American Op

by Roger Weston

  Not for long. It was one thing for Brandt to cause havoc at the lost city. Taking Maria away was something else. That he would pay for. Threatening Lazar when his forces were unified around his unfolding operations was futile. Threatening him when his security was a small army was a death wish. Lazar would not stay on defense, either. He had a killer in mind who was among the most feared men in South America—and for a good reason. Brandt had no idea who or what he was dealing with. The ugly American would pay dearly for stealing the sacred skull. Brandt was in way over his head, but he didn’t even know it. Lazar peered out the window upon the streets of Lima.

  He saw nothing. His heart was in his beloved Cuzco.

  Cuzco, heart of his heart.

  Many believed that the days of conquest were over, but they had overlooked a key factor. General Lazar held the elements that they had overlooked—genius and impact. The great Pachacuti’s name meant ‘Cataclysm’. The great man had indeed been a cataclysm that stuck every nation from Chile to Columbia. But Pachacuti was only a shadow of he who was to come. Pachacuti had rolled over South America like a tsunami, yet he did this without the immense knowledge of military history that was the mind of General Lazar. With his instincts and his immense knowledge of worldwide military conquest, Lazar, like a new Inca, would startle the world.

  From Cuzco and from the ocean.

  By 1532, the Incas had been reduced to a weakened state due to civil war and plague. Francisco Pizarro lit upon the wounded empire like thunder and lightning. He led his invaders in a bloodbath that paid off in gold—shiploads of gold, fleets of ships of gold. It was all plundered and sent back to Spain, where much of it remained until the Spanish Civil War. At that point, the Communists convinced brainwashed Spaniards to give it all to Russia. That’s what happened although some Russians living in Spain managed to skim from the hoard of treasure. These lucky few included an ancestor of General Lazar’s wife, a man who wisely chose to side with Trotsky and not Stalin. Trotsky had the bigger vision even if he’d lacked Lazar’s tactical genius.

  Lazar stepped over to a Flemish cabinet, a rare antique with a hundred identical drawers, most of which were decorative and did not open, despite each having a keyhole. With an old key, he opened a trick drawer and removed a white notebook.

  Lazar would accomplish what the others could not.

  One man had to die, however—a man who had proven hard to kill.

  The general stepped up to a globe in a waste-high mahogany stand. He cranked down on a fake support arm, which lifted the whole globe above its wooden frame. He put his finger on Madagascar and pushed. An inner latch was released. The fish-skin globe popped open. He opened the globe like a briefcase, revealing a mounted a handgun inside. This he pocketed. He closed the globe and lifted the lever, which lowered the globe back down into its stand.

  He would sleep easier tonight with a special gun under his pillow, a gun of historical significance as befitting a man of Lazar’s stature.

  Stalin’s gun. The 6.35 Korovin pistol. A gift to Joseph Stalin from the gunsmiths the City of Tula. The historic weapon. Recently smuggled out of the central museum of Armed forces of Russia. A gun worthy of General Lazar.

  Of course, Lazar would not touch Brandt himself. He no longer involved himself in such low-level activities. For such a job he needed a born killer—a man who was used to getting his hands dirty—a supreme henchman among hands-on assassins.

  Lazar was no longer shaking. Again he imagined the Inca’s Temple of Thunder. Pachacuti had tolerated no resistance to his will. Neither would Lazar.

  The general dialed a number on his secure SatPhone.

  A deep, threatening voice answered. “Yeah.”

  Lazar smiled. He was talking to Dante Brule, an elite Black Cobra assassin.

  Lazar said, “Brule. Chuck Brandt. Get it done.”

  Brule said nothing. Lazar said nothing more. They both knew what had just occurred. They both knew the meaning.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sitting in his car in a park in San Isidro, Dante Brulé flipped through a dossier that Lazar had given him. A few years back, Brandt’s shrink had said that he was unreliable, even unstable because he would not do things that he thought were morally wrong.

