Member has sleeve tattoos on both upper arms and shoulders that include Gaelic patterns and Sanskrit text.
He opened the next file.
Member has a tattoo of a dragon clutching a trident.
Jackpot! Flash read the rest of the document. James 'Jimmy' Scott was a former DEVGRU team leader who’d left the SEALs after ten years of service and twelve operational deployments. His specialist skills included counter-terrorism, counter-insurgency, close protection, and advanced force operations. They finally had a lead in Venezuela.
***
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
The Venezuelan hadn't offered a name and Jimmy knew better than to ask. The bearded official had arrived at the old sugar warehouse with an entourage of heavy hitters at exactly the time agreed. The man refused to do business over the phone. Smart, thought Jimmy, considering the NSA was all over the country’s communications like Fox News on a government conspiracy.
“I trust your accommodation has been suitable for your needs,” said the security operative.
Jimmy assumed the man was an officer from the government’s top intelligence service, or maybe a private security contractor. Either way he was the government representative who had provided them with the warehouse and their operational mandate. This was the first time they had seen him since King had made the introduction.
“It does the job.”
“Yes, you've been very successful so far. We've seen a steady decrease in both the intensity and regularity of the demonstrations.” The man scanned the warehouse as he spoke. His eyes lingered on Pete's computer setup in the corner.
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
Jimmy coughed. “Hey bud, you going cut to the chase or are we just gonna keep finger banging?”
The man frowned. “An interesting choice of phrase.”
“I'm not here to fuck around. You got something to say, spit it out.”
The Venezuelan nodded. “There's someone that needs to disappear.”
“That I can do. What's the name?”
“Dante, Dante Otero.”
Jimmy took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled the name down. “You got a phone number? It would make this a hell of a lot easier.”
“Yes, I have a cell number.” He turned to one of his assistants who wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. He passed it to Jimmy. “This needs to be unattributable.”
“Do I look like a fucking moron? It'll be clean and it'll be blamed on the colectivo dead shits. What's the time frame?”
“As soon as possible.”
He stroked his mustache. “That'll cost extra.”
“I will take it into consideration with Mr. King.”
Jimmy spat on the concrete. “No, you'll take it into consideration with me. Mr. King isn't the one putting his life on the line. I want twenty-K US each. All six of us. Cash.”
The intelligence operative’s eyes narrowed.
“Or, get one of your people to do it.” He gestured to the heavies standing by the door. “But, they look a little simple. They'll probably screw the pooch.”
“The terms are acceptable. Get it done.” The man turned and made for the exit.
“Nice doing business with you, cockbreath,” muttered Jimmy as he paced across to Pete's intel setup. He dropped the two scraps of paper on the desk. “New target, numbnuts! Find this fucker ASAP.”
CHAPTER 15
LASCAR ISLAND
Vance stood under the rusted roof of the dilapidated hangar that butted against the cliff. The doors were wide open and a cool breeze caressed his face as he watched a Lascar Logistics C-130 pivot on the tarmac. The back blast from the four turboprops replaced the breeze as it stopped with the ramp facing him. The reek of jet fuel filled the hangar and he grimaced as a final blast of exhaust and prop wash nearly tore his Hawaiian shirt from his bulky frame. If he had hair it would be streaming out behind him like a windsock.
Kruger, the massive blonde-haired South African, and the two other operators from the Critical Assault Team were waiting with him. Dressed in civilian clothing, they stood alongside a pallet stacked with black nylon drag bags and rugged Pelican cases. Next to it were another two pallets. Each had a huge black bladder of fuel strapped to it along with what looked like a bulky green backpack. Another of the PRIMAL team was sitting on a forklift behind the pallets.
