The Oshkosh Connection

by Andrew Watts

  Wilkes had gotten about all the information he needed from the senator. It confirmed what Max had hypothesized. Becker was an agent of the ISI, and a coconspirator in Williams’s cabal, which had started as a product of the ISI but had morphed into something more. Becker had been feeding Ian Williams and Abdul Syed classified intelligence for years. But now the mole had been caught and the network had self-destructed.

  Both were big prizes for Wilkes.

  After almost six hours, the senator’s debrief was finally wrapping up. The politician’s chin was still held high, despite everything that had happened. But there was worry there as well. Having reached the point where he had given up all of his secrets—Becker’s only real leverage—his eyes were now searching Wilkes’s face for some sign of what would happen next.

  Wilkes gave him nothing. He rose from his chair, telling Max, “I need to make a call.” Trent entered the room and stood by the wall, arms folded.

  Becker vociferously denied having anything to do with his own daughter’s death and looked offended at the suggestion. Max didn’t believe it.

  The conspiracy had been vast, and well planned. Most of the agents inside the US were unwitting. The politicians who had voted with Becker were influenced by their donors, not by foreign spies. But many of their donors were influenced by the cabal. Becker had simply used his inside knowledge to steer the cabal network money to the right politicians. Big Pharma executives around the world were already paying lobbyists and contributing to policies that would help their bottom line. The overt crossover between the legal opioid businesses and illicit industry was almost nil.

  But there was coordination.

  As Senator Becker admitted, the combined industry growth had been planned and fertilized by Ian Williams and Abdul Syed.

  Becker turned to Max. “You don’t understand why I did it, do you?”

  Max didn’t respond.

  The senator said, “We won the war on terror thanks to my actions. I was the one of the few people who were willing to do what it took. To get my hands dirty. Come on. You can figure it out. It all comes down to economics. If the poor people in Afghanistan didn’t have money and jobs, they would have been just as susceptible to the siren song of the Taliban and others. By keeping their economy going, we made sure that Afghanistan wouldn’t transform back into a haven for terrorism. The Pakistanis wanted stability in the region. So did we. I simply made a deal to keep the peace.”

  “By using heroin as an economic growth tool?”

  “It worked. It kept money flowing in. Do you know how much worse Afghanistan would be right now without those jobs? Growing poppy is perfect for Afghanistan. It needs little capital investment, it grows well in their climate, and the profits are enormous. We helped feed and employ the people of Afghanistan by growing those opium plants.”

  “You made a deal with foreign intelligence operatives and drug cartels.”

  “You don’t make deals with your friends, Max. I did what needed to be done to protect American interests.”

  “You mean to protect your own interests. Didn’t you know that these drugs would be sold in the US? Didn’t you think about the consequences?”

  “Most Afghan heroin ends up in other countries.”

  “Is that what you told yourself? Don’t be naïve. It’s a global market, and Afghanistan makes ninety percent of it. Afghan heroin might not all end up in the US, but it still affects Americans. You also helped facilitate laws that loosened regulations on opioid sales in the US—”

  “Regulations kill the economy—”

  “Save your political speak. Your actions were calculated. With one hand, you guys opened the valve for heroin coming in. With the other, you made sure that there was a growing customer base. In your own backyard, for God’s sake. You made money off narcotics so that you could win elections.”

  The senator’s mask of confidence began to crack. “The people that use that stuff are the scum of the earth. They’re leeches on society. So what if they get high? Keep them in the slums. They’ll shoot themselves up into oblivion and we’ll all be better off for it.”

  “Decrease the surplus population, eh?”

  Becker rolled his eyes. “Spare me. You don’t see me out there using drugs on the street. Some people are just weaker.”

  Max turned to Trent. The veins in his forearm pulsed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His eyes burned holes into the senator as the muscles in his jaw flexed.

  Just then Caleb Wilkes came into the cabin, looking annoyed. “Time to go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. We’re done with him.”

  Max, Trent, and Wilkes departed the home, leaving the senator inside.

  When they were alone, Wilkes said, “I just talked to my buddy at the FBI. He says they’ll nail him eventually. But he’ll spend the next few years in and out of court. Appeals. All that jazz.”

  Max shook his head in disgust.

  “Why did the ISI and Ian Williams go to all this trouble?” Trent asked. “Why clean house with their network? Becker’s the only beneficiary.”

