Rogue Force

by Don Pendleton

  The ousting of Allende had been a masterpiece of strategy, arranged by members of the military, the CIA and certain heavyweights from State. McNerney had been placed in charge of general coordination for the project, overseeing shipments to the rightist factions that had opposed Allende's socialist regime, coordinating transport during the revolt and afterward. He had been waiting just offshore the day Allende had been murdered, and he had gone in with a team of crack interrogators to congratulate the victors and offer them the full assistance of their grateful neighbor to the north. In Washington, his efforts had been recognized and filed away for future reference. He had convinced himself that he would soon be going home.

  The monumental fuck-up generally known as Watergate had changed everything, of course. If Nixon had fought to keep his office rather than retreat in the crunch, McNerney might have made it stateside after all, but abdication had closed the door, perhaps forever. Gerald Ford hadn't been about to raise Allende's ghost with an election in the offing, and his loss to Jimmy Carter had sealed McNerney's fate. The peanut farmer had known enough about McNerney's past to recommend that he be left on-station in Honduras, permanently. As it turned out now, the spineless wimp had actually done McNerney a tremendous favor, leaving him in place to meet the challenge of a lifetime.

  Nicaragua was the Cuba of the 1980s. With Somoza's overthrow and the imposition of the Sandinista revolutionary government in 1979, Castro and his Russian sponsors had their long-awaited foothold on the mainland. Reagan's team in Washington had severed diplomatic ties with Nicaragua during 1981 and thrown their weight behind the Contra forces, but the Sandinistas still found ways to arm guerrillas in El Salvador.

  The White House might not have sufficient evidence for the United Nations, but McNerney and his backers knew the truth. Unless Ortega's dogs of war were muzzled permanently, they might spark a conflagration that would leave scorched earth and misery below the Rio Grande. With Congress waffling on appropriations for the Contras, backing off from the American commitment to defend its allies in a crunch, the stage was set for a catastrophe that might eclipse the hell of Vietnam.

  It would be preferable, in McNerney's view and that of his associates, to face the bastards now, while they were small and relatively weak. Whenever Mike McNerney thought about the possibilities, all missed by careless, venal pigs in Washington, his pulse would hammer wildly. The doctors warned him about getting riled that way, but there were some things that naturally enraged a man.

  Like watching long-haired boys and filthy girls make out in public.

  Like turning on your television set and finding some damned fool soliciting your hard-earned cash to feed the starving hordes of Africa and Asia.

  Like submitting to the orders of a slob-ass bastard in the White House who was busy grabbing all he could with both hands, selling out his country in the process.

  It was too damned late to rewrite history in Cuba or in Vietnam. McNerney recognized that fact, although it ate at his stomach when he thought about it. There might be time for Nicaragua, though… provided that the operation he was working on came through on schedule, with the players carrying their own respective weight and doing what was necessary.

  His associates had learned enough from Vietnam to realize that Congress needed provocation, something that the liberals could get their teeth into, before it would allow for military intervention. Something on the nature of a Tonkin incident, but camouflaged securely enough so that their design wouldn't be exposed before the goal was achieved. If the Ortega forces — or a close facsimile — were caught making war against their neighbors, crossing borders with a flagrant disregard for sovereignty and human rights, it would be easier to win approval for retaliatory strikes in Nicaragua. In the present get-tough atmosphere of Washington, emboldened by the airborne raid against Khaddafi, such a punitive assault might be expanded to include elimination of Ortega and the Sandinista party in Managua. There were several Contra leaders who had demonstrated promising potential in their counterrevolutionary struggle with Ortega's forces. Any one of them would do, as long as he remembered his responsibilities and obligation to America.