The white C-130's ramp lowered with a whine. The transporter was one of four in the Lascar Logistics fleet and the only one piloted by a Priority Movements Airlift crew. The veteran pilots usually flew missions in support of aid workers, however they occasionally flew contracts for discrete government agencies. Today they knew they were supporting a clandestine operation but had no idea who PRIMAL was or that Lascar Island wasn't just a transit location. The false cliff face to the rear of the hangar was shut to maintain the deception.
Vance approached the loadmaster with a broad smile. “Yo, these cats arrived this morning. Glad you made it on time because we're kind of limited for accommodation.” Vance was playing the part of an ignorant caretaker, as opposed to his actual role as Director of Operations.
The loadmaster gestured inside the cargo bay of the aircraft. “I've got a crate here for you. Once it's off we can load up and get going.”
Vance thrust the manifest he was holding into the loadmaster’s hands. “I'll get my boy to take care of it.”
The loadmaster gave him thumbs-up and Vance waved at Frank, who was operating the forklift. He watched as Frank unloaded the single crate then loaded the three pallets. When it was done he walked over to where Kruger was waiting with the others. “Give ‘em hell, bud.”
Kruger gave a solemn nod. “We will.” Then the three-man team walked up the ramp and disappeared inside. Vance gave the loadmaster a nod and the ramp whined shut. The four turboprops increased power with a roar and the aircraft lumbered onto the runway.
Vance walked out of the hangar and watched as the C-130 accelerated along the tarmac and lifted off.
Frank pulled the forklift alongside. “Kinda like sending your kids off on their first day of school.”
His brow furrowed. “Do you even have kids, Frank?”
“No. But if I did, I think you'd run a great daddy daycare.”
He laughed. “What’s in the crate?” He reached inside his pocket and activated a remote control. At the back of the hangar the rock wall split and a gap appeared.
“Well, judging by the manifest it's the spare parts Mitch needs for the Pain Train.”
Vance strolled inside as Frank drove the forklift beside him. He sighed, now he had most of his force deployed forward to Jamaica. Perhaps it was time he too got back in the field.
***
ATLANTIC OCEAN
Torrential rain buffeted the two nine-meter Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats that bobbed in the choppy swell. The early morning sun wasn’t visible through the storm clouds that had gathered overhead.
The rain would not impact the mission. The RHIBs were purpose-built and equipped for all-weather maritime interdiction. They had a center console with a canopy that housed a radar dome, twin three-hundred horsepower engines, and a forward mounting for a medium machine gun. Four contractors manned each high-powered vessel, all of them wearing personal floatation devices and carrying side arms.
“The Coast Guard aircraft has just gone off station, Mike,” the man behind the console of the lead boat yelled over the wind.
“OK, let's lock and load.” Mike Peters was a middle-aged former Navy Warrant who ran MAROPS, a private firm that occasionally subcontracted to GES. Average height with sandy blonde hair, he'd spent his entire military career operating SWCC boats for SOCOM. The heavy rain and the poor conditions didn’t faze him.
At the bow of each boat a crewmember unsnapped an equipment case and hefted a M60E machine gun onto the pintle mount. Once slotted in place, they loaded a belt of ammunition from another crate.
Mike stood nex
t to the helmsmen of his boat and studied the radar screen. A single blip appeared at the far edge. He grabbed the radio mike and transmitted, “Contact. Let's get rolling.”
The machine gunners grasped their weapons and slid their feet into the loops attached to the floor. The other men, the boarding party, grabbed the handholds on the gunwales and braced themselves.
Each boat’s six hundred horses roared as the helmsmen pushed forward on the throttles and the two boats accelerated crashing through the waves leaving a violent wake behind them.
Mike grinned as he gripped the side of the console. He lived for this.
***
KINGSTON, JAMAICA
Mitch unlocked the rusted door on the hangar and was hit by a blast of humidity and musty stench. “Bloody hell.” He’d parked the Gulfstream in front of the hangar in Jamaica, having arrived from Miami International mid-morning. Once he pulled back the main doors he would move the business jet inside.
