by Patrick Dent
“Where the hell are we?” Becky asked.
“I'm not sure, but come to think of it, I haven't seen another soul in a while,” Lupe answered.
They were in a maze of hedges, and due to the height of the bushes, could not see the sun to get a bearing on direction. They decided to keep moving, taking a right at each juncture. This method was unlikely to take them to an exit, but at least it was consistent. The girls figured they would reach either the center or an edge eventually. Besides, they would certainly come across other people in the process.
“What was that?” Becky asked.
“What was what?” Lupe replied.
“I swear I heard someone walking nearby.”
“Hello! Can you help us please? We're lost. Hello!” Lupe's hails went unanswered.
“Becky, I didn't hear a thing, and no one is answering. I'm sure we'd get an answer, even if it wasn't in English,” Lupe said. She was exasperated, hot and tired. Her sundress was soaked in sweat and she wanted a shower. She had no idea her next bath would be administered with a fire hose.
Even as Lupe spoke her words of reassurance, she heard the soft sound of leather-soled shoes on dirt just around the next corner of the maze. She ran toward the source of the sound, taking an abrupt left at the intersection. When she rounded the corner, she tripped on some type of branch or log. As she stood, she had several milliseconds to realize the log was actually a human leg. As she drew a deep breath to cry out, she detected a strong chemical odor. The last thing she saw was a dripping handkerchief converging on her nose and mouth. The world receded into blackness as the chloroform was carried by her red blood cells to her brain, rendering her unconscious within two seconds of contact.
* * *
Fort Benning, Georgia
“General, Sergeant Drake reports to see you,” the intercom squawked.
“Send him in,” Dalton replied. He had mapped out this conversation in advance. He knew where Drake's hot buttons were, and he intended to punch every one in sequence. Normally, he would have Briggs do the recruitment, but there was one change in the game plan that Briggs could never know about. Operation Sierra was beginning to make him indistinguishable from a fool. You don't come out of the rough with a putter. You use a wedge.
“Sir, Sergeant Drake reporting, Sir!”
“At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat.”
John sat rigidly in the chair facing General Dalton, his hat in his left hand, resting on his leg. He kept his fidgeting to a minimum. For an E-5 to be summoned by the base commander was highly unorthodox.
Dalton fixed the young lad with a level stare that Drake returned in an unchallenging way. The general pushed his chair back and looked at the ceiling, steepling his fingers. When he spoke, it was in a softer voice.
“I grew up in Los Angeles, back before it became overcrowded. When I was a kid, no older than twelve, I responded to a newspaper ad. Three local kids were forming a jazz band and needed a sax player. My father didn't like the idea, of course. You have to bear in mind that the saxophone was the electric guitar of the 1940s.
“Well, we formed a group – The Jazz Club. Years went by - years of playing weddings and proms, but also the occasional nightclub. It was in one of these nightclubs where we crossed paths with fate. To make a long story short, at the age of eighteen I found myself in the office of a record company executive. He promised to make dreams I didn't even have come true. West Point was about to become irrelevant. Family tradition was about to become irrelevant. My agent kept telling me there would never be another chance like this one. He was right. There wasn't. Thirty years later, I'm sitting in this chair with two stars on my shoulder because I made a decision that day.
“What I want you to understand is this, Sergeant: every decision brings an opportunity to do the right thing. You may not like how the right thing looks, but you'll see it, every time. And once you've seen it, it's a hard thing to ignore. When my hour came, I did the right thing. The right thing for me. The right thing for my country.
“Now, you are standing at a juncture not unlike the one that gave shape to my destiny over thirty years ago. The choice remains the same - man or mouse, hero or coward? And I'll warn you up front. You will become what you decide. That is a proven, scientific fact. They call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. So I suggest you give it serious consideration. As a man once quite correctly told me, there will never be another chance like this one. One chance to take action, to make a difference. Once chance to do the right thing.
“I have a mission worthy of a United States Ranger - dangerous and voluntary. But, once you're in, you're in for the duration.” Dalton leaned forward and bored his steely gaze into John's eyes. “Your actions in Beaumont demonstrated resourcefulness, cunning and courage. Can you perform at that level every time?”
Drake concealed his shock that the General knew what he had done. There would be time to figure that out later. He remained in the moment, “Sir, I'm in. One hundred percent!”
“Good.” Dalton reclined in his chair. “Major Briggs will contact you for briefing. Before I dismiss you, there's one thing we need to discuss, and I want you to listen with every cell in your body.
“This whole business in South Carolina needn't ever be revisited. I'm happy, and as long as I'm happy, it's a dead issue, so to speak. Do you completely fathom what I'm saying, Sergeant?”
“Yes Sir,” John answered, bracing himself for whatever was coming.
“Now, here comes the part where you make me happy. Major Briggs will tell you about a man. He is a dreadfully bad character - one of the worst in the world. I'm quite sure you'll agree once you've been briefed. His name is Tartus. I want this man killed, by whatever means necessary. I do not want an apprehension. I want a kill. I'm placing this responsibility on you and you alone. I trust you are comfortable with this?”
