“My God. Confirmed?”
Bud nodded to himself. “We got the word a few minutes ago.”
“I’ll have Granger put it out on a readiness check. You want him on board?”
Having the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on board was not generally planned for, but it would definitely be a plus, especially if the worst happened. “Brief him and do it quietly.”
“All right. Is that it?”
“I damn sure hope so.”
* * *
The night had kept its hold on the island long enough for the convoy from Los Guaos to complete three quarters of its journey in darkness. This time, though, there was little fear of a rebel ambush, at least one that would end as the previous one had. An escort of ten BMP-2 MICVs (Mechanized Infantry Combat Vehicles) were spread out among the twenty tank trucks, a larger number than the first convoy because of the lack of sizable transports. Ninety percent of the refinery’s fleet of large tankers were destroyed in the ambush. Overhead, prowling the treetops like an angry avian hunter, the Havoc ensured that no rebels would be allowed any hope of escape if they were foolish enough to show themselves as before.
Major Orelio Guevarra landed his aircraft between two buildings after the last of the convoy vehicles entered the complex. The Havoc’s pilot climbed out of the rear seat and ran to a group of officers standing in the long shadows cast by the newly risen sun.
“General Asunción?”
“Yes.”
Your eyes are as cold as they say. “Major Guevarra. I am instructed to defend your... command?” He looked around, wondering what sort of unit could possibly be based here. Possibly one guarding the fuel supplies he had just escorted in. Was the petrol shortage really that severe that it was now necessary to stockpile away from the refinery?
“Yes.” Asunción looked at the mechanical sculpture of green-and-black metal sitting in the canyon of pavement that separated the rows of buildings a hundred meters away. “You can operate from here.”
“Yes, sir!” The major pointed to two covered trucks that had joined the convoy north of Cienfuegos. “A full ground crew, ammunition, and fuel in one of the trucks. I can fight from anywhere.”
Asunción nodded. The abilities of this zealot would only be of consequence to him if there became a need for him to use his beloved helicopter. The general was a foot soldier through and through. These pilots were too full of themselves, he thought.
“General,” one of Asunción’s assistants called from the row of tank trucks. They had formed up along the tree of pipes where they emerged from below ground.
“Yes, Captain.”
The officer looked to the tangle of pipes and valves nearest the lead truck, which had a huge gas-powered pump and a refrigeration unit between the cab and the tank. “This is going to take some time.”
“Why?” the general asked, his exasperation with the delays becoming almost unbearable. Answering to the presidente was not an enjoyable task.
“The pumping equipment on the lead vehicle is not completely compatible with the inflow valves on the tree. The outflow valve on the pump is a different size than the receptacle on the tree. “The larger trucks that were destroyed had the proper equipment, but not these. We have only two trucks equipped with pumps, in fact—one for each type of liquid. We cannot mix the two, of course. The NTO is refrigerated. It must be to maintain it as a liquid. Each truck will have to connect to the respective pump truck to unload its cargo.”
“And there is a solution, I anticipate.”
The captain nodded emphatically. “We will cut a new inflow valve into the tree using components from one of the trucks.”
“Cut into a fuel line?”
“General, it is not as dangerous as you must think. I have myself done it before. There will be no combustibles flowing through the line, of course, so—”
“But the vapors?”
“Yes, there will be vapors, but we will purge those through the vent valve on the tree and then pressurize the line with nitrogen. Nitrogen is an inert gas that will prevent combustion as the torch cuts through the wall of the pipe.” The captain noticed the continued worry on his superior’s face. “It will work, General. As I said, I have done it before.”
“And the time?” Time was everything now, as evidenced by the thunder in the distance.
“Several hours. Five, possibly six, before we can begin fueling.”
There was no other way, Asunción knew. He could not just wish away the delay. “See to it.”
* * *
“Uprange five minutes,” the pilot warned the RSO. Aurora was three hundred miles from the target and closing on it at a speed of 3,675 mph.
“Systems are synched,” the RSO reported. All his sensors would be focused on a relatively small area in central Cuba, though he knew not what the importance of any particular target was. Neither did his pilot They just took the pictures and let someone else handle the analysis. Those people, of course, would know little of the platform from which the data was collected. Such was the practice of SCI, or sensitive compartmentalized intelligence. It was different from the precept of need-to-know in the fact that the many components of an intelligence-gathering operation were known to many people, but few knew more than one piece, and fewer still knew the whole picture. It was a cumbersome, stifling, sometimes inefficient system, but it worked, provided that the natural curiosities of the involved parties did not get the better of them.
“GPS interface ready.” The RSO activated his Global Positioning System interface, a delicate, computer-controlled aiming system from the sensors that used positional readings from satellites to let the image computers know the exact location of both target and platform. It was less for the visible-light sensors than for the SAR, particularly when the mission called for narrow observation, as this one did. The basic premise was that clarity in the representation of the data gathered was dependent upon two things: knowing precisely where the platform and target were at all times during the pass. Knowing the location of just the platform was not enough, as the target was also not in a consistent location, a problem caused by the simple fact that the earth moves, and, therefore, every point on it follows the motion. If the position of a GPS ground station was known in relation to a target that has none, the location of the unknown could be determined. Noting the position of the platform was just a process of taking GPS readings forty times per second. These positional readings were then used to correlate the “picture” created by the SAR and place landmarks and geological features within an overlay of the area of observation. Because of the precision allowed by the GPS interface, the SAR could begin imaging the target while still approaching, giving oblique views that were combined with the overall data package to give extreme three-dimensional detail.