  So far the plan had been proceeding more or less on schedule. A group of "disaffected" Green Berets had put out feelers to the Sandinistas, offering their part-time services, and the Ortega team had swallowed it without apparent reservations. The abduction of a ranking Contra strategist had gone down smooth as silk… at least until the final stages of interrogation had been interrupted by a force of unknown size and strength. There had been no survivors at the border camp, and one of those who fell had been Jim Pommeroy, a mover for McNerney's team. His disappearance might have been concealed indefinitely, listed as an AWOL or desertion, if it hadn't been for fuck-up number two.

  Creation of a small guerrilla force in Costa Rica had been easy. Using mercenaries fitted out with uniforms and gear to match the Sandinista pattern, Mike McNerney's secret team had launched their campaign in the highlands, branching out from time to time and bringing bloody action to the cities. It had worked like a charm until the strike force had found itself outgunned at the Devil's Table and another of McNerney's crew had been eliminated by a faceless enemy.

  The brigadier was no believer in coincidence. He thought the Contras might have wasted Pommeroy and company, although the operation had been conducted with a precision and a certain style that the native insurrectionists were sadly lacking. As for the Devil's Table, Mike McNerney didn't have the slightest idea what had happened. He was certain that the Costa Rican rural guards had surfaced only after it was over, picking through the ashes and identifying Tommy Baker's pitiful remains. And McNerney was equally convinced that someone else had done the killing, ruthlessly, efficiently, without attempting to secure prisoners.

  An execution squad, of course… but whose?

  The question haunted Michael John McNerney, but it didn't sway him from his course of action. He was totally committed to the overthrow of Sandinista rule by any means, and it was too damned late for outside interference to disrupt the operation now. Anyone who stepped in front of the McNerney war machine was going to get flattened like a bug.

  The worst scenario, unthinkable at this point, would involve exposure of the operation at the top, with a reaction from the President that might include suspensions and arrests. It was preposterous, of course… but if the unimaginable should become reality, McNerney was prepared to play his hand alone and take it to the limit.

  He had been silent and subservient for too damned long. He was fed up with taking orders from civilians who possessed no understanding of the global stakes involved, the life-or-death importance of their relatively "small" decisions made in Washington. If only Doug MacArthur could have been elected back in '52. If only things were different, safer, as they had been when Mike McNerney was a boy.

  But the United States had never been secure, not really. Open any history book and you would find the nation threatened by subversives from within and enemies without. It took intrepid men of vision to defend America against her countless foes, and Michael John McNerney saw himself as such a man. He was prepared to sacrifice himself for the glory of his native land. And if some others had to be eliminated in the process, if the Bill of Rights was necessarily curtailed along the way… well, sometimes ends did justify the means. A fool could see that with his eyes closed.

  "We go ahead on schedule," he repeated, talking to himself as much as to Falcone. "Pass the word."

  11

  "That's all for now, LaBoeuf. You'll pick up your assignment from the duty officer."

  "Yes, sir." The soldier snapped to attention, ramrod straight, his brisk salute a textbook study in precision. Captain Fletcher Crane's salute was casual, a gesture of dismissal, and he watched the new replacement go with no emotion other than a mounting disappointment. He would have to pass on Sergeant Everett LaBoeuf.

  The next file up was number five of seven that had landed on his desk that morning, one for each repla
cement from the stateside garrisons. He had arranged them alphabetically, as always, perfectly predictable in the routines that kept his office running smoothly. Crane hadn't perused the files beforehand; he would skim the contents one by one before each interview to give himself a feeling for the man he was about to meet. Thus far he had been interviewing soldiers who were competent within their specialties, apparently content with military life — at least for the duration — anxious to perform their duties as required. But there had been no spark, no hint of anything extraordinary in their files or in their faces. They were men who followed orders and kept their personal opinions to themselves.

  He knew at once that number five was different.

  Crane took his time examining the record of LAMBRETTA, FRANK. It wouldn't hurt the man to cool his heels outside awhile, and if the wait produced a flare of temper, offering Crane a glimpse of what was on the inside, well, so much the better. Settling back into his swivel chair, the captain started over from the top.

