Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  “Man, I can't believe what happened to Skeet and Fat Jack. They were my best friends, and just like that.” Patch snapped his fingers, “They're gone.”

  John watched Patch closely. He couldn't discern whether Patch knew why he was here.

  “They were my best friends, too, Patch,” John said in a broken voice, his head buried in his hands. As he looked up, a tear sprung from his left eye. This he had accomplished by rubbing salt into his hands in Patch's driveway. “I just can't believe that they're gone! All you and I have is each other.” John began to sob.

  Patch's body language loosened. John saw he was beginning to relax. He was convinced he could maneuver Patch into a state of even greater relaxation. Three beers later, Patch excused himself to the restroom to recycle some Budweiser. John acted speedily, opening the plain wooden box on Patch's coffee table. John knew this was Patch's hiding place for his heroin. Heroin, as the Chicago song emphasized, was diluted at a ratio of twenty-five or six to four. He opened the baggie and replaced the contents with 100% pure, uncut heroin. This would multiply Patch's dose by a factor of six. He had completed the switch and was returning from the kitchen with two fresh beers when Patch came out of the bathroom.

  “Patch, you and I go way back. I'm really going to miss you.”

  “What does that mean?” Patch asked, with a slight tremor in his voice.

  “It means I'm probably going to Vietnam,” John responded after a dramatic pause. He didn't want to rattle Patch too much. All he had to do was be patient and let nature take its course. He already saw the subtle signs that Patch would need a fix soon. Patch probably was oblivious to his external symptoms of a running nose, sweats, chills and minor muscle spasms. John knew no force in the universe could prevent Patch from utilizing the contents of the wooden box on the table between them.

  John neither enjoyed nor regretted watching Patch squirm. It was simply data indicating the mission was on track. He was in the zone of ultimate calm that lay on the other side of rage. He was nothingness itself. At some level, he knew his childhood had been a series of reactions to The John. It was as if his father were a solid object and John merely a reflection. Now here he was - a reflection again. This time, he was the reflection of three monsters.

  “Hey, Man. Mind if I shoot up?” Patch spoke the words that would finally balance the ledger of an old account.

  “Do I ever?” John smirked.

  “Well, I didn't know if you, you know, being in the Army and all…”

  “There's more horse in the Army than even you could imagine, Patch.”

  “Cool, Man,” Patch said, eagerly opening his little box of life. Patch loved his box. He and the box owned each other. He rationed what he thought was the appropriate amount into a spoon, added a touch of citric acid, and held a cigarette lighter underneath until the white powder had become a clear liquid. Then, he meticulously drew the liquid into a used syringe. He wrapped the rubber cord around his bicep, flexed his fist a few times, and thumped the most obvious vein to cause it to swell. Then he injected himself with justice, released the rubber cord, and withdrew the needle.

  Within seconds, Patch appeared immensely sleepy. John knew time was short. “Tonight, Patch, you face your court of demons.”

  Patch was semi-coherent, but he nodded weakly at John. He knew he and John had just become even-Steven. When he shit his pants, he couldn't tell whether it was from the fear or the heroin. His last thought was the realization that he'd spent his entire life escaping from reality. Now, he wanted all those years back. He promised God that he would live them this time. God wasn't listening. Patch drifted into oblivion.

  * * *

  The John sipped his weak coffee, reading the obituaries in the Beaumont Times; a habit he had developed in his late forties. He scanned for the names of all his friends, and couldn't resist confirming his name wasn't listed.

  Wait! What was that? His body temperature dropped by several degrees as a spark ignited in her mind. As The John read the brief list, connections buried for half a decade reappeared. All three of the rednecks that soiled John's working class wife had died in mysterious accidents since John had returned home. Since only he and Gloria knew the connection, no one, least of all the police, would suspect a thing. Maybe that was the boy's calling – to be a soldier, a killer. He lifted the phone and called his old friend General Dalton.

  * * *

  “Sir, there's a retired Brigadier General John Drake on line one for you.”