“Uprange three minutes.” The pilot checked her performance readings. Everything was fine. This was not the time for a minor glitch to disrupt the mission. “Systems are nominal.”
“Shooting now.” The RSO activated the SAR with just the touch of a button. Target information had been fed in before takeoff. Three feet below him, and running toward the rear of the aircraft another thirty feet, the powerful radar-imaging system focused on a point 180 miles away. Seventeen-thousand-two-hundred-eighty inch-square planar radar transceiver/receivers protected within the graphite epoxy housing swiveled toward the target in fractions of a millimeter until the computers decided that the energy was properly focused.
“Receiving data.”
The pilot again checked the systems. A bunch of microprocessors told her everything was A-OK, and there was no arguing with that. Flying sure had changed from her days at Colorado Springs and, later, piloting the TR-1, the updated version of the famed U-2. She barely touched the stick—a six-inch form-molded handle on her right console—during flights in her present ride. But looking through the tiny viewport above her head—the windscreen was covered by a retractable shield during the climbout to altitude—she could think of no com
plaints. Day was breaking 130,000 feet below her, but straight up, a direction she hoped to go one day in the right seat of the Space Shuttle, it was a beautiful indigo with flecks of white still visible. Low and slow was the way some fighter drivers liked it, but not her. High and fast, riding a rocket, was the only way to go. Someday. This would do for now, though.
“That’s a wrap,” the RSO reported five minutes after the pass began. He immediately began compiling the data for relay to NPIC. He’d have to do no preprocessing on this package.
“Okay.” The pilot took one last look upward. “Let’s head on home.”
* * *
Why was he driving like that? The needle was passing fifty, then sixty, then seventy, then eighty.
Johnny, slow down.
He turned and smiled at her, his face as young and smooth as ever. She looked back at him from the passenger seat.
Sis, hang on. This is fun. He glanced into the backseat. Right, Thom?
Frankie’s head jerked to the left. It was him! Sitting there, just fine! Tommy! You’re all right.
But he didn’t answer. He just smiled, looking like a little boy. Tommy, why won’t you say anything?
She felt the car go around the corners at a speed that seemed impossible. Her stomach twisted and turned as the speed increased. Johnny, please.
Easy, Sis. You’re such a crybaby, just like when Mom used to go to work. Stop your worrying.
She looked out the front window again. Telephone poles rushed past and the brown walls of dirt lining the roadway seemed to be one long...what?...tunnel. No, it couldn’t be a tunnel, because she could see the sky.
Hey, who are those guys?
The car stopped instantly, going from a hundred to zero in the blink of an eye. Frankie felt her insides jump, but it wasn’t from the motion, or cessation of it. No!
Johnny stepped out of the car first, followed by Thom. They walked to the front of the Camaro and waved at the two men approaching them.
Frankie tried to undo the seatbelt, but there was none. Then why couldn’t she get out? Why were her legs frozen? Johnny! Thom! Stay away from them! She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded pictures. It was them! The men who had...were going to kill... She shook her head, trying to drive the confusion away.
Hey, fellas. Johnny motioned for Thom to follow him.
No! “Johnny! Thom! Don’t!” Frankie could see the men. They had guns! She reached to her hip for her weapon, but it wouldn’t come out of the holster. Looking down, she could see the top strap undone, but it still wouldn’t come out. She pulled hard on it, her teeth gritting, as she watched the distance decrease between those scum and two men she cared about. Please! Please! One of the men started to lift his gun, pointing it at Thom and Johnny.
“No!” There was a loud sound, a sharp crack, just as her weapon came loose from its holster. Frankie drew it up and pointed it toward the... “FREEZE!”
A soft whimper broke the grip of the nightmare. “Mom-ommy...”
Frankie saw her little angel past the sights of her gun, which was trained on her crying face. “Oh, my God.” She moved the gun aside and laid it on the bed before slinking off the mattress to Cassie.
“Mommy. Mommy. Why did...?” The tears were coming in sobs now, from both mother and daughter. A second later the first of three generations of Aguirres rushed into the bedroom.
“Francine, what...?” Amelia Aguirre saw the gun on the bed and the small lamp lying on the floor near the door. Her daughter had always told Cassandra to open the door gently, as it easily hit the dresser when pushed too hard. But why was her gun on the bed? Oh, no. “Francine, what happened? You were yelling.”
“Oh, Mom. I’m sorry.” Frankie looked up to the woman she worshiped as she hugged Cassie as hard as she could without hurting her. “I didn’t mean to do it. I was dreaming about Johnny and Thom, and they were...” She couldn’t explain anymore.
