by Glen Carter
Jack laughed, showing the warmth and respect he felt for the older man. “Thank God those days are over.”
“You’re a cynic, Doyle.”
“A democrat,” Jack replied.
“Be a realist, instead. This little adventure of yours could come with a high price.”
Jack studied his friend’s face for a full moment before answering. “What choice do I have?” he finally said.
Raspov nodded. “All right, Jack, maybe it’s time we took a trip. Pack your things.”
Jack smiled. “I already have.”
“Good. We leave tonight.”
FORTY-EIGHT
THE WHITE HOUSE.
Frederick Denton was working late when the soft knock came at his door. Only one person would have been permitted to do that at one o’clock in the morning. Paul Braithwaite looked tired and drawn. “Good morning, Mr. President,” he said as he shuffled into the Oval Office.
“Is it that late, Paul?” The president looked at his watch. “Well, well. Guess it is. Take a seat.” Denton watched as Braithwaite walked to the sofa and sat. “I trust our Colombian friends understood my message,” he said, squaring papers on his desk.
“Loud and clear,” Braithwaite replied. “And I don’t think they liked it.”
“No one likes an ultimatum,” the president added, rising from his desk. “Especially not one coming from the president of the United States.” Denton walked to an armchair opposite Braithwaite and collapsed into it. He ran slender fingers through a head of thick grey hair. “I don’t think they’ll be getting any sleep tonight either.”
Denton took a measure of his old friend. His chief of staff carried at least twenty surplus pounds on a five-foot eight-inch frame and was still wearing the disheveled suit he’d had on when he escorted the Colombian president and his ambassador into the Oval Office earlier that evening. “Even a Yale man sleeps now and then. We were roommates remember. I suspect you’re here for a reason at this ungodly hour. So spill it.”
Braithwaite studied the president for a moment, measuring something in his tired face. “Reservations,” he said.
“Shoot.”
Braithwaite unconsciously rubbed his bald head, a nervous gesture the press had learned to watch for when something juicy was happening behind the scenes. Braithwaite rubbed part of his skull blood-red during the Korean mess the year before.
The president crossed his legs and sank farther into the chair. “Don’t keep me waiting. This old Yale brain needs a good five hours’ sleep, starting in about ten minutes.”
Braithwaite knew the president had no intention of turning in for the night. The man hadn’t had a proper night’s rest in months. “Operation Javelin,” Braithwaite said simply.
For a moment President Denton remained silent. It was because of their long friendship that Paul Braithwaite could walk into the Oval Office this late with reservations about a vital military operation that had already been approved by him with support from the Joint Chiefs, not to mention the FBI and the CIA, and likely, when it was executed, every sick and tired American who had voted him into office on the promise of change.
“We’ve been over this,” Denton finally said. “Remember? Thinking outside the box. Playing by our rules, not theirs.”
Braithwaite looked at his boss. “Mr. President, not three hours ago you assured the president of Colombia that the United States intends to renew and increase military aid to Colombia.”
“That’s right,” Denton cut in. “If Operation Javelin’s not military aid, then what is?”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, I don’t think that’s what the Colombians have in mind. They’ve reiterated support for the extradition treaty which could likely be our most effective strategy.”
“Look what happened to Amillo. He supported the extradition treaty. He’s dead. Don’t underestimate the impact of that on the others.” Frustration deepened the lines in Denton’s face. “For Chrissake, Paul. You know the score. We’ve spent billions and it hasn’t made one iota of a difference. Coca production has doubled in the past three years. The DEA admits cocaine shipments are way up. Those cartel bastards keep getting richer, more arrogant. If anything, our interdiction efforts have only made their ‘product’ more valuable.” Denton got up to pace. “They say the drug problem is America’s problem – so goddamn it, the solution’s going to be an American solution. It’s our sacred right.”
“That may be, sir,” Braithwaite said. “But what we’re talking about here is a direct violation of a nation’s sovereignty. That makes us marauders. With all due respect, what kind of solution is that?”