  Drake, that old son of a bitch, Dalton thought. He picked up the phone with anticipation, simply from being able to talk to his old friend. If nothing else, a conversation with Drake would be a pleasant distraction from his worries.

  “Dalton here.”

  “Jerry, how are you?”

  “John, you know I hate that nickname, especially since my claim to fame was killing Jerries in WWII.”

  “Well, if you don't like it, tough. I've whipped your ass more than once, and I'll do it again if I have to. Come to think of it, I seem to recall saving your ass on more than one occasion,” The John rebutted.

  “Touché. Ouch,” Dalton winced in mock capitulation, even though The John couldn't see him. “To what occasion do I owe this honor? Checking up on your boy? Fine lad, he is.”

  “Jerry, I'm not calling to check up on the boy. I'm calling to give you vital information about him. I think you have much more in your hands than you know.”

  Dalton's ears perked when he heard this.

  “Jerry, you and I know how the world works. I know you're not running a Boy Scout troop there. I've got to tell you something about my son off the record. And I mean really off the record. You need to hear this. Do I have your word?”

  “John, I'm insulted you would even ask, but yes, you do have my word.”

  The John relayed all the details he had pieced together, flavored with a touch of theorizing. It was a tale of improvisation, ingenuity and persistence. The boy stayed true to his path even after his first kill. He crossed the line and didn't hesitate or look back. This character was cool.

  As Dalton listened intently to his old friend, he solidified the idea he had contemplated for some time. What if there was another way to run Operation Sierra? He thought about it and decided he had nothing to lose, given a few precautions. He recalled Einstein's definition of insanity – repeating the same thing and expecting different results. Dalton thanked General Drake for his insight, and assured his old friend that Sergeant John Drake Jr. would be appropriately utilized.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Langley, Virginia

  Fulton sat at the head of the conference room table. All the CIA technicians who were involved in the final stage of Project Crossfire were in the room. Besides this small group, only Peter and the DCI even knew the project existed.

  “Item one, encryption. Where do we stand?” Fulton was known for being somewhat direct with his subordinates. He didn't waste time with small talk.

  “Well, Sir, I've developed a double blind system no computer in the world could crack within thirty days. You will have a choice of two transmissions – one to execute the mission and one to abort. In the first case, an encoded set of coordinates will be sent to the Prometheus. The captain and first officer will have booklets to break the code, but the solution will be a set of dummy coordinates. When they enter the dummy coordinates, the missiles will further decode them to acquire the real coordinates. Simply put, only you and the missiles will know the actual target sites.”

  “Excellent, and if I transmit the abort code?”

  “It's also double blind. When decoded aboard Prometheus, it will be a set of dummy coordinates. When these coordinates are entered, the self-destruct sequence will be activated. Again, only you and the missiles will know what is going to happen.”

  “Good work. Thank you. Item two, self destruct sequence.”

  “Sir, as you specified, if the abort code is transmitted, the missiles will be detonated before the outer doors
are opened. This will initiate a cascade effect among the shaped charges we've placed between the primary and secondary hulls. Of course, you'll need to wait at least thirty minutes for the crew to safely abandon ship before you transmit.”

  “Understood,” Fulton said without emotion. Fulton had contemplated the fates of those unfortunate soldiers a thousand times, always arriving at the same conclusion – the DCI was right. Even if the mission were aborted, the crew of Prometheus must go. They knew too much. They knew a commercial vessel had been modified into a warship. They knew the missiles were not American. They knew which targets they could reach from their position. They would read the newspaper the following morning and connect the dots. It wasn't a difficult equation to piece together. Yes, the crew of Prometheus would make the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

  “Thank you. Item three, munitions.”

  “Sir, I've had a hell of a time getting my hands on the specific missiles you requested. I nearly exhausted my Eastern Bloc connections before I found them.”

  “You found them?”

  “Yes, Sir. Every one.”

  “Excellent! How long for installation?”