  Wilkes said, “Maybe not. You know that Opioid Epidemic Bill that Becker was pushing? This ISI-sponsored group of investors stood to earn huge from that. Becker and the remaining members each stood to gain financially.”

  “How?”

  “The Opioid Epidemic Bill would greatly reduce the number of legal opioids in the US. But Ian Williams and Syed’s group were planning to capitalize on the black market it would create. Some of my intelligence sources told us that the Sinaloa cartel was going to start buying over three hundred percent more heroin than it ships today. They were going to get it from Afghan suppliers next year to feed the new demand. The cartel would make a fortune. The ISI’s investor group was also going to buy a lot of the extra supply from the legitimate international opioid suppliers around the world and make their own unlicensed pills to sell on the black market.”

  “Who were these investors?”

  “Businessmen, criminals. Shady financiers. People the ISI grouped together to help them make money and influence national policy in their favor.”

  Max nodded. “And Syed and Williams thought they had the perfect American politician in their pocket to provide them cover. One with very strong presidential prospects. They just had to get rid of any remaining connections to him before he got too famous.”

  “They couldn’t really pick someone to become president that far out. Too much uncertainty.”

  Wilkes said, “The FBI investigators think he’s got accounts that they were transferring money into. Sort of a backup payment. Like I said, it’ll all come out eventually. Maybe he would get elected president? Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he was valuable to them.”

  “Not so valuable anymore, though.”

  “No, not anymore. He’s a wounded animal now.”

  “But not dead,” Trent said. Max exchanged glances with both men.

  They walked to the CIA vehicles that remained at the entrance gate. It was dark out. Max and the others watched as the senator, who had been looking at them out his front window, disappeared into the house.

  Across the water, they could see floodlights set up in the backyard of the cartel mansion. Yellow tape marking off areas of past violence. A few FBI agents in blue coats scavenging over the yard, looking for clues to assist the forensic investigation.

  “Becker’s law enforcement detail got called off?” asked Max.

  Wilkes said, “Yes. Once it became apparent there was no longer a need. Once they indict him, he’ll have another type of police escort.”

  The men gave a dark chuckle.

  Wilkes got into his car, bade them farewell, and departed down the road.

  Max and Trent stood alone by their car. A streetlight buzzing above them.

  Trent said, “He killed his own daughter and helped encourage a plague of drug addiction around the world, all for his own benefit. Prison is too good a fate for him.”


  Max got into the driver’s seat. “Come on.” Trent got in and they drove a half mile down the road, parking behind the same grove of trees near where Max had landed the gyrocopter a few days earlier.

  Trent said, “You wait here.”

  “No. I want to come.”

  They walked into the woods adjacent to the senator’s home, surveilling their prey. The senator had gone out onto his back patio. It was near 11 p.m. He was drinking by himself. Very few lights on in the home. No guests.

  “Ready?” Trent whispered.

  Max didn’t reply. He watched Becker sitting there. A despicable waste of a man.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  Trent looked at him.

  Max said, “Everything he did. In his mind, he justified it. He tried to say he was helping Afghanistan. Helping fight the war on terror. Everything he did, he had an excuse. A rationalization for why he could make such an immoral choice.”

  “He killed his own daughter. Or at least knew about it. Didn’t stop it. He helped flood our country with opioids. Guy’s practically a mass murderer.”

  “Yes, he did. And he deserves to die for that. But it’s not our place to kill him.”

  “I killed people in Mexico. What’s different?”

  “Because here he’ll face justice. Our country is what’s different. The rule of law. We need to let him face justice the right way. Let’s not tell ourselves the same thing he did. The ends don’t justify the means. We are honorable men, and we should make the less satisfying choice, because it is righteous.”

  Trent didn’t say anything for a long time. Max began to worry that his words hadn’t mattered.

  Then Trent said, “Can we at least go in and scare the shit out of him? Maybe slap him around a little?”

  Max thought about it. He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  A few moments later, they both approached the senator wearing black masks. When Trent’s hand came up over Becker’s face, he was half-drunk. The old man struggled at first, but he was no match for Trent’s brute strength. Max turned the last remaining light out near the rear of the home, and they were engulfed in darkness.

  Trent held him nearly upside-down, and Max whispered into Senator Becker’s ear.

  “You called them weaklings. I knew one of those weaklings. He was thirty-six years old. An Army veteran. He left behind a wife and a little kid. This guy here? It was his brother.”

  In the moonlight, Max could see the senator’s eyes go wide with fear.