“It’s my solution, Paul. It’s the solution Americans have been calling for. Everyone who’s had someone they know murdered or robbed or had their lives wasted while some third-world country gets fat on our misery.” Denton raised a finger to punctuate what he was saying. “They violate our borders everyday with their illegal drugs. What about our sovereignty?”
Braithwaite silently chastised himself for not being better prepared.
“Goddamn it, Paul.” Denton balled his fists. “I’ve had enough of these drug barons flipping us the bird while they peddle their poison and kill our children. Those kids in New Orleans…” Denton sat again, exhausted. “What about them?”
What about Stevie? Braithwaite didn’t say.
Denton rubbed his face, loosened his tie and pulled the shirt collar away from his neck. His cheeks puffed with an exasperated breath. “How many more families have to be destroyed?” Denton went silent. After a moment he wearily pulled himself up and walked to the window. “I’ve met with the ambassadors from every one of those coca producing countries and they all smile and say ‘yes, Mr. President, we agree something has to be done.’” Denton stared through the bullet-proof glass at the Rose Garden and the expansive south lawn. “Fine. I say the first step is stopping the criminals in their own countries. Colombia’s failed miserably at every turn, like the others. The CIA has had to slave one of its birds full-time just to keep track of the drug labs and the movements of that Montello asshole. And now the narco terrorists and those bloody Marxists have turned the country into a bloody slaughter house again.”
Braithwaite understood completely the reason for his boss’s frustration. The farmers produced the coca leaves at profits that dwarfed the paltry sums they were paid for legal crops. Programs to encourage the harvesting of harmless crops had been tried and failed. Hundreds of millions of dollars had been wasted. Coca’s history in places like Colombia went back a thousand years before Spanish conquerors ever set foot there. Trying to convince Colombians to turn their backs on coca would be like telling American farmers to abandon forever their fields of wheat and barley and corn. Braithwaite realized the president was asking him a question. “Excuse me, sir.”
“What are the polls saying?”
Braithwaite opened a folder on his lap. “Fresh numbers confirming a lot of what we already knew. Illegal drugs are rapidly becoming the key area where we’re perceived to be losing ground.” Braithwaite lifted a page. “Once you cut to the chase. Budget deficit and social security finances are still highest on the list, but there has been a dramatic shift in the numbers on drugs – with a strong sub-group fretting about crime. The hard numbers say seven out of ten are worried or extremely worried about illegal drug use in this country.”
“That’s quite a shift.”
Braithwaite held up a finger. “Those murders in New Orleans could be skewing the numbers somewhat, but I believe this is substantively accurate, at least as a snapshot.”
Denton nodded solemnly. “No fiddling with demographics or party leanings?”
“No, Mr. President. As many young as old were surveyed, and across party lines.”
“So,” Denton said. “What’s the upshot?”
“Basically, with the economy humming on all cylinders people are worried less about their wallets and jobs which is good news. The downside, and I mean if there’s
a downside, is the public agenda has swung even more than we thought towards issues that we’re having a hell of a time with. Drugs, and to a lesser extent, crime. The states are also ramping up the rhetoric, complaining we’re offloading hard costs for the war on drugs onto them. Their jails are overcrowded, even though we’ve budgeted another four billion dollars on new prisons. Because their prisons are bursting at the seams, the courts are reducing sentences which feeds the cycle of repeat offences and the perception the justice system doesn’t care about crime –nor does the White House. Those myths are especially rampant in rural districts which might seem to be a statistical anomaly except there has been a dramatic upsurge in the use of crystal meth – or crank, as the farm boys like to call it.”
“It’s like a balloon,” Denton said. “Squeeze one end, it bulges at the other.”
“The pipelines for coke and heroin aren’t as well developed in places like Shelby, Montana. Crank is made with the stuff under your sink and a lot cheaper.”