John hesitated. He felt overwhelmed by this responsibility, but he knew he was perfectly capable of killing. If he had the capacity for emotion at that point, he would have been ashamed of himself for becoming that which he despised.
“Drake,” the general said in a less formal tone, “We're talking about an utterly vile man. You are one of the good guys. In our business, good guys kill bad guys. It's a job – nothing more. Never become emotional about performing your duty to your country. Am I getting through to you?”
“Yes Sir.” John nodded. He certainly had the no-emotion part down pat. He wondered if he would ever get his feelings back, or if he would spend the rest of his life dead inside. He tried to take himself back to that hunting trip, to remember how he felt standing over the dying bird. That incident had been his first defining moment. At that instant, his identity was hard wired into his brain. That dove was innocent. His targets in Beaumont were not. Something also told him that a long and treacherous path lay between him and his true self.
“Good. Obviously, if anyone were to hear even a rumor of this conversation, I would become profoundly unhappy. I trust we're clear on the matter?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Drake stood, saluted, and left the room with crisp movements.
* * *
Moving zombie-like down the hallway outside Dalton's office, Drake reeled from the disorientation. What had just happened? How much did Dalton know? What was this mission? John felt the blood leave his face. Icy perspiration broke out on the nape of his neck. He was having a delayed stress reaction, having spent his life honing the skill of concealing his emotions.
How could Dalton know? As he ran through the possibilities in his head, he kept coming up with the same answer – his father. The John and General Dalton had served together as Army fighter pilots in World War II, and John knew they kept in touch.
But still, how could his father possibly know what the police and coroner's office did not? He went through the events of that week in his head, searching for some clue that The John was aware of his activities. He found none.
Granted, it was commo
n knowledge that Fat Jack, Skeet, and Patch had died in accidents the week he was in town, but who would suspect John in the deaths of his three best friends? What was the common link? Tammy. But, that would mean his father somehow knew about her rape. This simply made no sense. Even John Drake Sr. wouldn't sit on such information so critical to his son. Perhaps there was more to his father than even he thought.
One thing was clear; the General had him by the short hairs.
Chapter Fifteen
Fort Benning, Georgia
When John arrived at Major Briggs' office, Gip was already waiting outside. He wanted to ask Gip if General Dalton had approached him, but the receptionist rushed them in the instant John arrived.
Now, here they sat, each apparently hand picked by General Dalton for some covert mission - a mission so covert the base commander would recruit them personally, without uttering a single word regarding its nature.
“Men,” Briggs began, “for the record I am stating that you have each volunteered for a highly dangerous and sensitive mission, one critical to our national security.” He stared at each of them, looking for any lack of resolve. Seeing none, he continued, “Trafficking in women and girls has become one of the fastest growing criminal enterprises in the world. The media refers to this industry by the misnomer of white slavery. In reality, most of the victims are non-white.”
John understood at once why he had been chosen for this mission. So, The John did know about Tammy. John's contemplated the coldness of a man who would hold such information for years, waiting for a time to use it to his own advantage. For once, he actually related to The John. He still felt nothing – no anger, no sense of justice, no satisfaction. He expected to become angry when he killed his friends, but he hadn't. He expected the anger to be quenched with a sense of justice, but there was nothing to quench. Someone had stolen all of his feelings. It never occurred to John that he was that someone.
Major Briggs continued, “This increasingly serious problem impacts all nations, including the United States. An estimated one to two million women and girls are trafficked annually around the world, typically for the purpose of forced labor, domestic servitude or sexual exploitation. White slavers lure victims with advertisements and false promises of jobs as nannies, waitresses, sales clerks, and models. The bolder ones sometimes even take their victims by force from tourist sites in second and third world countries. It appears trafficked women come primarily from the following countries: Ghana, Nigeria, Morocco, Brazil, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, the Philippines and Thailand.
“These girls flow towards industrialized countries, particularly those where the prevailing social status of women is one of servitude. The Department of State and the Department of Justice are training foreign immigration and law enforcement personnel to effectively implement border security. This approach, men, has proven to be entirely ineffective. Questions at this point?”
“Sir?” Drake gestured with his right hand, as if he were still in school. “What can two men do against such a large network of crime?”
“Not men. Rangers. And you can do quite a bit. Your primary mission is to locate and retrieve the daughter of a US Congressman from California. Ever heard of Juan Hernandez?”
“The civil rights advocate?” Drake asked.
“I like you Drake. You make a great straight man. As Sergeant Drake pointed out, we have a minority congressman and civil rights leader with a missing daughter. God knows our government does not need any more bad press in light of this Vietnam fiasco.
“The victim is Lupe Hernandez, age 20, long brunette hair, brown eyes, five foot six, one hundred thirty five pounds, UCLA business major. She disappeared eight days ago without a trace. Her father thought she was spending a long weekend with a friend in San Diego. When Lupe did not return to school, the FBI eventually determined she and two other friends had used each other as alibis and had motored off to Rio de Janeiro for a little R&R. At that point, the CIA became involved. They had an operative in Rio do a little nosing around.
