by Dale Brown
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson replied. He knew that their cellular phones had a GPS tracking system that continuously broadcast their exact position; he would have reported their stopover point in any case. “I can explain.”
“It’d better be good.”
“Sir, Kristen Skyy’s information has been dead on so far,” Jefferson said, “and we have every reason to believe our captive’s information is good too. We already have a large quantity of intel on this terror group and its links to Kingman City—there was no way we could simply overfly this location on our way north without checking it out.”
“Sergeant Major, that’s just not good enough to send a classified military strike team into a sovereign nation and have them blasting up the place,” Chamberlain said. “I don’t have any clearances for you yet. The Brazilian government has authorized you to be in the country with PME escorts, but you have no authority to go out searching for Ruiz or the Russians or anyone—you must turn over all information you have to the PME immediately or your authorization to be there will be revoked and you could be arrested if you have any weapons on you at all. If you get caught, the U.S. government can’t protect you. Make this just a fuel stop and get out of there as quickly as you can.”
“Sir, we have a Brazilian military police officer with us who has procured landing rights and authority for us to travel with our equipment, including the CID unit…”
“He can’t authorize you to take the CID unit into battle.”
“No, sir, but he hasn’t said we couldn’t.”
“Playing fast and loose with the rules now, Sergeant Major? Doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“As I said, sir, I believe we’re close to making a very large break in the terrorist organization that attacked Kingman City,” Jefferson said. “I think it bears investigating.”
There was a long pause on the line; then: “Is the CID unit operational?”
“They’re still working on it, sir, but I think it’s down permanently. It took quite a beating in São Paulo—I’m still amazed Richter survived it. But the robot is definitely broken.”
“Probably just as well—I can’t imagine the shit-storm if you used that thing again down there without authorization.” There was a momentary pause. Then: “Very well, Sergeant Major. I’ll try to expedite getting you some kind of official clearance to be there, but for the time being you’re going to have to rely on Miss Skyy’s press credentials and whatever authority your PME officer has to get close to this Jorge Ruiz character, if he’s still alive. Try to avoid any contact with any more of the local gendarmerie. Grab Ruiz if you can, collect any intel on this GAMMA organization you can find, and get back here on the double.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t need to tell you that most everyone in the White House wants your head on a platter right now,” Chamberlain went on. “You should have stopped the team from going to Brazil. If Kristen Skyy had truly actionable information, we could have gone through official law-enforcement channels, grabbed those GAMMA operatives, and maybe even enhanced international relations. You could win this battle and still lose the war by getting the task force canceled and yourself and your team members kicked out of the service—or worse.”
“I understand, sir. I had a decision to make, and I made it. In light of the attack on Kingman City, I felt it was the only option I had.”
“I hope you’re right, Sergeant Major, but I wouldn’t count on too many happy moments for you and your people once you get back to the States,” Chamberlain said seriously. “Just remember, until I get you some kind of emergency authorization, you’re down there on your own. If you leave that airport, I can’t protect you.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I don’t think you do, or if you do I haven’t changed your mind,” Chamberlain said with a slight bit of sardonic humor in his voice, “so I’ll say it one more time: I strongly suggest you bring your team back to the States ASAP. Let the FBI, CIA, and INTERPOL handle GAMMA, Ruiz, and Khalimov. You received the information I sent on Khalimov and Zakharov?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you should know, Sergeant Major, in case you haven’t figured it out, that you’re playing with some very, very bad dudes out there, and I don’t believe you’re equipped right now to handle them,” Chamberlain went on, his voice showing astonishment at Jefferson’s lack of reaction. “We’re not sure what Zakharov’s game is—he’s pretending to be a big supporter of GAMMA but we think he’s got another agenda. But there’s no doubt at all about Captain Pavel Khalimov: he’s a trained military and government assassin, linked to hundreds of killings around the world over the past eighteen years for the KGB in the Soviet years, for the Russian Internal Security Service, and lately as an assassin for hire. If he’s got PME troops on his payroll, he’ll be unstoppable.”