Denton shook his head. “What is it, fertilizer and window cleaner?”
“Not quite,” Braithwaite replied. “Two days ago a Methodist minister and his wife were killed outside Chicago when a meth lab blew up in the basement of their church. The son was supplying half the town. The church is gone. The kid’s facing manslaughter charges.”
“Send a note to the congregation.”
“Will do, sir.”
Denton walked over to his chief of staff and sat, signaling a change of topic. “What are we hearing from Moscow?”
“Only that something’s up. We’ve got assets working overtime on it.”
“Good,” Denton said. “If there’s a Russian angle on this I need to know about it. In the meantime we need to get our hands on those goddamn drug lords.” Denton looked with empathy at his chief of staff. “I know you’d prefer to do this by the book. That’s what I’d expect from the former dean of Yale Law.”
“You’re correct on that,” Braithwaite replied.
“The law fails us, my friend,” said Denton. “Always has.” The president turned to stare out the window again and thought about the commitment he’d made to Americans – the promise he’d made to himself, to his dead son – and now the parents of those murdered children in New Orleans.
“Operation Javelin stands as approved. I want an update on planning in the morning. Thank you, Paul, that’ll be all.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Braithwaite said, pulling his tired frame from the soft clutches of the sofa. “Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Paul.”
Without looking back, Braithwaite shuffled from the office and shut the door.
FORTY-NINE
OFF THE COLOMBIAN COAST. 0300 HOURS.
Jack gazed into a curtain of black and then added a notch of trim to lower her nose and to increase speed. The thrum of powerful engines rolled away on the spume of inky waves as they cut a path through the moonless night.
He shifted his attention to the radar screen radiating a ghostly green light in the dark cabin. Raspov had handed him the wheel with specific instructions about course, and speed, then disappeared to get some rest, leaving Uri and Pavel to babysit. They were sitting on jump seats to the left of the companionway which led below. Pavel was staring into the blackness beyond the bow pulpit, while Uri maintained a stone-like vigil in Jack’s direction, occasionally focusing on an array of instruments that Jack suspected the Russian had no clue about. Dmitri’s flybridge yacht growled mightily, and although she stretched for thirty-eight feet, she handled like a sports car. Jack suspected down below, where, despite the cacophony of combustion Raspov could still be heard snoring, he would find enough weapons to gratify an army of blood-thirsty mercenaries.
The water in the area they were now operating was mercifully flat. Jack pulled open a window and breathed in the fresh air, then tweaked the trim tabs to lower her bow again, adding another two knots to her speed. He adjusted the throttle to lower the RPMs, and then checked her oil pressure and temperature gauges. So far, so good, he thought. Jack reached over to switch off her running lights, making her nearly invisible to the government patrol boats whose movements were well known to Raspov and the two brothers. Now they both watched Jack as he helmed the motor yacht.
“There’ll be a light.” It was the first time Uri had spoken since they left Cuba.
“A light,” his large brother repeated, pointing through the darkness towards shore. “On, off, on again. Then bring the engine back to full stop.”
“Gotcha,” Jack said, hand on the throttle as if the signal might come in the next second.
“If you fuck up,” Uri said, glaring at him, “they’ll get jumpy. If they get jumpy, we’re dead.”
Raspov had told Jack they’d rendezvous first with a unit of rebel soldiers, on a piece of beach well within the insurgents’ territory. “I thought they were your friends?” Jack said, with mild concern on his face.
“We’d be dead already if they weren’t,” Uri replied.
“Nice to have friends. Maybe we should wake Raspov.”
Pavel turned. “Raspov wakes when the engine is silent. Light on, light off. Don’t forget.”
The radar showed they were about two miles from shore, headed straight for an inlet bracketed on both sides by fingers of land reaching about two hundred feet out to sea. The tiny horseshoe cove made for perfect anchorage. Also, Jack guessed, a perfect infiltration zone for Raspov and his two goons when they had business to conduct with the rebel insurgents.