Amelia Aguirre went to her knees and wrapped her arms around her two little girls. “It’s okay, mija. She is all right. She is fine.”
“But I could have...” Frankie collapsed into the arms of her mother and little girl, they now consoling her. There was something not right about it, but also something completely right about it. It was familia. It was safety.
“Mommy, are you okay?”
Frankie laughed through her tears at the question. “Yes, sweetie, I’m okay.” Her eyes apologized for what she had just done to her daughter, but the responding look told her that none was necessary. “I’m really okay.” She looked again at the face, wondering why the expression had changed. “Really, I am.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ARRIVALS
The scene was reminiscent of a team meeting before the big game, but the players here were wearing suits and carrying guns. They also outnumbered their opponents by fifty to one. Yet they were at a distinct disadvantage, a fact well understood by the de facto coach and his players.
“Remember, these guys don’t have to play by the rules,” Art told the sea of agents arrayed around him. “We do.”
The senior agent seemed remarkably controlled in his approach to the situation, much different than some of his fellow agents had come to expect from past experience. The past was the past, they figured, happy to have Art Jefferson running this one with a cool head and measured determination.
“Is LAPD going to step up patrols?” Special Agent Shelley Murdock asked.
“Yeah, Shel. Metro is putting out four uniformed Adam cars to basically do runs around our perimeter-search area.” The LAPD’s Metropolitan Division was the elite of the department that provided specialized units for use throughout the city. In this instance it would back up the Bureau by increasing the department’s presence around the area to be checked. Within the area unmarked but obviously official FBI cars—government cars looked too plain to be anything other than official—would fill the twelve-square-block section around Olympic and Vermont. “If they see anything, they’ll call us in. We make the move.”
The agents took a last look at their assignments. There were sixty-seven motels or cheap hotels in the area to be covered, though no contact would be made with the individual businesses just yet. That part of the operation was yet to be planned.
“Okay, hit it.” Art hopped down from the chair he had used as a riser to address the gathering on the fourth floor. Omar Espinosa was the only one of the agents to remain, and coming through the stream of those heading for the basement garage was the partner Art had sent off to her room some hours before.
“How’s everything going?”
Art saw that the chance for sleep had not done much for Frankie. “Everything here is going fine. How about with you?”
She didn’t look up from the assignment list on her desk, prompting a worried look between Art and Omar. “Good. I slept a little.”
“How much?”
Frankie raised her eyes. “Enough. Now what’s the plan?”
So she was still pumped up, Art recognized. Maybe a little too much. He knew he’d still have to keep a close eye on her, for her own good. “Hal and Rob got the OP up and running about four hours ago. So far nothing from them. The teams are heading out to keep our friends’ heads down, if they’re where we hope.”
Frankie sat down. Art did so also, and Omar slid a chair over from an adjoining cubicle.
“Now we have to figure out how to find them,” Art said.
Frankie saw the report from the rental agency. It included two photocopied driver’s licenses. The pictures on each matched closely the composite sketches of the murderers. Suspected murderers, she corrected herself, falling back upon the proper method of classifying suspects. “The DLs check out?”
Art’s head shook. “No record of any Juan Quintana or Flavio Alicante with those numbers in Florida’s computers.”
“Some good counterfeiting,” Espinosa observed. The photocopies betrayed no telltale signs of illicit manufacture, something the Florida Department of Motor Ve
hicles was mighty disturbed to hear of. “Someone has some good resource people behind them.”
“More Florida connections,” Frankie said. “Still, this doesn’t give us much. The names are obviously aliases, maybe onetime identities if this is really something international. Maybe even if they’re just hired guns.” She looked at the faces closely for a moment. “At least we know our ‘puters can put out good sketches.”
That was an understatement, Art thought. They were actually photo-representations, mimicking the look of actual pictures. But those would do little good now unless they could come up with a way to use what they had to locate the men pictured.
“We can’t just do the rounds with these,” Art said, pointing to the color composites. “If we show these to a desk clerk who’s been paid to give a warning, then we may cause a mess. I want that avoided at all costs.”
“What about calling?” Omar wondered. “What if they used the same names to check in at one of the places? It’s possible.”
“Yeah, I guess it is, but we’d be taking the same risk of tipping them off.” The morning was young, and already the frustration was mounting. “Any ideas, partner?”
None that are legal, Frankie answered for herself. “Unless we get lucky and spot them without them knowing it, then we’re going to have to do some kind of approach. That means the desk clerk at every place, or a cleaning person. And it has to be in some way that won’t spook them, something that won’t set off alarm bells.”
“There’s the ten-thousand-dollar outline,” Art commented. “Now all we need is the ten-cent answer to make it fly.” He snatched up the photocopy of the licenses. “Almost as good as our boys could put out.” It was a little-known and infrequently used skill that the Bureau’s TS Section had mastered: producing counterfeit documents. Sometimes it was necessary to provide an undercover agent with documentation to prove his cover story. With the cooperation of agencies in all fifty states and several foreign jurisdictions, the Bureau had compiled a collection of authentic materials from which the required papers and IDs could be put together. Art studied the fine detail work. “Jacobs would appreciate work like this.”
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