by Stuart Slade
"The best. As tough as they come." "Excellent, may I borrow six of the strongest?"
Oil Fuel Storage and Distribution Facility, Kagoshima Bay.
"Yowurg shrugwap ghluff bawaayr!"
It didn't make much sense but coherent language was a bit difficult for the manager of the distribution facility. He knew what he wanted to say; the presence of the barrel belonging to an Argentine Star .38 Super pistol in his mouth made enunciating quite difficult.
"Let me clarify the issue." Toda spoke in a friendly and cooperative manner. As a concession to the dignity of the manager, hadn't taken the slack off the trigger of his pistol . . . yet. "According to your records, over the last year your facility has issued sufficient jet fuel for 2,400 flying hours to the seaplane carrier Nisshin. The problem is, Nisshin only received enough jet fuel for 370 flying hours. What, I wonder, happened to all the rest?" Endo's face was thoughtful as he contemplated this serious problem. Then, he had the solution and his face brightened. "I know, I shall hand this whole problem over to the Kempeitai and ask them to find my fuel."
"NOOOOOO." Terror of Japan's notorious "thought police" made the manager get the words out, even around the pistol barrel. Many believed it was better to be guilty when arrested by the Kempeitai; that way they would kill their prisoner, eventually. If their prisoner turned out to be innocent, they would leave them alive.
After a few hours in the hands of the Kempeitai, the living envied the dead.
"So where is my fuel?" Toda pulled the barrel out of the manager's mouth and looked with disgust at the mess on the end. That pistol was his prized possession, bought in Saigon. Tonight, it would be cleaned with loving attention and the use of fine white silk rags.
"‘I will tell you where it is. You have sold it to the Black Dragon Society. Now, I want it back. How you get it is your problem, not mine. But I want four hundred flying hours worth of fuel at the dockside tomorrow by 0900. Be assured, at 0901 I will be calling the Kempeitai unless I am too busy checking my fuel delivery. Then you will deliver an equal amount of fuel every time I call until the deficit is made up. Five deliveries in all; 2,000 flying hours. You may keep the other 30 for your trouble. Do we understand each other?"
The manager nodded, his eyes glued on the strip of white silk with its Imperial sunrise and golden cherry blossom. That simple ribbon meant that when this officer asked, even the Kempeitai would jump in response. Mentally, he did some quick calculations. He had enough fuel on hand to fulfill the first delivery and if he scraped around, called in a few old debts, he would have enough for the second. The rest? He would have to work the system for that. Perhaps he could short change two of the carriers? There were two here, both near derelict and their groups were virtually ghosts. He could take their fuel and reassign it, that would make up the third delivery - perhaps.
Toda walked away, much happier than he'd been all day. Behind him six burly members of Nisshin ‘s black gang walked, filled with admiration for the young officer who'd set that corrupt clerk by his heels. Truly, the Ohka pilots were indeed proper examples of the true warrior spirit that made Japan great. Toda was aware of their admiration and his back straightened just a little as a result. He was, of course, only doing his duty but duty well-done brought its own rewards. Now, he had enough fuel to train his group now, they could squeeze a year's worth of flying into three or four weeks. He just hoped he had that long.
Eastern Airlines Boeing 747 Spirit of Atlanta, Dillinger International Airport, Havana, Cuba.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Dillinger International, gateway to the island paradise of Cuba. Please remain seated until the aircraft comes to a halt and the accessway has been secured. When the floor light by each row of seats turns white, the passengers in that row will please go down to the lower deck of the aircraft, collect your luggage and proceed out of the aircraft towards the immigration area. Those who are disabled, have young children or need help with their luggage, just ask one of the boys' downstairs for help."
Outside, the eight engines on the 747 were running down as the "people hauler" started to unload its cargo of tourists. The short-haul, high capacity version of the 747 could carry almost a thousand people fully loaded, and handling that many passengers was an art form. The old-style pattern of check-in was long gone. Now, passengers took their tickets and were awarded their seat assignment on the upper deck of the aircraft and a locker on the lower deck. They carried their own bags onto the aircraft, stored them in their assigned locker, then collected them themselves on the way out.
