by Bob Mayer
"There's another job, actually you'd call it a mission, that has come up. Based on the last mission, and your record, I want you to head it up. As far as personnel goes, I want you to pick whoever you want out of the Special Forces community. I've already talked it over with Slaight at SOCOM and told him to give you whatever A-Team you want." Macksey looked at Pike, searching for a reaction.
Pike was noncommittal. How the hell could he know what A-Team he would want if he didn't know what the job was? Whatever happened to mission statement up front? "Yes, sir."
The whole thing was typical of the army, he thought. Do a good job and your reward is another, most likely tougher, job. The chairman probably wants to deploy me to some godforsaken place where I'll work seven days a week, around the clock, Pike thought. Screw up and the punishment is a quiet eight-to-four job on a nice backwater post waiting for retirement.
"It's a very sensitive matter. In a nutshell, I want you to head a task force that's going to conduct unilateral strike missions into Colombia to destroy cocaine processing laboratories. This mission comes from the highest level of our government and it must remain covert."
Pike's mind shifted into overdrive as he assimilated the information. He didn't need the chairman to tell him that this was going to be sensitive. And it sure as hell was a lot more exciting than fighting with air force pilots over what could and couldn't be done with a nuke.
"The president of Colombia has sanctioned this operation, so it's not as if you're invading the country. However, he most likely won't acknowledge the sanction if your people get caught."
Macksey passed a folder with a top secret/eyes only cover on it across his desk. "In there you'll find everything you need. On the first page are the points of contact here in the Pentagon from each service. This mission has top priority. If the person listed there doesn't give you what you want, you call me and I'll get it for you. My private numbers are there on the bottom of the first page.
"The key man for a lot of the coordination you'll be doing here in the Pentagon is your boss, Lieutenant General Linders. He can do the tasking of Special Operations units through the people down at MacDill. I've already given him a heads-up on this and he's ready to help you out. Other than him, no one else is authorized to know about these missions.
"Also you'll need these." Macksey reached in his desk and pulled out two shoulder boards with a star on each. "You've been breveted by the president. It'll be approved by Congress Monday."
Pike wasn't overly impressed with the stars. Breveting meant that when the mission was over he'd have to give the stars back. He was impressed with the mission, though.
Macksey pointed at the folder in Pike's hands. "On page two you'll notice that you'll be getting a CIA and DEA liaison. They'll both be at the meeting tomorrow at Fort Belvoir along with the team you choose. Now you and I both know that those two will be briefed to pay lip service to you and report back to their own bosses. That's OK as long as they do what you need them to do. If they give you a hard time, or become uncooperative, let me know right away. I'll relay that to Secretary Terrance and he'll grab the CIA director and get some action. As you can tell this is being watched at the highest levels. I know you can handle it."
Sensing he was dismissed, Pike stood up and saluted the chairman. So much for any time off, he thought as he left the room and worked his way to his basement office. Pike leafed through the folder. Nowhere in there was a written order spelling out the operation. He was struck with a peculiar sense of déjà vu. He'd had some experience running missions without written orders.
Pike entered his office and threw the file down on his desk. He stretched his back, trying to ease the constant ache. That discomfort was a reminder of one such official "unofficial" mission almost twenty years ago.
Pike pulled out a notepad and started sketching the framework for operational support for this mission. Most other officers would have picked up the phone and immediately alerted 1st SOCOM to get a Special Forces team moving. Pike had long ago learned the value of patience and careful review of options before action. He wouldn't start the wheels turning until he figured out where the wheels were going.
CHAPTER TEN
SUNDAY, 5 AUGUST
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
8:00 A.M.
Riley was methodically kicking the heavy bag that hung in the corner of the team room. Ten turn kicks left leg, ten right leg, ten back kicks left, ten right. He pressed on as he felt the sweat pour off his body and the pleasant pain of exertion flood his limbs.
The team room for 055 consisted of the top floor of a renovated World War II barracks. It was essentially a large bay, almost sixty feet by twenty-five feet. The dominant feature in the room was a large T-shaped table in the center. Wall lockers holding the members' field gear stretched along one wall.
The corner in which Riley was working out held both a heavy and a light punching bag, a lifting bench, and assorted weights that team members had deposited over the years. The floor of the room was tiled in an ugly shade of red in which some long-forgotten team member had taken the time to cut and emplace white tiles to spell out the detachment's number, 055, and the motto of Special Forces—De Oppresso Liber: to free the oppressed.
A refrigerator sat against another wall, flanked by two large padlocked boxes that contained the team's radio and engineer equipment. The refrigerator was technically used to store batteries for the radios. In reality the batteries took up only the bottom shelf; cases of beer and soda filled the rest of the shelves. The soda was for the duty day and the beer for after hours when most of the unmarried team members would hang around until the early morning. In extremes, the team room became home for members who had had too much to drink.
Enjoying one of those cold beers, MSgt. Dan Powers sat with his feet on his beat-up desk and watched Riley from across the team room. "Damn, compadre, don't you ever get tired? I mean it's hot out and everything, and it's Sunday. The good Lord designated today as a day of rest. Why don't you take a break and grab a brew?"