“We know they had reservations at the Rio Marriott. They were last seen with the hotel concierge, Hector Enrico. He was helping them into a taxi. This Enrico character is a minor league player in the Brazilian black market. We don't think he's into anything as serious as trafficking women, but he has an associate, Felipe Palatzo, who may be. Palatzo operates a taxi service as a front for his more nefarious activities. Our best information says the girl was last seen entering Palatzo's taxi.”
“Sir, a question please. What makes you so sure they were kidnapped by white slavers?” Gip asked.
“Because, Sergeant Gibson, Brazil is the kidnapping capital of the world. In fact, if you were to be kidnapped, Brazil would be the ideal place. The kidnappers infesting Brazil are among the most professional in the world. When the ransom is paid without the involvement of the local authorities, over 80% of kidnap victims are returned unharmed. That is considerably better than the US track record.
“In this case, no ransom has been demanded, even though all three girls were from substantially wealthy families. That means one of two things: the kidnappers for some reason killed them all, or they can make more money with less risk by selling them on the open market.”
“Sir, I don't quite follow the leap of logic,” Drake interjected.
“It's extremely unlikely the girls are dead,” Briggs said. “They're worth too much alive. Although the trade is called white slavery, the victims are seldom Caucasians. American girls bring a premium to these sick bastards. This has the classic stamp of white slavers.”
Briggs walked over to his wet bar to allow time for these concepts to sink in. “Coffee?”
“Yes Sir, please,” they responded in unison.
As Briggs poured, Drake and Gip exchanged glances. Their faces shared the same expression, why us? While sipping his boiling hot, thermonuclear US military coffee sludge, Drake ventured a question, “Sir, permission to speak freely?”
“Speak.”
“If there is a globally organized crime syndicate, why isn't the CIA looking for her? And if this is a kidnapping, what about the FBI?”
“Legitimate questions. Operation Sierra is CIA sanctioned. However, contrary to popular belief, most CIA agents are not combat trained. Their expertise is more in the collection and interpretation of information. A CIA field officer living as a native in Rio brought us the information about the concierge and the taxi driver. He cannot take any action or he would risk blowing a cover that took years to establish. When combat is required, the CIA typically contracts professional soldiers, which is why we are having this conversation.
“Operation Sierra was begun over two years ago with the objective of taking out the central hub of this network. Thus far, we have been unsuccessful, but we know a few things. First, the buck seems to stop at a man known as Tartus. This Tartus character is among the most dangerous and elusive men in the world. The Hernandez kidnapping can be thought of as a separate mission from Sierra, but the odds are that Tartus is ultimately behind this.
“Now, as for the FBI, they are officially in charge of the investigation of the Hernandez kidnapping, but they can't make a move without a ransom demand. They have nothing to go on, and their jurisdiction is restricted to the US.”
John and Gip both nodded, still a bit shocked by this entire affair.
“You two are not to speak a word of the mission to anyone. Your families will be told you are in Viet Nam. Understand?” Briggs stared each of them in the eye.
“Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war,” Drake said softly.
“Oh, you know your Julius Caesar,” Briggs said. By Briggs' tone, John guessed he had just been raised a couple of notches on the scale.
“Yes Sir. It seemed appropriate. I believe 'dogs of war' was a reference to the many soldiers whose anonymous accomplishments summed up to make a victory.”
“General Dalton told me you were a clever one,” Briggs responded. “Not many noncoms read Shakesp
eare.” His gruff expression loosened into a slight smile.
“One more question, please,” John asked. “Why us? Surely there are more experienced people who could undertake this mission.”
“Another good one. The answer is simple. In the Middle Ages, it was said that the greatest swordsman in Europe did not fear the second greatest, but he feared the worst, because of the unpredictability. This will be the third deployment of Operation Sierra. I want it to be the last. It's time for a fresh perspective. Drake, you will be promoted to the combat rank of Staff Sergeant, E-6. You will be in charge of all aspects of the mission while in the field. You will receive your orders directly from me - no one else. Gibson, you will have the combat rank of Munitions Specialist, Grade 5.
“The two of you will be given three hundred thousand dollars cash and will travel as civilians. You will take no US military equipment or identification with you. You will have to rely upon your own ingenuity and cash supply to meet the objectives of this mission. You are on your own. The US government will disavow any knowledge of you if you are captured or killed. Should this end badly, your families will be notified that you died as heroes in Vietnam.
“And let me share this with you. I hate writing those letters, so if either of you gets killed, I will personally resuscitate you so I can kill you myself.
“Once you have ensured the safety of the Congressman's daughter, you will focus your efforts on the elimination of Tartus' operation. Shut him down permanently. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes Sir.”
“If you run out of cash, send a wire to this address.” Briggs slid an APO address across his desk. “You will get the instructions on where to pick up your cash within seventy-two hours. All good?”
“Yes Sir,” they chimed in unison.