  Hell, Brulé thought, if I had standards like that, I’d never get anything done.

  Brulé read more and felt his hair stand up. At one time, Brandt was America’s top government assassin. He was credited with foiling several WMD attacks and saving countless lives. He was called the greatest assassin in the world and chaos had followed him like a shadow. But his career had gone off the rails, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  The phone rang.

  “Brulé here.”

  “It’s Lazar. Listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. I just got a report from my tracking team. The truck that Brandt took from the airport had a GPS. We found out that three cab companies had pickups on the same street as where the truck was dumped. All the drivers were confronted. One admitted that he picked up an American. He said he dropped off the American downtown, but listen to this. I said listen—and listen well. The driver drove around the block looking for another fare, and he saw the American get on a bus. They traced the bus route and learned that it runs along the Costa Verde. I know that Brandt owns or has owned a fishing boat. My instinct tells me that he might be in La Punta. There’s all kinds of boats over there, and this bus’s route passes right by there.”

  “I’m on my way right now.”

  Dante hung up, but he resisted the urge to race over there. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. He wanted to take a few minutes to skim this pathetic dossier.

  He read about how Brandt had refused to do an assassination in Columbia because an in innocent old lady might get killed. His career went downhill after that. He turned on his masters. He tried spy recruiting, but that blew up. It got worse when his bosses betrayed an ambassador in his network. He was referred to as ‘off the reservation,’ cowboy, dangerous, hostile, hard target, and worst of all—concerned about right and wrong. Scumbag. Brulé wanted to kill him with a passion. He was obviously a menace to government bureaucrats who were expected to deal with this rogue operative, but he was a menace to lawless predators as well. Then Brulé saw something that got his attention.

  Brandt was said to own a fishing boat—just like Lazar had said. Supposedly, Brandt’s boat was kept in Seattle, Washington; Newport, Oregon; and Anchorage, Alaska. Other ports were mentioned. It was doubtful, but maybe he had sailed down here. Even if he hadn’t, maybe he leased a power or sailboat. He may have shown his face at one of the yacht clubs. The teams had already canvassed the illicit bars. Brandt certainly hadn’t turned up in any of those places. He had to be somewhere. Fish always stayed in the water, didn’t they? Brandt would go where he was comfortable.

  Brulé headed for Costa Verde. He drove down the connector to the lower coastal road.

  He cruised along the coastal highway, which ran along the base of the sea cliffs while Lima was up on the high ground. He drove along miles of beach, past lots of ocean, palm trees and yachts offshore. He got a thrilling sensation because he knew he was getting close to taking out Brandt.

  He was not wasting time. He was craving, and he was not afraid to crave.

  Just on a hunch, he drove slowly through all the parking lots by the beaches, but saw no sign of the target. He eventually took another connector road and drove through Callao, the largest slum of Lima, the most dangerous area of the city if you didn’t belong there. Brulé no longer needed to live in such places, but he still felt comfortable in them. He followed Av. Coronel Bolognesi to La Punta. With binoculars around his neck, he got out and walked on the beach as though he was a tourist—a tourist with a shoulder bag so that he could keep his suppressed Mac-10 machine pistol handy. He wasn’t taking chances. Brandt was dead on sight.

  The bay was full of recreational crafts of all sizes. He scoped them out, but he saw no fishing boats like the photo he’d seen o
f Brandt’s in the dossier. Nothing really caught his attention. Once again, he got the sick feeling that he was wasting time. He left the beach and dropped by Club Regatas Unión and Yacht Club del Peru. When he was showing the photo of Brandt at a rowing club called Club Universitario de Regatas, he realized that he was getting desperate. He was about to leave La Punta when his encrypted cell phone rang.

  “Brule, this is Lazar. Brandt is at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We paid off a policía. He told us that an American has his boat tied up there.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  .