“I understand, sir,” Jefferson repeated, “but again, the opportunity to grab the head of this terror group and find out exactly who was responsible for Kingman City is paramount. We have to try.”
“I could order you not to do it.”
“Yes, sir, you could,” Jefferson said. “I believe Kristen Skyy would still demand to go.”
“You could force her to stay.”
“Yes, sir, I believe I could, and I believe her flight and production crews would not fight me on this,” Jefferson said. “But then Jorge Ruiz would probably be killed….”
“You told me you think he’s dead already.”
“We don’t know for sure, sir,” Jefferson said. “It’s only logical to think that Pereira would be a secondary target and Ruiz the primary, but perhaps Khalimov went after Pereira first in São Paulo because he’s the harder target and more of a threat to Zakharov. I don’t know. But Abaete was on the way, we’re here, and I think we should proceed.”
“Kristen Skyy won’t be able to save Ruiz even if he is alive.”
“But if I and a few PME troops go along with her, sir, we might get lucky.”
“It’s too risky. We have all the intel we need, Sergeant Major. We don’t need Ruiz…”
“Yes, sir, but it would sure be helpful if we had him,” Jefferson said. “I have no intention of letting this get out of hand, Mr. Chamberlain. We’ll be careful, sir.”
There was a very long pause on the line; then, in a very reluctant voice, Chamberlain said, “I don’t like it, Sergeant Major, but I agree that this is an opportunity we can’t pass up to get the guy who masterminded the attack on Kingman City. I’ll advise the President of what you intend to do and try my best to sell him on the idea. If there’s anyone who can take on the likes of someone like Pavel Khalimov, it’s you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he responded, but the connection was broken before he got all of the words out. He closed the flip and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Major Richter.”
“Yes, sir?” Richter replied. He and Ariadna Vega were both leaning inside the CID unit with tools and flashlights; an electronic diagnostic device was attached to an access panel, with several rows of readouts flashing red numerals. Their jet was parked by itself on an isolated part of Abaete Regional Airport’s parking ramp, about three hundred meters from the terminal building. A blue plastic tarp was slung over the rear fuselage near the open baggage compartment to hide the CID unit from observation, but this section of the ramp was pretty deserted. The PME officer traveling with them had spoken to the local PME patrols, and together they were keeping everyone away. One local PME soldier roamed around the aircraft itself, while two more in a U.S. military surplus Jeep patrolled the ramp area, chasing away curious onlookers.
“Any progress?”
“A little,” Jason replied. “We’ve replaced the hydraulic power pack, but seawater has damaged a lot of other circuitry so we can’t test it yet. We have no idea how long it will take to get it dried out and going again. Maybe not until we get it back to Fort Polk.” Ari looked at Jason with serious concern all over her face.
“Well, you gave it a try, Major, Dr
. Vega,” Jefferson said. “Mr. Chamberlain is still advising us to return to the States.”
“Just ‘advising’ us? Sir, he’s not ordering us to return now?”
“He was on board Air Force One before and was reacting to the news of us being in Brazil,” Jefferson explained. “Now that he understands we’re on the trail of the organization that might have been responsible for Kingman City, he’s backed off.” Jason nodded; Ari’s concerned expression only darkened. “So it’s up to us. He has not gotten us any official government support—he says most of the White House still wants us in prison.”
“But he’s not ordering us to return anymore,” Jason observed. “It sounds like he’s secretly urging us to press on, sir.”
“That would be my guess as well, Major,” Jefferson said. “However, Chamberlain maintains that without the CID unit, we could be in real trouble without backup. I agree with him: it’s too dangerous. We should leave it to the PME, State Department, and CIA to get those guys.”
“It may be dangerous, Sergeant Major, but you’re not making the decisions here,” Kristen Skyy said. She and her crew had been unloading her equipment into an old panel van she procured from the airport manager with a lot of cash and a little womanly schmoozing. “It’s my plane, my crew, and my story. The locals will protect you and the plane while you’re here. I’m taking my crew and going out to Ruiz’s farm to try to locate him.”