The water was getting shallower, and in places the depth sounder indicated dangerous invisible shoals. Jack set the alarm for four fathoms, more than enough water to prevent a disabling prop strike, or worse – running aground.
A half hour later Uri and Pavel disappeared, their skulls like huge dark melons sinking into the darkness of the main salon down below. Jack listened to the sound of latches being unsnapped, rounds being chambered. Metal against metal. The acoustics of deadly instruments.
Not willing to admit he might have made a mistake, Jack gripped the wheel, white knuckles like porcelain caps against polished steel. Had even one light been burning at that moment, they would have seen his worry. He closed his eyes and then opened them a moment later and spotted the signal – two o’clock at a hundred yards – a laser poking holes in black velvet. The light flashed on, then off, and then on again. The pattern repeated itself twice more before Jack pulled the throttle to neutral. Don’t fuck up. He waited.
It was a mere second before Uri and Pavel stomped up the steps to the bridge. Raspov brought up the rear. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he barked something in Russian to his two thugs, then reached over and pushed a button to drop anchor. It splashed noisily into the water and sank to the bottom. Jack felt it set and then looked at the depth sounder. Only four fathoms of water beneath the slippery fiberglass hull. Shit. The depth sounder shrieked.
“Goddamn. Shut it down,” Raspov hissed. “Now!”
Jack deactivated the alarm and looked sheepishly at Raspov. “Sorry.”
Raspov ignored him. “Go!”
They both turned as Uri and Pavel hunkered down and shuffled to the back of the boat, followed a moment later by a soft hissing and muffled pop. Through the darkness Jack watched the two Russians wrestling with an inflatable black rubber dingy. They dropped it overboard, tossed a huge rucksack over the side, and then climbed onto the transom and disappeared.
A moment later Jack heard the faint dipping of oars – synchronized propulsion – a trickle of water barely audible above the lazy surf.
Raspov whispered, his face close to Jack’s, “If they were going to launch their RPGs they would have done so already.”
Good news, Jack thought. They were sitting ducks for rocket-propelled grenades. Somewhere on that beach fingers were tugging gently at triggers, waiting for a command to blow them out of the water. Jack had once seen the mess left by an RPG. A grisly scene of blackened flesh in a Serbian APC in Bosnia. Jack shi
fted uncomfortably, dropped lower in his seat, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference if a round punched through the thin fiberglass hull.
“Paramilitary pricks have launched three raids in the past month not far from here. They came in boats.” Raspov wasn’t being a confidence builder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Our friends will relax when they see it’s the brothers. Then Uri and Pavel will make sure the area is secure so there’re no surprises when we go ashore.”
A firefight with Colombian rebels wasn’t anything Jack was prepared for. He was about to suggest they take the boat into deeper water when Raspov disappeared below. When he returned, the Russian flashed a revolver, held it up and made a show of driving a clip home. Expert motion, done a million times, Jack thought. Raspov checked the safety and thrust the weapon at him.
Jack stared at it.
“Take it,” Raspov demanded.
Jack wasn’t comfortable. Taking the weapon meant he was surrendering his moral and professional neutrality. But, then again. He’d done that the minute he’d stepped aboard Raspov’s boat. Jack took the gun and stuffed it in the front of his pants. He was a combatant now, and this was a twisted, screwed up, bonafide battleground.
“Welcome to Colombia,” Raspov said, with sarcasm in his voice as tacky as flypaper.
To Jack, it had a sickening ring to it.
FIFTY
There were twelve of them.
AK-47s slung around their shoulders, except for the guerrilla stroking an RPG launcher. He was staring forlornly at the lightless shape of their boat limply anchored fifty feet from shore, still as a sculpture on a pedestal of black tranquil water. A tempting target. The man smiled regret at Jack, took a long hard draw on a cigarette and expelled a cloud of thick silver smoke that swirled upwards and disappeared in the darkness.