He dropped his backpack next to his stretcher and strode across to the industrial air conditioner he’d fitted in the far corner. He tried powering it up but nothing happened. Suspecting an electrical fault he traced the power cable back to the wall where it was plugged into an old three-phase point. He disconnected it and pried the rubber cover from the plug. Sure enough one of the wires was loose. A single twist with a multi-tool resolved the issue and soon the unit was humming again. Happy the system was fixed he walked across to the office that was functioning as PRIMAL’s forward headquarters. “When did the aircon blitz out?” he asked as he pushed open the door.
“Thank god you're back,” exclaimed Flash from behind his desk. The portly intelligence specialist’s T-shirt was drenched in sweat. “Please tell me you've fixed it.”
“Yeah mate, she's humming along nicely.” He gave Chua a nod. Unlike Flash, PRIMAL’s Asian American chief of intelligence didn't seem fazed by the heat.
“Mitch, welcome back,” Chua said. “Good work on the intel grab at King's residence. Did Bishop get away OK?”
Mitch dropped into a chair. “Yeah, no problems. How are Saneh and Mirza going?”
Chua checked his watch. “We've got a morning call with them in a few minutes. If you hang around you'll find out. Fuel is still an issue.”
“Was Vance able to put together what I need?”
“Yes, the CAT and the fuel will arrive this afternoon. I’m planning to deploy the boys to Brazil so they can respond rapidly if Bishop needs them. Aleks was due to fly in around the same time but his flight out of Hamburg has been delayed by heavy snow.”
“Any updates on Kurtz?”
“No, Aleks left him a message but there's been no response. There’s a chance GES or the CIA have got to him first.”
Mitch shook his head. “Nah mate, that slippery kraut’s way too good for them.”
“I hope you're right.”
A ringing sound emanated from Chua's laptop.
“It’s Saneh and Mirza.” He activated the secure call and kept it on speaker. “How’s it going, team?”
It was Saneh who replied. “Hello Chen, things are tracking well. The boat is running smoothly and Wesley has been very cooperative.”
“Good news. How's your fuel situation?”
“Not bad, we've backed off to twenty knots. The onboard computer is telling me that's the optimal speed.”
“Hey Saneh, it's Mitch here. Do you have enough fuel to get all the way to Jamaica?”
“At this stage it's going to be tight but I think we'll make it. Worse case scenario we can refuel at an outlying island. Maybe Cuba.”
Mitch glanced at Chua who shook his head vigorously. “Chua is telling me that's not workable. But don't worry, good old Mitch has a redundancy plan in place should the need arise.”
“That's good to know...” Her voice trailed off. “That’s weird.”
“What's up?” asked Mitch.
“I've got two contacts ahead of us. They're closing fast. I'm going to change our course.”
Chua frowned. “Has anyone hailed you?”
“Negative, I'm going to push further offshore.”
Seconds passed and everyone in the command center was deathly quiet.
“Damn, they're tracking right for us.”
CHAPTER 16
ATLANTIC OCEAN
“Mirza, get Wesley up here. We're going to need his help.” Saneh angled the nose of the Nemesis away from the approaching vessels and pushed the throttles for the diesels to the stops. The bow was slicing through the heavy swell at almost thirty knots as rain battered the cabin.
“Right away.” Behind her Mirza disappeared down the stairs into the hull.
She watched the radar screen. Each time the band swept around the approaching contacts were closer. “Damn it.” The boats were less than half a mile to their front heading directly for them.
“What's up?” Wesley appeared with Mirza.
“We've got trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
The radio crackled to life. “Nemesis, heave to immediately or you will be fired upon.”
“That sort of trouble.”
“Hey, this boat can outrun anything afloat. We just need to start the turbines,” said Wesley.
“OK, how do we do that?” Saneh stepped aside and allowed Wesley access to the control panel.
His fingers danced over the engineering screen activating the three 5,600 horsepower jet turbines.