Riley paused. "I can see you're resting enough for both of us. Dan, one of these days that beer belly of yours is going to get you in trouble." He stepped back. With a yell he leapt and hit high on the bag with a flying side kick. The bag lurched, then settled back, rattling the chains that connected it to a beam in the ceiling.
Powers burped. "Yeah, Dave, it might at that. But I'll die happy. Guess you little greasers need to work out to be tough, not being a natural-born stud like me." He scratched his belly under the worn-out green T-shirt that made up his off-duty garb. "Hey, you hear we might be getting a team leader? A real live commissioned officer? Not like you make-believe warrant officers."
"Keep it up, redneck." Riley started working his arms. His hand strikes rattled the bag only slightly less than his kicks had. "Any idea who? Somebody from inside group, or is it a new guy from the qualification course?"
"Don't know. Just heard a rumor there're two officers coming into battalion. But, hell, with four teams that need captains we probably won't get one. The colonel likes you too much. You ain't raped nobody lately or created any international incidents. Besides, I like you as team leader and I don't need to be breaking in no new captain."
Riley smiled as he continued punishing the bag. He and Powers had been running the team together for over a year. Their initial mutual respect for each other's competence had grown into a genuine friendship. That friendship was a critical ingredient in making the team one of the best in the battalion, which is why they'd been picked to join the nuclear facility testing team. Riley was glad that mission was over.
Riley felt the team deserved a break. Everyone had been frozen in the assignment for the year, as the team traveled around the world. Now people could move, and three of the nine team members were leaving in the next week. That left the team with only six of its twelve authorized slots filled. Hopefully, they would get some time off. One of the greatest banes of Special Forces duty was the time spent awa
y from home.
Riley knew he'd get in some replacement people, but he wasn't sure he wanted a captain. He'd never worked under a team leader since he'd gotten his warrant over a year ago and he wasn't sure how he'd like it. He figured it'd be nice to have someone else get all the ass- chewings but not at the expense of losing control of the team. It would upset the benevolent dictatorship under which Powers and he ran things.
Riley also wasn't sure what the team's next assignment would be. In 7th Group, almost everyone spent at least half the year down south in Central America training local military and police forces. The 2d Battalion operations officer had told him before the Plattsburgh trip that 055 wasn't going anywhere for the next couple of months at least. Which was just fine with Riley.
Riley started working the striking edges of his hands on a two-by-four wrapped in hemp rope to toughen the calluses. We'll probably be pulling post police call for the next couple of months, he figured, since most everyone else in the battalion was deployed. As near as he could tell by looking at the battalion training board, when he'd gone up to talk to the ops officer, eleven of the fifteen operational teams were gone. One of the four remaining was the Gabriel demonstration team, which did all the shows for the "Great American Public" at Fort Bragg and as requested around the region.
Riley could do simple army math as well as anyone. That left three teams to pull all the crap details that came down from group headquarters. The thought of picking up pinecones at Fort Bragg didn't thrill Riley but it beat traveling around constantly. At least for a week or two. Then Riley knew he'd be anxious to be on the move again, doing something. Hitting the singles' bars in Fayetteville, North Carolina, wasn't his idea of a fun time.
Finished punishing his hands, Riley turned to his team sergeant. "Hey, Dan, let's go over to the sports club range and do some shooting. I got about three hundred rounds of 9-millimeter in my trunk I want to burn up. Let's go get your H and K submachine gun and pop some rounds out of that."
Powers burped amiably. "It's hot out there, man. I know you dark-skinned folks like the heat, but us fair-skinned people gots to be careful. Don't you ever sit still and just enjoy yourself?"
Powers crushed his empty beer can with a massive paw. "Yeah, all right. I got nothing else to do. Bought me a new shotgun yesterday that I need to break in anyway. Wait'll you check it out—a twelve gauge with a ten-round box magazine that can be fired on semi-automatic."
Riley laughed. "What the hell are you going to use that on? You have hordes of deer attacking you on your hunting trips?"
"Never know, my friend, when you might need a lot of firepower." The phone in the hall outside rang. Powers got up and headed toward the door to answer it. "Who the hell could that be on a Sunday morning?"
Riley was toweling himself off when he heard Powers start cursing. "Goddamnit! Goddamnit! I knew I should'a took off for the mountains for the weekend to get away from the freaking phones."
Riley poked his head out the door. "What's the matter?"
"A goddamn alert! You believe it? We've only been back a couple of days and they have to alert us! Sometimes I get sick and tired of these goddamn army games."
DEA HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
6:00 P.M.
Rich Stevens nervously dashed out his fourth cigarette in the last ten minutes and lit his fifth. He got up and paced around the executive conference room. Stevens didn't know the reason he had been ordered to fly to Washington this morning from Bogota. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.
For once Stevens thought he had wrangled himself a "get-over" job down in Colombia. His official designation was DEA embassy liaison. The job was supposed to entail being the DEA's man in the U.S. embassy in Bogota, coordinating DEA operations in country with both the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency. In reality, due to the high profile of DEA operations in Colombia, the DEA station chief did most of the coordinating personally. Stevens's role had been reduced to one of glorified paper pusher at the embassy, working on the routine traffic and paperwork the DEA processed through.