  “Well, with the skeleton crew I have, they could be ready by the end of February. I'll have the men get started tonight removing the markings.”

  “No. You will not alter the missiles in any way – any way. Got that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very good. Now, let's get to work.”

  * * *

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  “General, Major Briggs to see you,” the intercom buzzed.

  “Send him in,” Dalton replied. He didn't like the sense of deja vu.

  After the obligatory salutes, Major Briggs sat and delivered his news. “Sir, we've lost another one.”

  “Shit!” Dalton shouted, slamming his fist on the mahogany desk, “What happened this time?”

  “Sir, we're not sure, but Lieutenant Amin was confirmed dead at 0300 hours. He had been tortured pretty badly, Sir. We don't know what he might have compromised.”

  Dalton was displeased in the extreme. He was running out of options. So far, two highly trained field agents had been lost in Operation Sierra. Two years had passed, and they were no closer to Tartus. He needed a different approach, something unique. But what? His crazy idea about Drake and Gibson? He needed time alone.

  “Dismissed, Major.”

  “Yes Sir,” Major Briggs said as he stood at attention, saluted, performed a surgically precise about face and left the office.

  * * *

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  Lupe Hernandez awoke to the soft click immediately preceding the dull hum of her alarm clock. It was six a.m. in Rio de Janeiro, and she and her friends had vowed not to waste a single minute of the time they had there. Before the alarm had a chance to begin it's obnoxious call, she flipped it off and rolled her bare feet to the floor. The hard wood was cold, in contrast to the already sweltering heat of the day. She padded to the restroom to begin her morning routine. She brushed her teeth with bottled water and showered, remembering not to open her mouth and invite the unfamiliar microorganisms of Latin America into her body. The desk clerk had assured her that the Rio Marriott was a world-class establishment, with filtered and purified tap water, but she was leaving nothing to chance. Just five months ago, her friend Becky had contracted a vicious stomach bug from a salad that had been rinsed in local water. As Becky described it, she could 'shit through a screen door from twelve feet'.

  Lupe giggled at her friend's quip while she toweled off. By six thirty, she was dressed and ready to begin the adventures of the day. As a junior business major at UCLA, she knew she would soon begin the gradual descent into the blissful stupor of mediocrity that all children of successful people faced. Sure, she would never want for financial security, but she would also be denied the freedoms that came with independence. She would spend her adulthood in the most luxuriant prison on Earth - success.

  Many would consider Lupe spoiled, since she came from an obscenely wealthy family. She saw things differently from most. Today, Lupe craved adventure, and she would get her wish. Not telling her father where she was going only served to increase the intensity of the adventure. Susan and Becky were waiting for her in the lobby.

  “Buenos Dias, Lupe,” said Susan.

  “Susan, they speak Portuguese here, not Spanish,” Lupe chided, “In fact, I'm pretty sure they'd resent your attempt to speak the incorrect Latin language.”

  “Hey, we're tourists. These people wouldn't exist without us. We can do no wrong!” Susan joked, catching the attention of the hotel concierge.

  “Bom Dia, young ladies. May I be of assistance?” Hector asked. “Is this a first time visit for you?” Hector's English was impeccable. His accent was almost undetectable. But then, Americans were the tools of his trade.

  “Yes, good morning,” Lupe said, glancing at his name tag, “Hector. This is our first time in Rio, and we have three days to make the most of our experience. If you could provide some guidance, we'd be most appreciative.” As she spoke, she dug through her purse for her wallet.

  “Well, ladies, first you may be interested to learn that most businesses in Rio de Janeiro do have English speaking people on staff, and almost no one will refuse American dollars. This may help eliminate any concerns you have with translation of language and currency, and allow you to focus on the enjoyment of your stay.”

  “Hector, your English is excellent. Are you a native of Brazil?” Lupe asked.

  “Yes, I am. In fact, I have never left this country. And, if you don't mind my saying, your English is excellent as well.”