Saneh felt the deck vibrate as they turned over. She glanced at the radar screen; the contacts were almost on them. She squinted through the rain-streaked windshield, trying to see through the frantically sweeping wipers. “Mirza, can you get up front and see if you can spot them?”
“I'm on it.” He grabbed a spray jacket and checked the pistol he had taken from the dead guard.
As he made his way out to the deck Saneh watched Wesley frantically stabbing at buttons on the engineering screen. “What’s wrong?”
“I can only get one turbine up.”
The radio crackled again. “Nemesis, I have visual on you. Heave to immediately or I will fire.”
Mirza's voice came in over her earpiece, “I've got eyes on two RHIBs directly ahead.”
“OK, hold on.” She spun the wheel and pushed on the throttle of the one running turbine. The massive motor-yacht spun away from the two boats, the sleek hull crashing in the swell. She glanced down at the console; they were pulling thirty-five knots.
The sound of a machine gun roared over the engines and a line of tracers zipped across their bow.
“Holy shit!” screamed Wesley as he gripped the side of the cabin.
“We're past them,” reported Mirza. “We need to go full throttle.”
“We already are,” replied Saneh as she banked the boat from side to side to throw off the gunner’s aim.
“They're coming around,” Mirza said as he ran to the stern of the boat.
Two more lines of tracer lashed past either side. The smaller craft were easily keeping pace.
She turned to the white-faced banker. “Wesley, if we don't get those engines going we're dead.”
He stared at her blankly.
She slapped him. “Wesley, what the hell’s wrong with the engines?”
“The safety systems are stopping them from starting.”
“Nemesis, heave to now or we will destroy you!” blared the radio.
“How do we fix it?”
“In the engine room. There's a panel.”
Saneh flinched as the hull shuddered. Their pursuers had decided to engage to disable the boat. She grasped his arm. “I need you to get down there and sort it out.”
She heard Mirza's pistol bark.
Wesley dashed down the stairs and disappeared as more bullets lashed the side of the boat. Saneh spun them in the opposite direction. “Mirza are you OK?”
He took a moment to reply. “Yes, but they've dropped back. I can't hit anything.”
“Nemesis, you are outgunned. Heave t
o immediately.”
Saneh knew if she kept evading someone was going to get killed. She grabbed the radio mike. “OK, OK, we're stopping.” She eased back on the throttles bringing the engines to an idle. “Mirza, tell me when they're close.”
At the stern Mirza crouched and watched one of the RHIBs pull in behind them. The other stood off, about fifty yards away.
Inside, Saneh stood behind the console watching the engineering display intently. One of the turbines was green. The other two were red. “Come on, Wesley,” she murmured.
“They're going to be onboard in seconds,” reported Mirza.
The two red engines went green. “Hold on!” She pushed all three throttles to their stops and looked back.
At the stern of Nemesis the three turbines screamed, launching torrents of water out of the jets. The wall of water hit the side of the closest RHIB and flipped it, knocking the crew into the ocean. Mirza rose and fired two shots at the other RHIB. The gunner ducked for cover as the Nemesis surged forward, rapidly gaining speed.
Saneh clung to the side of the cabin as the boat tipped back and the RHIBs disappeared behind them. Like a howling banshee the Nemesis tore through the ocean at nearly seventy knots, launching over the stormy seas, spray exploding off the bow.
Mirza staggered back into the cabin. He slid the doors shut behind him blocking the torrent of noise. “Good work, skipper!”
She shot him a grin from the console. “Well done, Wesley.”
Wesley appeared from below decks and managed a grin.
“I'm guessing we're going to need Mitch’s fuel contingency,” she said.
***
GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA
Howard sat at his desk fighting the urge to scream in frustration. He felt like he’d been working on Objective Yankee and Red Sox for weeks and was no closer to finding out who they worked for. The team had checked every connection, scoured every database, investigated every loose end, and still nothing.
PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) Page 13