Stevens had been quite happy with the arrangement. He was normally able to finish off the few papers in his in box by lunch and that allowed him the rest of the day off. He had kept a low profile, not wishing to have anyone at the embassy notice that he really wasn't employed productively. But someone must have noticed something, he thought nervously, or else why was he back here in D.C.? The DEA station chief had been evasive in response to Stevens's questions about why he was going back, claiming he didn't know.
Stevens briefly wondered if it was because of his drinking. The fact that he went to the aptly named Embassy Cafe across the street from the U.S. embassy and got blasted almost every night wasn't exactly a secret. There wasn't a whole lot else to do in that godforsaken city.
Why he'd volunteered to go down there in the first place he couldn't immediately remember, preoccupied as he was with the sudden recall. Then he did. He cringed as he pictured his wife's bloated face in his mind. That bitch. It was worth being in Colombia to get away from her and the three screaming kids. If everyone was entitled to one big mistake in their lives, Rich had made his thirteen years ago when he married Norma.
And, boy, had she turned out to be big, Rich mumbled to himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten laid. How could you want to with that tub? She was fine where she was—back in Boston. Being in Colombia and working with the beaners sucked, but it was better than being with her. Stevens just hoped that this recall to the States wasn't permanent.
Thinking of getting laid brought a vision of another face into his mind. Just two nights ago, he'd been sitting on his usual stool in the cafe drinking his normal combination of shots of tequila chased with a mug of beer, when he noticed a new woman bartender come on duty. The new girl was one of the most beautiful women Stevens had ever seen. He had talked to her briefly and found out that her name was Maria. He had also learned that she was working at the bar to learn English so she could go to college in the United States. Stevens hoped he would have a chance to go back to Bogota and talk with Maria again. She'd sure been friendly enough to him. He'd be more than willing to teach her some English and a lot more.
Stevens was startled as the door opened. Thoughts of the bar girl disappeared in smoke as he saw the director of the DEA come in alone. Stevens's fears and concerns returned, now even stronger. Whatever was going to happen had to be extremely important for the director himself to be here. This was the first time Stevens had ever met Director Mullins.
"Evening, sir."
"Hello, Richard. Or may I call you Rich?"
You can call me anything you want, thought Stevens. "Rich is fine, sir."
Mullins sat at the end of the conference table and indicated for Stevens to sit. "You're probably wondering what's so important that you had to fly back up here."
No shit, Stevens thought. I've just about got an ulcer from worrying. "Yes, sir."
"How would you rate the Colombian government's efforts to eradicate the processing laboratories?"
Stevens sighed inwardly with relief. Same old crap. At least it wasn't an ass-chewing. "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being doing all they can and one being doing nothing, I'd have to give them a negative five. If anything they're helping them. I've seen reports of army troops being used to guard some of the shipments and air force planes carrying the stuff. Behind coffee, cocaine's their second leading export. In terms of U.S. dollars it's got to be ahead by now.
"Since the heat's been on the past year they've tightened up some, and I've got to admit that President Alegre has shown real guts with some of the steps he's taken, but in the field the situation's pretty much the same."
Mullins nodded. "That's interesting. Nothing much has changed down there, has it?"
"No, sir. They talk a better line of denial now, but it's business as usual. Alegre wouldn't stay in power five minutes if he really tried cracking down on the cartel. He's on the edge right now wit
h the steps he has taken. A lot of people's livelihoods down there depend on the cocaine industry, and they don't like anyone screwing with that."
Something clicked in Stevens's mind. "This meeting wouldn't have anything to do with Santia getting gunned down, would it?"
Mullins knew Stevens was an alcoholic and a burn-out, but the man wasn't stupid. "Yes, it does in a way. What would you say if I told you the Colombian government has told us they want the United States to conduct unilateral military strikes against the processing labs in their country?"
Stevens stared at his boss to see if he was joking. "I'd find that real hard to believe, sir. Once word got out, the parliament in Bogota would be in flames. Alegre wouldn't last a day. Remember what happened in November '85? When their Supreme Court decided to allow the extradition of drug people we had outstanding warrants on? The Supreme Court building in downtown Bogota was attacked and eleven of the twenty-four justices were massacred. The guerrillas were actually the ones who conducted the attack, but it's felt that the drug cartel played a strong instigating role, particularly in the execution of those judges.
"Hell, some of their judges are here in the States under our witness protection program for the rest of their lives just because they handed down an indictment or extradition order against someone associated with the cartel. That's why Santia was up here in the first place. If those judges had stayed in Colombia, they wouldn't have lasted a month.
"As far as U.S. military involvement goes, the Colombians just about went through the ceiling when the president mentioned putting that carrier task force off the coast to help interdict traffickers. And the invasion of Panama hasn't reassured anyone down there either."
Mullins nodded. "I agree with everything you say. However, the theory is that word of this won't get out. The entire operation is to be done covertly. That's why I've brought you up here. You're going to be working with the military and CIA on this operation."
