for meetings and lectures, so our arrival there is of paramount importance,” Al concluded.

  The officer took another hard look at Al’s passport, then stared at his face, before finally handing it back to him and telling Sergio to proceed with caution.

  “Keep your eyes peeled. There’s been an increase of armed robberies and shootings on the road as you get further south into Darien. If it was me I’d wait until daylight before driving much farther, but hey, it’s your funeral,” the officer advised, and then waved them through.

  “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say we were headed someplace pretty dangerous...” Al quipped.

  “Yeah, who knew that the jungle between Panama and Colombia would be crawling with armed miscreants and homicidal killers. That’s so, well, unexpected, you know?” Sergio opined. “Nice joy ride you have us on, Al. I think the price is climbing again, the more I hear...”

  “I told you, five hundred’s all I have,” protested Al.

  Ernesto was growing tired of the near-constant bickering, good natured as it was.

  “Hey, I have a joke for you,” he announced.

  Sergio turned his neck to look at Ernesto.

  “Yeah? Let’s hear it,” Sergio said.

  Ernesto cleared his throat. “There’s this man, walking down the street in Panama City, when he sees a sign in the window of a pet store. It says, Talking Dog - Five Dollars. The man, intrigued, decides to see what the story is, so he goes into the shop, where he sees a man behind the counter.” Ernesto paused. “‘Are you the owner?’ he asks. ‘I sure am,’ answers the clerk. ‘What’s the story on the talking dog?’ The clerk points to a doorway that leads into another room, in the back of the store. ‘He’s back there.’

  “The man enters the back room, and there in a large kennel cage is a handsome German Shepherd mix-breed. The dog’s eyes glow with intelligence, and he has an almost human countenance.

  ‘Are you the talking dog?’ the man asks, dubiously.

  ‘Yup. That’s me,’ the dog replies.

  The man is stunned. The dog really can talk!

  ‘How did this happen? This is amazing. How did you come to be here, and why can you talk?’ the man asks.

  ‘Well, I originally was the companion to President Reagan. When he left office President Clinton took me on, and I lived in the White House for several more years. After that, I wound up with Tom Cruise out in Hollywood, and then after seeing me on the set of one of his movies, I was recruited by the FBI, where I did undercover work infiltrating the mob. You’d be surprised what people will say when there’s only a dumb dog in the room...’ the dog explains.

  ‘That’s...that’s amazing!’ the man declares.

  He exits the room and approaches the counter, where the owner is stacking cans of dog food into a display.

  ‘I’m astounded. That’s unbelievable. Really. How much for the talking dog?’

  ‘Like the sign says, five dollars and he’s yours,’ replies the owner.

  The man opens his wallet and pulls out a five dollar bill, and puts it on the counter.

  ‘But why so cheap? I mean, the dog can actually speak! It’s a miracle. Why not more expensive?’ asks the man.

  ‘Because he’s a fucking liar,’ the owner exclaims.”

  The three men sat silently for a few seconds, and then Sergio started laughing uncontrollably. “Because he’s a liar!” he repeated, tears of merriment rolling down his face. Ernesto laughed along. Al just stared glumly at the road.

  “Come on, amigo, that’s funny. What’s wrong? It’s really funny,” Sergio insisted.

  “Yeah, it’s a real rib tickler. I don’t know what’s going on, but my stomach feels weird. I don’t think I’m doing so good,” Al complained. “It’s probably that burro-dong stew I ate back at the market. Probably teeming with parasites,” Al said.

  Sergio and Ernesto exchanged a sidelong glance.

  “You didn’t actually eat anything off that cart, did you? Those things are death traps! Yellow fever, e-coli, hookworms, burrowing liver flukes...” Sergio recited.

  “Liver flukes?” Al stammered.

  “Oh, si, they’re the worst. They burrow through your intestines and lay eggs in your liver and heart, and the larvae eat your organs as they mature...” Sergio offered helpfully.

  “Jesus God. Pull over. Now. I’m gonna be sick,” Al warned.

  “We’re on a schedule, remember?” Sergio reminded.

  “Pull over now, or you’re going to be swimming in liver flukes...” Al gagged.