  Lambretta was a lifer in the Special Forces with a double hitch in Vietnam behind him. He was rated as an expert with both light and heavy weapons, demolitions, all the tools of Armageddon. After Nam, he had been stationed for a while in Thailand, helping counter Communist incursions from Cambodia and Laos. He had gotten into trouble there, the first time, for conducting border crossings of his own, to punish Red guerrillas in their sanctuaries. It was readily apparent that Lambretta's CO had been sympathetic, letting him off with a reprimand, but there had been no covering the second incident. Lambretta had assaulted anti-U.S. demonstrators on the street in Bangkok, and he had been given ten days in the brig with loss of pay.

  The soldier's stateside reassignment should have been a natural. Lambretta had been posted to Fort Benning, training new recruits for Special Forces duty, specializing in guerrilla warfare and survival skills. He had been rated highly for his skills as an instructor in the field, while drawing reprimands for certain lectures that described the past four presidents as "soft on communism." Ordered to delete the editorials from classroom lectures, he had demonstrated insubordination to superiors by stepping up his diatribes. Confronted with the choice of punishment or transfer, the commander at Fort Benning had had Lambretta's walking papers ready when everything had blown wide open in the Caribbean.

  Lambretta had been in his element with the Grenada operation. When the Cuban forces had made their final stand outside St. Georges, it was Frank Lambretta's A-team that had outflanked the enemy position. Lambretta had killed seventeen of the "advisors" personally, capturing a dozen more for the interrogators and pulling in his second Silver Star for bravery under fire. He had been slightly wounded in the battle, but there seemed to be no permanent effects; the doctors who had listed him as clear for active duty noted that their patient had seemed disappointed with the swift conclusion of the fighting in Grenada.

  Stateside once again, Lambretta was a warrior needing only war to make him come alive. Unsuited to civilian life, he stayed in service out of habit, but he obviously longed for action. When he couldn't find it on a foreign battlefield, he sought it elsewhere, and compiled a record of disturbances in cheap saloons. The final incident had taken place in a Vietnamese cafe; Lambretta, roaring drunk, had trashed the furnishings and worked his way through most of the employees by the time MPs had arrived to haul him off. He had served thirty days, with loss of pay, and when he had still refused to pull the pin, his CO had decided to export the problem.

  Lambretta would be Fletcher Crane's concern from here on out… and that might be a blessing in disguise. He leaned across his desk and punched a button on the intercom. "Send in the next one, Corporal."

  "Yes, sir."

  Frank Lambretta's full description had been printed in his file, but Captain Crane was still surprised by the soldier's appearance. The man looked ten years younger than his age. His dark hair was combed back from rugged features that Crane thought some women might find handsome, even irresistible. The man exuded power from his chest and shoulders, from the biceps straining at his sleeves… and from the eyes that were now fixed, almost defiantly, on Fletcher Crane.

  "Lambretta, sir, reporting as ordered."

  "Sit down," Crane ordered, waving toward a straight-backed wooden chair that none of the preceding soldiers had been asked to occupy.

  Lambretta sat, legs crossed, his right hand resting on the upraised ankle. Crane immediately noted that the sergeant's fist kept clenching and unclenching, as if subconsciously Lambretta was preparing for a fight. Aside from that apparently unconscious gesture, he seemed perfectly at ease.

  "I've just been looking through your file, Lambretta."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Double tour in Vietnam. Distinguished service in Grenada."

  "I got lucky, sir."

  "I see. Apparently, you lucked into the Silver Star on two occasions."

  "Anybody could have done the same," Lambretta said.

  "Of course. But anybody didn't, Sergeant. You did."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You were an instructor in survival and guerrilla tactics up at Benning."

  "Yes, sir."

  "From all appearances, you did the job enthusiastically."

  Lambretta smiled. "I got my tit caught in a wringer, yes, sir."

  Crane didn't return the smile. "Do you believe it is the military's role to pass on foreign policy?"

  "I never thought about it that way, sir. I've seen some policies I'd like to piss on, though."