Jason climbed down off the CID unit. “Khalimov will certainly be out there, waiting for you,” he said, stepping over to her. “Don’t go. The sergeant major’s right: it’s too dangerous.”
“This is the hottest story of the decade, maybe even of the century,” Kristen said. “The story is out there, not here at this airport. I’m going.” She noticed the look of extreme concern on his face and smiled appreciatively. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve been in lots of dangerous places before—I don’t think a farm in Brazil will be one of them.”
“Kristen…”
She reached out, touched his face, and smiled. “Hey, look at me—I’ve got a man worried about me. That’s a nice switch.” She motioned to the PME officer from São Paulo, now behind the wheel in the van. “I’ve got my friend Alderico there too, so I don’t think we’ll have any trouble if we run into any local PME.”
“What’s your plan, Kristen?” Jason asked.
“I want to make contact with the farm’s new owners and see if anyone else other than the PME has been sniffing around,” she replied. “I intend to look around first, do a little surveillance, and check it out carefully before I go in. That farm is surely under twenty-four-seven surveillance by several Brazilian and other government agencies…”
“And Zakharov and Khalimov,” he reminded her.
She held up a pair of night-vision binoculars, and tapped her chest indicating her bulletproof vest. “Standard issue stuff in our line of work. Don’t worry about me. I suggest you be ready to blast off as soon as I radio you—I might be high-tailing it out of there.”
Sergeant Major Jefferson drew his forty-five-caliber Smith and Wesson pistol from its holster on his right hip, checked the safety was on, then holstered it again. “I’m going with you,” he said.
Kristen looked at the big Ranger and nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”
Jason looked surprised. “You want him to go with you?”
“Hell yes. Do you think I’m stupid? I’ll take as many guns as I can with me.”
“Then I’ll go too,” Ariadna said, unholstering her SIG Sauer P220. Kristen was about to ask if she knew how to handle it, but Ari checked that she had a round chambered in the gun and reholstered it almost as fast and as expertly as Jefferson. Kristen nodded, impressed, and made sure she got a bulletproof vest, one with the letters “TV” outlined in tape on it.
“Ari…!”
“I’m no use here until all that seawater is dried up inside the CID unit, right, J?” Jason looked at her carefully, not believing what she was saying. “Right?”
“Yes, right.”
“Then let’s do it,” Kristen said.
“Eu irei protegê-lo. I will go and protect you,” Manuel Pereira said.
Kristen nodded, and a PME officer gave him a bulletproof vest, a beat-up looking shotgun, and a box of shells; he loaded his gun quickly and stuffed the remaining shells into his pockets. To Jason, Kristen said, “The flight crew can watch over you and the plane and make sure the PME doesn’t try anything. It’ll take us no more than twenty minutes to drive back from the farm. When we radio you, have the crew fire up the engines and taxi to the hold line—we’ll go right to the end of the runway and jump on board so we can be off the ground as soon as the door’s shut.”
Everyone headed to the van to load up; Jason grasped Ariadna’s arm before she climbed inside. “Keep your damn fool head down, Ari,” he said.
“I will,” she replied. She looked at him carefully. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing, J?”
“Let’s go, boys and girls,” Jefferson prompted them.
Jason shrugged. “I’ll get back to work on El CID,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
“Just get it fixed, J,” she said seriously, and climbed inside the van. Jason immediately returned to work on the crippled robot, working as fast and as hard as he could.
Less than thirty minutes later, they passed over a cattle grating and four-strand barbed-wire fence with a whitewashed wooden archway over the driveway. Kristen scanned the area with her night-vision equipment—nothing seemed out of place. A dog barked in the distance—typical of any farm—and a peacock screeched, a bird often used by Brazilian farmers like watchdogs. “This is it,” Kristen said. “My crew and I are going in. I’ve contacted the new owners, and they’ve agreed to meet with us off-camera, although they say they have nothing to say about Jorge Ruiz or GAMMA.”
“Did you detect any kind of duress?” Jefferson asked.
