Eyes of the Hammer

by Bob Mayer

  As with the previous two missions, the plan for Eyes Three was straightforward. The means of infiltration was a little different, but other than that it was business as usual.

  Riley wondered whether it would be the same. His bad feeling about the intelligence was still there. Westland's angry recounting of how she had been treated by Strom did little to reassure him. Some CIA bureaucrat says don't worry and I'm supposed to buy off on that, Riley thought. Right.

  He tightened a strap on his ruck and threw it on the floor, then took its place on his bunk. Powers glanced up from his bunk, where he was perusing a superspy, international espionage novel someone on the team had lent him. "Hey, partner, what's the matter? You still ain't worried about the intel stuff, are you?"

  "Hell, yeah, compadre, I'm still worried about that. We could get our asses shot off if there is a leak."

  Powers shook his head. "Listen, bud. Let me tell you a few rules I've learned in the college of hard knocks. First off, don't worry about things you can't control. Second, you can't trust them CIA dinks as far as you can throw them, but you also can't do nothing about them either. Third, if you was as good as the hero in this novel I'm reading, you'd be able to use your ninja sixth sense and figure everything out. Did you miss the class on being able to read the future in all those martial arts courses you took? The guy in this book has an inner sense that tells him when danger is near."

  Riley laughed. "Yeah, I must have missed that day."

  Powers turned serious for a moment. "Listen. This mission tomorrow night is a good one. We'll be coming in a direction they won't expect, and that no one except the people in this building know about. Even if there is a leak, we still have that on our side. I feel pretty good about it. Let it go and relax. Whatever's going to happen is going to happen. All we can do is make sure we got our shit in one tight little bag."

  Riley nodded. "Yeah, you're right. You know me, though. I'm not happy unless I'm worrying. The more worrying—" He paused as he heard a knock on the door. "Come in."

  He sat up on his bunk as he saw Westland edge her way into the room. "What's up? Some new intel?"

  Westland shook her head. "No. Just thought I'd stop by. Say hello."

  Riley smiled. She seemed a little nervous, and he wasn't sure how to put her at ease. He wasn't very experienced at small talk. His philosophy was that either you had something to say or you didn't, and he wasted little time talking about things he didn't think were important. It didn't help that Powers was sitting on his bunk watching the two of them, his eyeballs flicking back and forth, as though he was watching a tennis match.

  Riley gestured at the small army-issue desk near the window. "Grab a seat. We were just talking about the mission tomorrow."

  Powers groaned. "I don't want to talk about the mission tomorrow. I'm tired of talking about army crap."

  Riley snorted. "For you that sure doesn't leave much to talk about, other than guns and beer drinking."

  Powers put on his hurt expression. "Hey, I'm a cultured person. I can talk about a lot of other things." He stood up. "But seeing as you two don't quite make it up to my high standards of the art of conversation, I think I'll seek company elsewhere." Powers started easing the door shut behind him. "I'll knock before I come back in." He made a great show of looking at his watch. "Say in about a half hour. That ought to give you enough time." Riley threw a pillow at the door with a yell.

  Westland looked at him and grinned. "I think he likes you."

  Riley crossed his legs and sat in a yoga position on the bed. "Yeah, we get along pretty good. In the last year we've spent more time together than most married couples." He turned serious. "Dan's wife left him just after I got to the team, and he went through a rough time. He didn't miss his wife too much, but not having his two kids around tore him up. He started—"

  Riley paused. He had just been about to tell Westland things that he had kept between Powers and him. It wasn't his place to disclose something told in friendship. Why had he been so ready to tell Westland, especially after knowing her for only about a week?

  "Anyway, if you have a good team all the guys tend to get kind of tight. But it's funny in a way, too. You spend most of your time bullshitting with each other and not being serious too often, and you definitely don't get into someone's personal life. Not unless they want you to."

  Riley decided to change the subject. "What about you? How do you find life over at Langley?"