  "I'll tolerate no insubordination, Sergeant."

  "No, sir."

  "You've compiled a record of intoxication and disturbances in public places, Sergeant. May I trust that's all behind you now?"

  "I'm not an alcoholic, sir."

  "I know that. If I thought you were, I'd kick your ass on the first plane back to the States."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We walk a tightrope here, Lambretta. For the average Honduran citizen, we are the face of the United States. Our conduct must be constantly above reproach."

  "I understand, sir."

  "Indiscretions of the sort I notice here," he hesitated, drumming fingers on Lambretta's file, "are dealt with more severely than they might be stateside."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Am I getting through?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You are aware of our position vis-à-vis the Sandinista government in Nicaragua?"

  "Yes, sir. We look the other way while they do Castro's dirty work."

  "We follow orders, Sergeant. To the letter. Are we clear on that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've been in combat," Crane informed the new replacement, "and I know that rush that it can give you. It's a feeling like no other, am I right?"

  "I don't know how to answer that, sir." Suddenly Lambretta looked uncomfortable, eager to be gone.

  "I mean to say that sometimes there are difficult adjustments to be made in peacetime. Sometimes fighting men are forced to go against the grain and sublimate their interests in pursuance of their duty."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We are in a situation that demands supreme discretion, Sergeant. We will not be jeopardized by individuals who feel the world is out to get them."

  Frank Lambretta frowned at that. "I'm not a paranoid. Sir."

  Crane let it pass, continuing. "If there should come a time when we are ordered into confrontation with the Sandinista forces, I believe you would be a valuable addition to our team."

  The frown became a cautious smile. "Thank you, sir."

  "No thanks are necessary, Sergeant. Your record speaks for itself."

  "Sometimes I think it says too much, sir."

  "You are not on trial here. I anticipate no problems. Do your job and keep your nose clean, Sergeant. You'll do fine."

  "Yes, sir."

  Lambretta was immediately on his feet, and the salute he flashed to Crane in parting was a rather different gesture than the last one, sharp, respectful. Captain Crane returned it briskly,
watched Lambretta close the door behind him as he left.

  It would have been presumptuous to think that he had won Lambretta's confidence in one short conversation. Crane had been engaged strictly in planting seeds. The sergeant had a history of insubordination toward superiors, but only those who treated him as something less than the committed warrior that he was. When he was sidelined, forced to tow the line and parrot policies prepared by ineffectual civilian leaders, Frank Lambretta strained against the leash. The sergeant's sense of duty ran too deep for him to pull the pin on his career, and so he lashed out at the world in other ways, through barroom brawls and petty acts of disrespect that marred his record but allowed him to preserve his place within the military structure.

  Frank Lambretta was a warrior waiting for a war, and there was every chance that he might not be forced to wait much longer. If the old man's operation went ahead on schedule, there would be ample opportunity for each and every one of them to meet the enemy, up close and personal. Lambretta's file revealed an independence that might be the root of trouble, but it also demonstrated that the sergeant had ability to work as one component of a fighting team. He hadn't lived through Nam, through the invasion of Grenada, by embarking on a one-man war against the enemy. When Frank Lambretta understood his orders — and approved of them — he spared no effort to achieve the ultimate objective. He might be perfect for the old man's operation… or recruiting him might prove to be an absolute disaster. Either way, the credit or the blame would fall on Fletcher Crane and no one else.

  The captain needed to be sure before he passed Lambretta's name on up the ladder of command. If only there had been more time, an opportunity to test the new arrival, put him through his paces prior to making a decision. They were locked into a deadline now; the old man was determined to proceed no matter what went down. Crane understood the rationale, of course. He was aware, historically, of military operations that had failed because commanders in the field were too conservative in their approach. If called upon, he could have rattled off the dates and code names for offensives that had fallen short of victory in Vietnam because the officers in charge had procrastinated, wasted precious hours or days before deciding on a course of action.