  The girls all chuckled nervously at Hector's joke, not knowing whether or not he was being sarcastic. Hector was quick to add, “I have a friend who drives a taxi. He knows the city quite well, and will be in your exclusive service for the day if you are interested. He can show you the popular tourist sites, as well as some hidden treasures we have.”

  “Wow, that sounds perfect!” Becky exclaimed. “What does he charge?”

  “Ma'am, it is customary for you to pay a flat rate for the entire day, about thirty dollars. In addition, the driver will expect to accompany you for meals, at your expense. Taxi drivers in Rio become much more personally involved with their clients than their counterparts in America, I am told. One other thing, you must never hail a taxi on the street. They are hustlers and enormously dangerous. Your taxi should always be arranged by an airport, hotel, or restaurant.”

  “What is your friend's name? We'd like to hire him for the day,” Lupe said.

  “His name is Felipe. And who shall I tell him his benefactor is for the day?”

  “Lupe, Lupe Hernandez.”

  “Ah, what a beautiful name. I will make the necessary arrangements,” Hector said as he departed for his office. When he returned, he said “Felipe is available for the day, and will meet you out front in ten minutes.”

  “Wonderful,” Lupe said, “Hector, I have one question, what time will Felipe expect to be relieved? What I mean is, how long will our thirty dollars last?”

  “Miss Hernandez, the days in Rio are quite long. We don't live by the clock. Trust me, you will know when the day is finished. I believe Felipe will outlast you.”

  “Thank you, Hector,” Lupe said as she handed him a five dollar bill.

  Within fifteen minutes, Felipe's cab pulled up in front of the Marriott. He was a short man; no more than five foot six. His hairline was receding and he compensated with the comb-over technique. Like most of the men in Latin America, he had a thick black moustache. His English, like Hector's was practically flawless. They spent a few minutes making polite small talk. That was one thing Lupe especially liked about Latin countries. People were polite to a fault. It was impossible to conduct the simplest transaction without discussing the weather, health, etc. Eventually, Felipe got to business.

  “Where can I take you lovely ladies this morning?”

 
; “Well, what do you suggest?” Lupe asked.

  “Miss Hernandez, there are many beautiful sights in Rio, but one of the best is the Botanical Gardens. It would be my honor to take you there.”

  Lupe, although accustomed to the red carpet treatment, was still awed at Felipe's courtesy. He treated them not like VIP's, but like royalty.

  “Yes, Felipe. To the gardens please.”

  Felipe drove through the crowded city streets with an aggressiveness that frightened the girls. He kept one foot on the gas and one on the brake, constantly pumping both. When changing lanes, he did not look over his shoulder because he already knew there would be a car in the way. When Lupe asked Felipe to slow down, he explained that his method was the safest because it was what everyone expected. If he hesitated or used turn signals, he would confuse the other drivers.

  Fifteen white knuckled minutes later, Felipe parked near the entrance to the gardens. He turned to face the girls and said, “I will wait here as long as you like. If you lose your way, just ask for the northern entrance.”

  The Botanical Gardens were even more beautiful than Felipe had claimed. Each of the 141 hectares sheltered stunning examples of plant life from Brazil and all over the world. As Lupe spun, taking in The Imperial Palms, planted in 1809 by Prince Regent D. João VI, she was awed by the sheer size of the trees. It reminded her of childhood Easters. Her parents had a huge, knotted tree that she climbed to pick the enormous white blossoms it sported each spring. She learned quickly that the beauty of the flowers was offset by the monstrous spiders that lived in each bloom. She would use a stick to run the spiders away and steal their homes.

  She rounded another corner and was awestruck by the landscaping. Huge trees decked with orchids were contrasted with giant victoria-regia, lilies, bromeliads, royal poincianas and tropical foliage. Lupe breathed deeply, the mixed aromas evoking random memories from her childhood. Once, a dove lit on a branch just a few feet from her. It was the purest white she had ever seen. When she reached out to touch it, the dove flew away. After nearly two hours of exploring the local flora, the girls found themselves a bit disoriented.