"Dillinger International?" David Peterson's voice was awed. "They named their airport after John Dillinger!"
Judith Peterson chuckled at his shock. "They were giving the finger to Washington. Savannah named its airport after J Edgar Hoover so the mob here named theirs after John Dillinger. Get ready: the row in front is moving."
They were sitting in the two aisle-side seats of the left-hand bank of four. There was another bank of six in the middle of the aircraft then another aisle and another bank of four. Fourteen abreast and their cabin had 15 rows of seats. Two hundred passengers per cabin and five cabins per aircraft. Each cabin had its own galley, its own cinema screen and its own access way to the luggage/cargo deck beneath.
The Petersons had paid a premium and got seats in the foremost cabin. That meant they were first on and first off. The cheapest seats were in the middle of the aircraft, there the headroom was restricted by the wing that ran over the top of the fuselage and noise from the eight engines was a nuisance.
Out, down the steps and to their luggage locker. Their bags were there, safe of course, and they towed them out of the aircraft. That was one advantage of the people-haulers, the high wing and double decks meant that passengers unloaded relatively close to the ground. Around them, young men in gray suits watched the passengers move out of the aircraft. One of them spotted an old woman and her husband struggling with a case and moved in to help. The staff here were the lowest rung on the ladder of the Colombo family that ran the airport, a rung so low it didn't even have a name. Yet every one of them knew that good work was the key to the long trek up through the ranks of the family. In a weird, distorted way, mob-run Cuba was a meritocracy
"‘LOOK at all these advertisements. Are any of them legal back in ole Virginny?" The passenger accessway to ‘immigration' was crowded with posters, publicizing the attractions of Cuba's various resorts. Judith Peterson guessed that the casino advertisements were illegal on the mainland; some of the floorshows certainly were. Then she realized that her husband's eyes were glued to a poster featuring an exceptionally buxom Latina woman posing seductively over a slogan that offered escorts for hire by the hour, day or week. She kicked him hard on the ankle.
"Nice dress she's almost wearing." Her voice was sweetly demure.
"Uhhh, just looking. They got male escorts too you know." That got him another kick on the ankle. "Glad you came honeybun?"
"Oh yes, we need a break. I was frightened when the shooting happened but it seems to have died down a bit now. I guess this must be immigration."
It was, and the speed with which the formalities were completed reduced other airports to envious despair. A passport was taken, stamped, and returned within a few seconds, the ‘immigrant" barely had a chance to stop walking before it was back in his or her hands. After all, the whole point of the Cuban economy was to get people in, not keep them out.
"Excuse me, sir, how do we get to our hotel?" David Peterson was speaking to one of "the boys" who was lazing around by the immigration desks. Judith looked at the man more closely, he was subtly different from the kids who had been helping passengers and waving them through immigration. The eyes were harder and there was a bulge under his jacket. Tourists called all the Mob employees "the boys" but this man really was one; a Mob gunman, probably one of the airport security people.
"Which one are you going to, sir."
"The Imperial, On the Golden Boulevard."
"Limos a
re out through those doors. Take the ones with the green doors for the Genovese places. Need help with them bags?"
"No thanks. We need the exercise or will soon with all the good eating."
"Ain't that the truth." The wiseguy made the tip Peterson gave him vanish, then touched his fedora to Judith. "Welcome to Cuba Ma'am."
CHAPTER FOUR: SCOUTING
Desert on the Mexico-Arizona border.
"‘That doesn't look right.'" First Sergeant Esteban Tomas waved at the column of buzzards circling in the sky. "There's something dead down there."