“They were definitely nervous when I mentioned Ruiz,” Kristen said, “but it also seemed to me they were accustomed to doing interviews about Ruiz and GAMMA—rather, giving interviews but not talking about Ruiz. They did invite us inside, though. He’s a retired federal judge; I think I’ve met him before.”
“Think Ruiz is here? Think they’re protecting him?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” She turned to Pereira. “Manuel, onde nós encontraríamos Jorge? Where would we find him?”
“Cemetery da sua família…his family cemetery, the place of the sepulturas, the gravesites, before the government dig them up,” Pereira replied. “The graves are no longer, but the Rocha da Paz, the Rock of Peace, is there. That is Jorge’s place of prayer.”
“That’s the last place you should go—if the PME or Khalimov is here, that’s exactly where he’ll be waiting for us,” Jefferson said. “Manuel and I will scout it out. We’ll meet up with you in the farmhouse.” The Ranger took their short-range FM walkie-talkie, keyed the mike, engaged the “HOT MIKE” locking switch keeping the mike button depressed, tested it, and told Ariadna to hook it on her pants out of sight. “I’ll be able to hear everything you say, so if you get in trouble I’ll know. You’re a producer or an assistant; you’re from Mexico; you speak Spanish and not much Portuguese; your English is very poor. Got it?”
“Si, señor,” Ari replied weakly.
“You want to give me your gun? If they find it on you, they’ll likely make it very difficult for you—it’ll be harder to convince them you’re just a journalist.”
Ari swallowed hard, but shook her head and smiled bravely. “I’ll keep it. ¿Una muchacha consiguió protegerse, no? A girl’s gotta use protection, right?”
“How will we know if you’re okay, Sergeant Major?” Kristen asked.
“Manuel, how long to get to the cemetery from here?”
“Não muita hora. Ten, fifteen minutos.”
“Give us no more than thirty minutes to scout out the cemetery,” Jefferson said. “If you don’t hear from us, assume we’ve been capture
d or killed, and get the hell out. Get on the jet and blast off—don’t try to set up a rescue mission or talk to the PME, just get out of Brazil.”
“Make it forty-five,” Kristen said. “Thirty minutes is not enough time for me to…”
“Thirty minutes, Miss Skyy,” Jefferson maintained, “or you’re risking your life and that of your crew and Dr. Vega. I would take it personally if any of you are hurt because you stayed to ask one last question or took one last ‘reaction’ shot.” Kristen noted the big Ranger’s stern voice, remained silent, and nodded.
“Shouldn’t we all scout out the farm first before we go in?” Ariadna asked.
“You’re a film crew from the United States here to do a piece on Jorge Ruiz and GAMMA—why would you be skulking around the place first?” Jefferson asked. “Let us do our recon, and you do your interview. Forget that we’re out there.”
“Okay,” she said, handing him her night-vision goggles. “You’ll need these.”
“Thank you.” Jefferson turned directly to Kristen and said, “I know this is your job and your career, Miss Skyy, but these men are killers, and no story is worth your life or the lives of your crew or Dr. Vega. Pavel Khalimov is a military-trained assassin for hire. If you suspect anything is wrong, turn around and get out. Is that clear?”
“I’ve done interviews with genocidal dictators, mass murderers, mobsters, gang-bangers, and every kind of human scum that’s ever existed—most times on their own turf,” Kristen said. “My crew and I have been shot at dozens of times; my cameraman Rich there has pieces of a camera still embedded in his eye socket after a bullet missed his head and his camera was shot out of his hands while he was filming. We’ll be careful, Sergeant Major—but we’re here to get a story, not sightseeing. The story is learning the whereabouts of, or perhaps rescuing, Jorge Ruiz. If I can’t do that story, I’ll get out—but not before.”
Jefferson looked at her grimly, then glanced at Ariadna. “Her attitude the same as yours, Doctor? You still want to go with her?”
“Si,” Ari said. “Usted dos es los comandos, no yo. You two are the commandos, not me.”