  Westland put her feet up on the desk. "I'm not really close to anyone over there. There's a weird mentality in the air. Everything you do is pretty much classified so you can never talk about work, and most like leaving the place behind when they go home at the end of the day. And those who don't I really don't like being around." Westland laughed self-consciously. "I guess I never thought about it much."

  Riley contemplated her words. "Sometimes I think we end up living a life-style that we really don't think about too much. Kind of just flow with the stream and never do much steering."

  "Are you a soldier-philosopher?"

  Riley shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes when you're out in the woods in the middle of the night, waiting, your mind can really travel."

  He smiled. "I'm good at asking questions but I don't have too many answers."

  "Neither do I."

  Riley's thoughts flickered back to the upcoming mission. "Hopefully we won't get any bad answers to our questions about the security of the mission when we go in tomorrow night."

  "I don't think there's anything to worry about. At least I hope there isn't," Westland amended.

  "Well, as Powers was just telling me before you came in, we'll find out soon enough."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SUNDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER

  CARTAGENA

  8:12 A.M.

  Roberto Ramirez was frustrated and mad. Events were swiftly moving against him but he didn't know who to strike out against. Despite his ranting and raving Friday, his sons had been able to come up with few answers. He looked up as Carlos, his youngest son and business manager, came in the door and sat in front of his desk. "What is it?"

  Carlos looked worried. "Suarez was attacked last night in a manner similar to the attack on us."

  Roberto's aged forehead wrinkled as he considered this new development. "That gives us one negative answer at least. We know now that Suarez wasn't behind it."

  "There's more, Padre. Suarez was killed in the attack on his main lab outside Medellin."

  The Shark was surprised. "Why was Suarez up there in the middle of the night? What is going on? First us and now Suarez. Is the Ring Man waging war?"

  Carlos shook his head negatively. "Our informants indicate that the Ring Man's people here have been inactive the last several days. If he is behind it then he has brought in outsiders who have managed to stay well hidden."

  "But what about his moves on the markets in the United States that we are getting reports on? It seems as if he knew what was going to happen. He is moving quickly."

  His son leaned forward. "I have another theory."

  The Shark waved his hand. "What is it?"

  "The Americans."

  "What! Impossible. How could they do it? How could they have found out where our main lab was? They wouldn't dare attack into Colombia without government approval."

  Carlos offered his theory. "Maybe it is the CIA acting alone or through mercenaries. I don't know. But some of the facts point to the Americans. Although there were no survivors from the attack on our camp, the evidence points to heavy-caliber weapons being fired from the air and artillery being used. Perhaps helicopter gunships and artillery at the same time. We know our military didn't do it. Who else could? Who else could move such weapons so quickly?

  "There were some survivors at a roadblock near Suarez's camp and they report that helicopters were used in the attack. Since we know they weren't Colombian, that points to American involvement. Maybe they are reacting to the slaying of Santia."

  Roberto consider
ed this. "Maybe. But that still leaves us with unanswered questions. How are the Americans getting their information? How did they manage to get Suarez at his lab? Our informants are telling us nothing. And how is the Ring Man involved? His moves on the distributors in the United States are too quick not to have been preplanned."

  Roberto rubbed his chin. "We need to find out if the Americans are indeed behind all this. See what you can do about that. Also, contact our people in Medellin and see what we can salvage out of Suarez's operation. We cannot allow the Ring Man to get too strong."

  BOGOTA

  9:45 A.M.

  The Ring Man was satisfied with the way things were going. Suarez's organization was crumbling. Already the man's former lieutenants were fighting like jackals over the carcass of the organization left in Medellin.

  Ring Man would let them fight each other. He was going to cut them out at both ends. His people were prepared to outbid them on the supply end for the coca paste, and at the distribution end he was already gathering in the major East and West Coast American buyers. He expected more of Suarez's and Ramirez's American buyers and distributors to come around when they realized those sources were no longer able to keep up with the demand.