  CHAPTER 17

  Fisherman’s Wharf, Malecón de Chorrillos

  Eight hours, six minutes till WMD attack

  Chuck carried the extra boards into the cabin and stacked them down below in the foc’sle. He’d finished his woodwork in the cabin. Of more importance, he’d bought some basic supplies in case Lawrence called back with the location of the USS Forrestal. As he prepped the boat, his mind was turning. He knew he’d made a major mistake. At Lazar’s building, he’d been so focused on staying alive that he’d overlooked a key detail. He’d not learned the location of the carrier, so he should have apprehended and interrogated a Black Cobra to get more info. He’d blown an opportunity. Now he’d have to come up with a back-up plan and fast.

  He went back outside and stood out on the back deck.

  The Pacific Ocean was a beautiful sight, a vast undulating and glittering blue world. He focused on the sounds and the smells of the sea. He thought of his time back in Alabama. He could see himself working on a boat and living a quiet life in a remote cove where he could not be found by death teams from Russian Spetsnaz, Turkish commando brigades, or Chinese Special Operations Units—or anyone else. He would find a little town someplace where he could never be tracked. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about going to the grocery store and running into North Korean assassins or Colombian Lanceros on special assignment. He laughed at the idea. He knew that there would never be a day when he let down his guard—not if he wanted to live. And he needed to live for a little longer only because he needed to do more good deeds to balance out the scales of life in his favor. Time was very short. He’d made too many mistakes, and there was so much work to be done.

  For now, he had to make sure that the tug was ready to go to sea at a moment’s notice. Also, he needed time to think, and he thought best when he was working. He checked the fuel and oil levels and did engine prep. He turned on the generator and ran the engine. Patiently, he checked that it was oiling properly. In the wheelhouse, he checked the Nav system and radios. Out on deck, Chuck was inspecting the electric anchor windlass when he glanced over at the wharf.

  The Matacancha was the biggest boat around, so tourists liked to walk over and take a look at her. Chuck found himself making small talk with a few people. Then he spotted Stuart walking along the dock. The former intruder stopped at the gangplank. With his hard eyes and weathered face, he looked tougher than a wooden fence post.

  “May I come aboard?”

  “What a pleasant surprise. You come in daylight. You ask permission. Very civil.”

  “You’re not going to sucker punch me, are you?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Welcome aboard.”

  “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”

  Chuck nodded.

  Stuart cautiously ascended the gangplank.

  “I’m the least of your problems, Brandt. Just a few hours ago, the CIA arrested a mole who confessed to helping Lazar. He said Lazar just activated a top assassin to take you out.”

  “What assassin?”

  “Black Cobra scumbag named Dante Brulé.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You better.”

  “Come on inside,” Chuck said. “Glass of water?”

  “No thanks. Look, I need an answer. Time is of the essence. Will you work with me?”

  “Why should I?” Chuck got a pitcher of water out of the frig.

  “For one thing, I know where the aircraft carrier is.”

  Chuck turned and looked at him. He was quiet for a moment. “How did you find it?”

  “One of our satellites picked up radio signals and traced them back to the source. We couldn’t see it, but we have the GPS position. We also tracked a remote-controlled helicopter that emerged from the electronic camo field and flew to Lima.”

  Chuck poured himself a glass of water and put the pitcher back in the frig. “Let’s say I agree to work with you. Can you provide backup? After all, if I infiltrate the aircraft carrier, I’ll be trapped—one man against…”

  “We estimate between fifty or sixty Black Cobras will be onboard minimum.”

  “Try a hundred, Stuart. It looks like a suicide mission. I can see why you’d want me to go. I guess you’re short on volunteers.”

  “I like your skill set, and I’ve got your back. Problem is, my assault teams are a couple hours away. We don’t have that much time.”

  “Forget about it. I go in alone. I’ll signal you if I need backup.”

  “You’ll get your backup if the weather permits.”

  “I said I’ll signal you.”

  “You really want to die, don’t you?”

  “Is that what Lawrence told you?”