  They slowed and stopped on the shoulder, and Al leapt out of the car and waded a few feet into the brush. Ernesto and Sergio listened to him retching.

  “Do you want to tell him the truth and put his mind at ease?” Ernesto said.

  “No, let’s see if this keeps him from smoking every five minutes and bitching about everything.”

  “Fair enough.” Ernesto glanced at Sergio. “Because he’s a fucking liar!” Ernesto said again, and both men broke into giggles.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sam and Richard were sitting at Sam’s desk, studying a map of Panama. Real time, on the computer, was an overlay of the actual landscape taken from satellite, with a blinking red dot moving slowly down the Transamerican Highway.

  “You can see they’re headed south, staying on the road,” Richard said. “There’s no doubt the Colombian border’s the destination. The only real question is where they plan to turn off the road and try to make it across.”

  “What about if they have a plane waiting for them, sir?” Sam pointed out. “There are plenty of dirt strips as they get closer to the Darien.”

  “That’s doubtful. The man’s a cook, who was living in a shithole,” Richard snapped. “There’s no way he has the kind of money it would take to get a private plane to run the border. We’re talking tens of thousands of dollars. Not a chance…”

  “Well then, sir, shouldn’t we just grab him while he’s on the road?” Sam reasoned.

  “Again, I don’t send men in harm’s way without a plan. Jenkins interviewed the Madame and came away with a strong impression that they’ll be continuing as far south as the pavement goes. That puts them in Yaviza shortly after dawn.”

  “Then what? What’s the plan?” Sam asked.

  Richard glared at Sam, annoyed at the constant interruptions. “The plan? Here’s the plan: please go brew some fresh coffee,” Richard ordered. “This stuff’s stale.”

  Sam bristled, but decided not to fight it.

  Richard picked up the phone and punched in a series of digits.

  “Okay. I want a bird to get the team to Yaviza – but subtly. Let’s find a clearing north of the village and prepare an ambush so this is concluded without anyone seeing anything. Use tire flatteners, and if we can, take everyone alive. I’ll forward you the tracking data real-time so you know when it’s them.” He paused. “Worst case, if this turns ugly, take all the targets out, but let’s confirm we have the item before we fold up shop.”

  He listened to the reply and spoke again.

  “No, but you should bring some grenade launchers just in case. If this gets cute, fry the car, too. In fact, if you can’t take them alive, just fry it anyway, no matter what happens. That’s fewer questions to answer later on...” Richard instructed.

  Sam heard Richard’s side of the discussion as he made fresh coffee. He couldn’t believe the man wasn’t going to ambush t
hem on the highway as soon as possible – there were a million things that could happen between their current position and Yaviza. The way this was being handled ran counter to every instinct Sam had. But hey; it was Richard’s call now. He was out of the loop. Had been cut out, actually, and was now the coffee boy.

  And then Sam had an idea, so original and so Machiavellian, it surprised even him. There was in fact a way for him to regain control and emerge from this disastrous episode a winner. The best part was, if something went wrong, which it wouldn’t, he could claim complete deniability – whereas if things went well he’d be viewed as having taken the initiative, showing the kind of drive that those within the upper echelons of the intelligence apparatus would need to possess. It would be confirmation he was a player, and deserved to be promoted to senior level.

  Let Richard cook up his little scheme, wasting precious time they didn’t have. That’s not how Sam rolled. He was a man of action, and it was time to separate the men from the boys.

  “Sam? Can you get in here? I need to get a chopper set up to fly a team to Yaviza within an hour,” Richard yelled to the outer chamber.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there,” Sam called back. “I just need to use the john.”

  “Use it after you’ve set up the helicopter,” Richard demanded.

  Sam seethed at the insulting tone, but smiled as he entered the office and grabbed his cell phone.

  “Fortunately, with technology, I can do two things at once,” he said, and before Richard could respond, turned the corner and headed to the men’s room.

  Sam padded down the hall and entered the bathroom. The Embassy corridor was deserted, and the floor was eerily silent. He scrolled through his cell’s contacts until he found the one he was looking for. He took a deep breath, then punched send. A sleepy, gruff voice answered on the fifth ring.