  Ring Man lit a large cigar and leaned back in his chair. All in all a very profitable week. With a few bold strokes he had become the strongest man in Colombia. Now it was time to consolidate his winnings.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  11:30 A.M.

  Hanks walked with Strom through the executive dining room. "What have you got?"

  Strom laid it out in one sentence. "Alegre insists that we terminate the Ring Man for him."

  Hanks paused on the way to his table and looked at his subordinate. "You're joking."

  "No, sir. Montez contacted Jameson and passed the word. Alegre is threatening to expose the Hammer strikes unless we do it."

  "How the hell is he going to do that? Alegre would be cutting his own throat."

  Strom wasn't the type to disagree with his boss, but he had to point out the obvious. "We have no proof that Alegre sanctioned the missions and passed us the targeting information. Alegre could probably make it look like we did do this unilaterally, without permission."

  Hanks pondered this as he sat at his reserved table in the corner of the room and ordered his meal. He waited until the waiter drifted out of earshot. "Have you contacted anyone over at State or the White House on this?"

  "No, sir. I thought I'd better brief you first."

  Hanks sighed. He always got the dirty deals. He thought out loud. "State will shit nails if we tell them about this, and I don't want to hit the president up with it either."

  Hanks shook his head. That bastard Alegre had sure put them on the hot spot. Hanks had considered the possibility that they could use the raids as leverage against Alegre, but he hadn't considered the opposite. He hadn't taken the time to think this whole thing through completely and had trusted Strom to handle it. He was a little upset with Strom for not having considered this possibility and getting some hard evidence on Alegre, implicating him in the whole thing. "Did Jameson get any tapes of his exchanges with Montez? Any video or audio?"

  "No, sir. Montez always set up the meets and that wasn't possible."

  "Jesus Christ!" Hanks exploded. "Who the hell is running this op, Strom? Us or the Colombians?" He focused his glare on his subordinate. "You didn't do a very good job on this. Always get leverage material on the other guy."

  Hanks paused until after the waiter had put his lunch on the table. "Did Montez give any indication of when they'd like this done?"

  Strom was a much different man from the image he presented to Westland. His accent was gone and his confident air with it. "He wants the job done early this week. He's concerned about what will happen when the target finds out he's getting fingered, too."

  Hanks considered that. "This is going to be a problem. We could just leave Alegre to take the heat, but the cartel would probably have him for lunch, and our friends across the river wouldn't like that too much." Making his decision, he shifted gears. "We can't have this traced back to us. Do we have any locals we can use down there?"

  Strom shook his head. "I'd strongly advise against that, sir. Anyone we use from down there will talk. You know the kind of headlines we'll get out of that. 'CIA Pays Local Assassin.' Plus, you can't trust those beaners."

  "Those beaners," Hanks flared, "outsmarted you pretty damn good on this, Strom." Hanks forced himself to calm down and pondered the situation. "We've got the same problem of being implicated, even worse, if we use one of our people. How about contracting a foreign free lance through a cutout?"

  Strom shook his head again. "I've considered that, sir. Not enough time. No free lance worth his weight would take a job like this on such short notice."

  Hanks was irritated. "You need to get someone. We can't afford to lose Alegre and we also can't afford to have him go public with the Hammer strikes."

  Strom tried to throw some water on the fire. "You really think Alegre would do that? It could raise a lot of nasty questions for him."

  Hanks snorted a laugh. "If we don't get the Ring Man off his ass, he isn't going to be alive. Alegre would rather be scorned and alive than noble and dead. That man is going to get desperate soon, once the Ring Man starts figuring out what's going on. Which will probably happen tomorrow night, if things go as planned."

  Hanks considered another angle. "You know, if our target in Colombia was behind the Santia killing, we might be able to take him out without too much hassle, even if the cover gets blown. The media wouldn't crucify us then."

  Hanks looked up. "Find somebody for the job. I don't want to use one of ours or anybody who can be traced back to the agency. We're going to keep this from the people across the river, so it's got to be kept tight."

  HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE, PANAMA

  2:03 P.M.

  The phone woke Davidson out of the tail end of his recovery sleep. It had been a hell of a night, partying at the officers' club into the morning hours.

  Davidson searched for the intruding device under the pile of clothes that littered the floor. Recovering it, he lay back down and put the phone on his chest before answering. "Captain Davidson."

  "Captain, this is Colonel Moore."

  Shit, thought Davidson. It can't be good news. His battalion commander had never before called him at home just to say hello. "Yes, sir."

  "I've got a mission for you to fly today. Are you fit to fly?"

  Davidson cracked an eye and looked at the clock. The reg was that a pilot was supposed to have twelve hours after his last alcohol before flying. "What time would I be lifting, sir?"

  "Approximately 1800."

  Enough time, thought Davidson. "Yes, sir. I'm good to go."

  "All right. Here's the deal. I know it sounds kind of strange, but this comes straight from SOUTHCOM headquarters. You're to take either tail number 546 or 907. Make sure you have the external tanks topped off, because the requirement is to be able to fly at least a thousand kilometers."

  Christ, thought Davidson. Where the hell was he going to fly? The U.S. mainland? This sure screwed up what remained of his weekend. "Yes, sir."

  "There will be a C-130 landing at 1700 at your location. Your cargo will be on that aircraft. You're to do whatever the man in charge says."

  That's a bunch of bullshit if I ever heard it, Davidson thought. "What do you mean, do whatever this guy says, sir? Who is this person and what's the cargo?" And where's the destination, while we're at it.

  "I know as much as I just told you. This comes straight from the commanding general. Just do what the man says and take him wherever he wants to go. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir. By the way, sir, who's going to be the other pilot?"

  "Chief Hobbes will be PIC."

  Fuck, Davidson wanted to scream, not Hobbes. "Yes, sir."

  "You'd better get your ass in gear and get whichever bird you're going to use preflighted."

&
nbsp; "Yes, sir." The phone went dead and Davidson stared at it. What a bunch of bullshit.

  3:30 P.M.

  Davidson drove up next to the ramp where the Blackhawks were parked. He scanned the line of aircraft as he grabbed his flight vest and helmet out of the trunk. He could see Chief Warrant Officer Hobbes already preflighting one of the two aircraft the colonel had specified. He smiled to himself as he wandered over. Although the colonel had said to get over to the flight line in a hurry, Davidson had deliberately taken a leisurely shower and grabbed some lunch before arriving. He knew that Hobbes would get here first and do the preflight. Davidson was damned if he would do it when a warrant officer could.

  Hobbes looked up as Davidson approached. "Afternoon, sir."

  "Afternoon." Davidson opened the door to the copilot's seat and collapsed into it. He waited while Hobbes completed the preflight. Besides having to work on a Sunday, the idea of flying with Hobbes really set his teeth on edge. He wondered if the battalion commander had done it to him deliberately.

  Despite outranking the warrant officer, Davidson would be only the copilot. Hobbes had over seven hundred more hours in Blackhawks than Davidson and thus would be the PIC, or pilot in command, for the mission. Davidson didn't think it was right for a subordinate to ever be in charge. The killer though, as far as he was concerned, was that Hobbes was a woman.

  Hobbes stuck her head in the door. "It looks good to go. I already looked at 546 and this one is in better shape and has a better maintenance record."

  Davidson nodded glumly. Having to let a woman be in command of the flight irritated the hell out of him. He hated women in the army and he hated the idea of flying with one. They just didn't belong, in his opinion. Just looking at Hobbes in her uniform made him mad. At five foot four, she was just barely over the minimum height requirement to be a pilot, and she was so skinny she seemed to disappear in the flight suit. It further annoyed him that Hobbes had been here during the invasion of Panama a year and a half ago and had flown combat missions, whereas Davidson had flown back to the States on Christmas leave the day before the invasion and missed the whole thing. Every time he saw the combat patch on her right shoulder he saw red.