  “He didn’t say much. Are you in or out, Brandt?”

  “One question: You said inserting backup teams is weather dependent. Are you saying that your helicopters can’t get there?”

  Stuart shook his head. “We have reason to believe they have very accurate surface to air defense. Of course, their radar also works. This is the last time I’ll ask. Are you in or out?”

  Chuck took a drink from his glass of water. “You need someone to throw in the blender. I’m your man.”

  “The weather is volatile. No guarantee your backup will ever arrive.”

  “Well, at least you seem to be honest. That doesn’t mean I trust you, of course, but these are desperate times.”

  Stuart nodded. “A storm is just leaving the part of the Southern Ocean where the USS Forrestal is anchored. That’s the good news. The bad news is that another storm is on its way. We need you to leave immediately. We can’t afford to wait because you’ll be parachuting in an area known for volatile weather.”

  “Parachuting?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. Whatever it takes.”

  “We see an opening in the weather, but it will be brief. Once it’s past, it could be months before you get another chance. I’m not going to lie to you, Brandt. Even during this window, parachuting is risky in this area. You’ll be putting your life on the line even before you land. If you make it, you know what your chances are then. It won’t be easy.”

  “There’ll be plenty of easy days after I’m dead. In the meantime, we better get moving.”

  Stuart nodded. “Intel says we’ve got seven hours, forty-six minutes till Lazar launches an attack against the USA. It’ll take three and a half hours to get you there. As long as nothing goes wrong, you should have time to stop the attack.”

  Chuck noted that Stuart looked away for just a moment during that last line. It was clearly hard for him to look at Chuck and say that. Both of them knew that plenty would go wrong and it was highly unlikely that Chuck would either foil the attack or live to see tomorrow.

  “You need to leave ASAP,” Stuart continued. “I’ve got a car waiting for you over in the parking lot. We’ll take you to the private airstrip. A plane is waiting.”

  Chuck frowned and looked around the boat.

  “Don’t worry about the Matacancha,” Stuart said. “I’ll take care of her.”

  “You?”

  “It’s our boat, Chuck. It belongs to OFFSHORE. You did a nice job on the bunks. Thank you. Excellent wood work.”

  Chuck nodded.

  CHAPTER 18

  An hour later

  Returning from the airport, Stuart
walked out on the fisherman’s pier to the tugboat. There had been people around last time, but now there was nobody around other than over at the beach. The door into the galley was slightly open. This didn’t surprise him. He remembered that Chuck had closed it, but the captain should have arrived by now. Stuart had called him while driving Chuck to the airport. He thought it must be the captain who left the door open. This was good because Stuart needed to talk to him and give him instructions. He could also make some calls from here and then return to the airport. He walked up the gangplank.

  Opening the tugboat’s galley door, he stepped inside. It was dim with the lights off, but he could see a shattered ceramic mug on the floor and spilled coffee. A chair was knocked over, one of its wooden legs broken

  “Hello…” he said. “Hello…”

  Nobody answered.

  “Is anyone here?”

  Still no answer.

  Stuart walked to the cabin and tossed his bag onto the berth, but then he heard something.

  It sounded like a thumping sound down below.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Hello…”

  Silence. All he could hear was the passing of a distant motor boat.

  Thump.

  There it was again. From down below.

  Pulling his gun, he left the cabin and slowly descended the stairs down into the engine room. Nobody was around. He walked to the door leading forward. He pushed it open and aimed his gun into the forward cabin. That’s exactly what it was. The old forecastle had been transformed into a cabin. The décor was the least of his concerns.

  A body lay on the floor. It was gagged, tied, and bleeding. Then the man moved.

  Keeping his gun handy, Stuart kneeled down by him and pulled off the gag. His eye had been severely damaged. It looked horrific. His head was bleeding from a blunt-force wound.

  “Captain Ortega,” he said.

  “Watch out.” His voice was weak. “He’s a demon.”