The Force Recon Detachment was spread out along the hillside, looking across at the scene below. A wrecked truck on an ill-defined path in the desert was the center of the bird's interest. It might be meaningless buzzards had been known to mistake a truck for a dying animal and circle it, waiting patiently for it to fall over and die. But this didn't smell like that. There was something different about the situation, something Tomas couldn't quite put his finger on. His instincts were telling him this was a bad situation and instincts were there for a reason.
Force Recon units learned to trust their instincts early or they never made the grade. Popularly, Force Recon were lost in the glare of legend about the SEALs and assumed to be their Marine equivalent. In the real world, their roles were quite different. The SEALs went into heavily-defended areas and extracted things or people with as little fuss as possible. Notoriously, the first jailers time learned that their American prisoner had been rescued by a SEAL team was when they opened the cell in the morning to find it empty except for the traditional cartoon of a seal balancing a ball on its nose pinned to the wall.
Force Recon's job was to be equally invisible but to watch, to learn and to inform. The SEALs got in and out without being seen, Force Recon got in and stayed in - without being seen.
Now, they were watching the border, from the Mexican side. They'd been assigned the job shortly after the machine gun attack on the Senate building. Somehow, the law enforcement authorities had got the idea that the threat had been planned in Latin America, perhaps in Mexico itself, perhaps further south. There were probably other Force Recon teams down there watching, learning, reporting. And probably SEAL teams as well, picking up the people involved and spiriting them away.
Tomas had been in Force Recon for three years, after three more spent with the Ordnance Proving Ground helping to develop and test the Corps' new machine-gun. After the disastrous Battle of the Rock Pile, the Marines had insisted on a proper machine gun: a version of the MG-42 chambered for the .27-59 cartridge. That's how the project had started. Consulting with the Russians had come up with a better solution; the German MG-45. A roller-locked weapon capable of firing 1,800 rounds a minute, it chewed up ammunition fast but its firepower was devastating. Coupled with the high-velocity .27-59, it was a formidable weapon and was now the M-81 in American use. This Force Recon team had one although if they ever had to fire it, it would mean they had failed.
"Let's take a look. Alpha Section, come with me, Beta and Charlie Sections, stay up here on overwatch."
Tomas wasn't technically in command of the unit but the officer who was had gone sick a couple of days earlier. The four men in Alpha Section rose and jog-trotted down the slope towards the wrecked truck. It was obvious what had happened. Driven too fast down the track, it had hit a rock, wrecked its suspension and cracked the cylinder block wide open. Getting closer also revealed what was attracting the buzzards, the stench of decay was sickening. Tomas had a grim sense of certainty what he was going to find.
The rear doors of the truck were sealed shut by a crowbar forced between the two door handles. The door metal bulged out around the bar, creased where it had been forced against the unyielding steel. "Knock that bar out." Tomas's voice was quiet, almost afraid at the horror he knew was within the back of the truck. A quick swing of an M-14 rifle butt achieving what the people trapped inside could never have done, knocking the bar clear.
Without its reinforcement, the rear doors flew open, propelled by the weight of the pile of people stacked against them. They'd died trying to force their way out, or perhaps the doors had opened enough to allow a thin draft of cool air from outside. Even the 120 degree desert heat was cool compared to the inside of a sealed metal box, standing unprotected in the full glare of the sun. It took very little imagination to visualize the scene inside the back of the truck as those inside had fought for that tiny breath of cool air.
The Marines vomited at the foul stench that filled their world, a sickening draft of decay, corruption and despair. It was one that seemed to have absorbed the terror of the nightmare that had taken place in the back of the truck. A thick liquid ran out, staining the ground around the back of the truck. The two Marines closest jumped clear, trying to get away from the vile ooze. An arm flopped out and as it did so, some of the flesh fell away from the bones.
"Perfectly cooked. The temperature in there must have hit 160 at least. Poor bastards never stood a chance."
The Marine stopped and looked at Tomas. The First Sergeant had never made a secret of his Mexican ancestry - or that he'd been a bandit before ‘seeing the light' as he'd put it. The fact of his salvation and a suitably sanitized version of how it had happened was one of the standard sermons when he gave the homily at his local Catholic church. The Marine was afraid his words might have given offense and no Marine ever knowingly gave offense to a man who wore the pale blue ribbon.