  Trent whispered, “You made a deal with the devil, Senator. And he always collects.”

  Max had placed a zip tie around the senator’s wrists, holding his arms behind his body. They placed a gag over his mouth, then carried him towards the water and down a short dock. Trent kneeled down and lowered the senator’s head into the water, upside-down, holding him there for a moment, then lifted him up.

  Max said, “The next time you speak to investigators, you better tell them everything. Because we know the truth. And we’ll come back for you if you don’t.”

  Chapter 33

  A week later, Max and Renee were back in the Poconos. Max had rented a lake house near the Carpenters’ home. He decided that Renee and he could use a vacation—a real one. Max stood on the upper deck, directly above a boat slip. He could hear the sound of water sloshing around below. Waves from the Jet Skis and pontoon boats motoring by.

  Renee sat in a lawn chair, wearing a bikini, a towel wrapped around her bottom half. She was sipping a cold beer, a lime wedge tucked in the long neck of the bottle, taking in the carefree scene below. The setting sun cast long shadows over the surrounding mountains. This was the only time of day she partook in sunbathing her fair skin.

  Trent had brought Josh Junior to meet them for the afternoon. He and his delighted nephew had spent most of the time jumping off a ten-foot deck into the water. Now they were fishing for sunfish, using mushed-up Wonder Bread as bait.

  Renee was reading him an article about the senator’s recent confession. “The Justice Department has been very pleased with how cooperative the disgraced former senator has been, however disturbing the details. He has confessed to multiple counts of espionage, bank fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Nothing else? Any complaints from the senator or anything?”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know. Two men. Head dunking. Nothing. Just curious.”

  Renee frowned. “What will happen now?”

  Max used tongs to turn over bratwurst, making sure each one got an even brown. “With what?”

  “With the drug ring? All those people, involved in that conspiracy…”

  “Many of the ones responsible are already dead. Williams and the ISI saw to that. But there will be countless investigations, I’m sure. Senator Becker was a politician, so Washington will be chewing this up for the next few years. Caleb and his team are already moving on some of the information they uncovered. My understanding is that there are a whole host of punishments waiting to be dished out. The State Department will be announcing sanctions against Pakistan. The Treasury Department is freezing assets of several lobbying firms and Jennifer Upton’s political nonprofit.”

  “Oh, I did read about that. It was Jennifer Upton’s nonprofit that much of the foreign political contributions were coming through.”

  Max nodded. “There are also more than a dozen executives in some overseas pharmaceutical companies that are being brought up on criminal charges.”

  Max placed the brats on a paper plate, next to a tinfoil-covered plate of roasted peppers and onions.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he called down to Trent, who gave him a thumbs-up.

  Renee said, “What about the cartels?”

  “Ironically, that may be one of Senator Becker’s only lasting policy ideas. There’s talk that our military may start deploying larger numbers of special operations personnel into Mexico to crack down on some of the cartels. From what I understand, Becker had proposed it to a few congressmen, and they’ve begun drumming up serious support after all this mess has come to light.”

  “That sounds like it’ll be even more messy.”

  “It probably will be. But we’ve got to do something.”

  Max grabbed a beer out of the cooler and sat in the lawn chair next to Renee. He leaned over and kissed her, then rested his head back in the chair, enjoying the view over the lake.

  Max smiled at Renee. “You know, we really should teach you how to land.”

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  About the Author

  Andrew Watts is the USA TODAY bestselling author of Max Fend thrillers and The War Planners series. He graduated from the US Naval Academy in 2003 and served as a naval officer and helicopter pilot until 2013. During that time, he flew counter-narcotic missions in the Eastern Pacific and counter-piracy missions off the Horn of Africa. He was a flight instructor in Pensacola, FL, and helped to run ship and flight operations while embarked on a nuclear aircraft carrier deployed in the Middle East.

  One of the highlights of his Navy career was flying a TH-57 helicopter from Pensacola to Oshkosh to be a static display aircraft for the 100th anniversary of Naval Aviation, in 2011.

  Today, he lives with his family in Ohio.

  From Andrew:

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  Also by Andrew Watts

  The War Planners Series

  THE WAR PLANNERS (Book 1)

  THE WAR STAGE (Book 2)

  PAWNS OF THE PACIFIC (Book 3)

  THE ELEPHANT GAME (Book 4)

  Max
Fend Series

  GLIDEPATH

  THE OSHKOSH CONNECTION