"At least that high, they tried to batter their way out but they had nothing to do it with. They probably lasted a day or so, perhaps two, but the survivors would have been insane by then." Tomas's voice shook with rage and anger.
As if to contradict his words, there was a terrible racking groan from inside the truck body. Tomas's lips went dead white, his tanned skin turning to a sickening shade of gray. "Oh dear God. there's people still alive in there."
Main Conference Room, National Security Council Building, Washington D. C.
"There were survivors!" LBJ's voice was incredulous. "In that heat, without water for three days, that's little short of a miracle. That desert is a killer."
"It would be hard to call them survivors, Mister President. They were dead, they just hadn't stopped breathing yet. Their bodies were cooked through; their brains destroyed by the heat. They were displaying basic autonomic functions that hadn't quite run down. There was no consciousness there, no soul." The Seer looked slightly uncomfortable using that last word, it didn't fit in with the aseptic, clinical world of the NSC.
"Those functions ceased before they could be taken to hospital. The medical opinion verdict was DOD, dead on discovery. That's a kindness to the Marines more than anything else. What they found out there shook those men to their core. They needed to know that there was nothing they, or anybody else, could have done."
"Shook Marines to their core." Johnson's voice was almost disbelieving but his words belied that. "I can see how they might be."
"Shocking as this might be," Nixon sounded impatient, "we're missing the basic point of this incident. Why were these people trying to cross the border illegally? It's not as if getting from Mexico to here is difficult. The border is wide open. Too open some might say."
"That is a mystery. We've deliberately made crossing the border relatively easy for just this reason. It's better to have people come over legally than illegally. All a young man has to do to get entry to the United States is to join the armed forces. If they make the grade, five years service and they're eligible for citizenship. Most take it and re-up. Statistically, once in, they re-enlist once on average for a service of 10 years. Some a lot more than that."
"I'm not happy about so many foreigners in our forces."
"It's worked, Mister President-elect. So far anyway. We have, on average, 40,000 such immigrants earning their citizenship that way at any one time. By the way. 20 percent of those awarded The Medal were first-generation immigrants, some fresh off the boats or over the border."
"What medal? Citizens good conduct?"
Sitting behind Nixon, Secretary of Defense-Designate Melvin Laird winced perceptibly. Clark Clifford was less reticent. After all, his tenure of office was measured in days now. "Mister President-Elect. When somebody in this building mentions ‘The Medal', they only mean one. The Congressional Medal of Honor."
Nixon's face took on a sulking expression. The Seer decided it was time to rescue him and move on. "Other than those who choose military service, all somebody needs to get in is an employer. If they have a job to go to, they come in as guest workers. Takes a bit longer to qualify for citizenship that way but it happens. There are agencies down south that act as recruiters for the appropriate companies up here.
"Companies that want to employ cheap, unskilled labor, for that's what most of these immigrants are, let those agencies know who and what they need. The agencies have the people who want to come and they match them up. It's a big industry in Mexico in particular. All quite legal and relatively easy. When the immigrants cross over, Immigration gives them a health check, makes sure their employment sponsor is genuine and then waves them through. Oh, Immigration checks on them once in a while, to make sure they are where they are supposed to be. If they change jobs they have to tell the INS but that's about it."
"So, since it's that easy, my question stands. Why were these people trying to cross the border illegally? And how many of them are there? Have we found other incidents like this?"
"So far, we have found the primary reasons why people attempt illegal crossings are associated with crime. Either workers are being imported for criminal activities, usually women for the sex trade, or criminals themselves going over the border in an attempt to find richer pickings up here. The latter don't usually last long, they make a couple of big scores by their standards, throw the money around and shoot their mouths off down there. Then, one night, they vanish and turn up in a courtroom here. The courts don't care how they got there, just that they did.
