If Mateo and Hector took his warning seriously regarding the incoming soldiers, there'd be an entire cartel militia waiting for them. He doubted any of those operators would survive that, but he wouldn't lose any sleep over it.
His only regret was not being able to capture and question one of those guys; he had a lot of questions that would go unanswered.
While the rest of the squad ate or slept during the helicopter ride back to their base, Tate tightened down the bolts on his boiling anger, because whoever put this mission together was either a full-fledged idiot, or leaked the mission.
Either way, Tate would find out, but for now he needed a clear head to think through everything that had happened on their mission, and if the combined pieces told a bigger story.
It was shortly after oh two hundred when the helicopter was wheels down in the base, and the crew chief shook Tate awake.
Tate's body protested with every move as he climbed out of the Black Hawk. He felt like he'd been trampled in a stampede.
The squad shuffled into formation, waiting for his final instructions.
Tate thought if he looked half as bad as them, he must be a damn wreck.
"Debrief..." said Tate, then paused to check his watch, realizing he had lost track of time. "Uh... thirteen hundred hours. Someone help Rosse get Fulton to medical. Dismissed."
The squad started to break up when Tate stopped them. "I'm proud of you. All of you. We were thrown into something you weren't trained for, and you overcame the challenge. It could have gone a lot worse. Good job."
Alone with his thoughts, Tate entered his quarters and dumped his gear on the floor. He turned on the shower, adjusting the knobs until the water was as hot as he could stand it.
Stripping off his ACUs was a slow and painful process.
Blood from cuts all over his body had dried to his clothing, and he winced in pain as he peeled them off, opening some of the wounds in the process.
He stepped into the shower and spasmed involuntarily, as the hot water bit into every cut, scrape and bruise. The pain faded quickly, while the water rinsed away the grime.
The heat and steam soothed his aches and eased his fatigue. His mind circled back on the details of the mission, refreshing his determination to get answers out of Colonel Hewett.
* * *
Nearly two weeks had passed since Tate had sent the Colonel the mission packet containing the documents from the ambassador’s villa through a secure courier, and Tate hadn't heard a word back from the colonel.
The times he had called, his assistant had said the Colonel was 'away', politely taking Tate's message.
Tate didn't like being in the dark, and it was beginning to feel like colonel was dodging him. His suspicions of Hewett’s involvement grew by the day.
Tate had vented his growing apprehension through strenuous exercise; each day demanding more of himself, hoping that exhaustion would be a cure.
In the end, he had to admit that all he was getting out of it was blisters, near heat exhaustion, and dehydration.
His memories roamed of their own volition to the life he used to have with his comrades from the Night Devils. There was only so much stress, fear and anxiety a warrior could squeeze into that little box each man kept inside himself. The tensile strength of courage allowed them to persist in each mission, in the face of all the instruments of death their enemy confronted them with. But after a while, the seams of that Pandora’s box would start to come apart, and it was time for the Night Devils to decompress, loudly, vigorously and usually at the expense of property damage in a bar, and bail from a local jail. But that was another time, and the brothers that knew him almost as well as they knew themselves had been abandoned because of his own failings.
Before his memories and self judgment sucked Tate down into that familiar emotional black abyss, he headed into the city and surrounded himself with people.
Twenty minutes later, Tate was standing under the vibrant glow of the Blue Orchid’s neon sign.
Rocko’s massive frame stood by the club’s entrance, giving the impression he had never moved from the last time Tate was there.
There were several people lined up to get inside, and Tate paused as he decided if he was in the mood to stand around, or find another place to go when he heard Rocko’s voice rumble next to him.
"No need to stand out here, Mr. Jack. The boss says he's always got room for you."
As Tate followed Rocko to the front door, he glanced up at the awning that stretched over the steps leading to the entrance, and spotted the reflection of a camera tucked in the shadows.
Teddy, the owner of the club, came across as scattered and preoccupied, but Tate suspected he was more clever than he led people to believe.
As he passed the doorman, he made a point to look at Rocko when he turned his head, and saw a flesh-colored earpiece.
Tate guessed that whoever was monitoring the cameras updated Moon on who was outside. Moon was probably giving Rocko instructions via that wireless earpiece. It made being watched feel like customer service.
Tate thought of all the times he'd shown up and never once considered he was being watched. It was a small thing, but he chided himself for not catching the cameras sooner. You're losing your edge, bub. Been too long since you've done real spec ops, thought Tate.
Inside, the sounds of a normal packed house washed around Tate as he walked up to the pretty hostess. A live band was playing Artie Shaw, as a willowy woman in a sequined dress sang Deep Purple, just over the sound of the low buzz of people talking.
The hostess guided Tate past his usual place at the bar to a booth in the back of the club. Tate would happily trade Teddy’s VIP treatment for a stool at the bar, where he could keep the time between having his drink refilled down to a bare minimum.
Someone was reading his mind, because a waitress appeared at his table with a tumbler of bourbon.
Halfway into his second bourbon, Tate was feeling the teeth-grinding tension of the past couple of weeks defusing into a relaxing fog.
He was far from drunk, but the alcohol was softly garroting his troubles to death. He knew they'd be resurrected tomorrow, but for now, mission completed.
"Jaaaack. How did you sneak in here without me knowing?" said Teddy. His blond hair was almost as shiny as the sequined dress of the singers. He was wearing a muted navy herringbone suit, with a tropical dress shirt of tiny fish and a broad tie.
"How is everything? Is the staff taking good care of you?"
"Just fine, Teddy, uh Commodore," said Tate, correcting himself before Teddy could.
To Tate's surprise, Teddy sat down in the booth and looked at him over his steepled fingers for a few moments.
If it wasn't for the bourbon, Tate would have lost patience being stared at. Instead, he was slightly amused and a little uncomfortable that Teddy might be hitting on him.
He was very wrong on all counts. "Jack, as you know I'm a man of discretion."
"I didn't know that about you."
"It's very high on my list, especially when it comes to my customers. That's why when someone came here asking about you, I didn't say a word."
Teddy had his attention now. "What did they want to know?"
A waitress came over and put a drink down in front of Teddy. "Anything else, Mr. Moon?"
"Thanks, Angel. We won't need anything for a while," said Teddy, flashing her a big smile.
He turned his attention back to Tate, ignoring the drink. "He didn't want to say too much, but said he had a business proposal for you. Something about your trip out to the ambassador’s villa."
Tate was stunned. How was information about a classified mission getting into the hands of a nightclub owner?
"That's a classified mission. If you know something about a leak you need to tell me."
"Keep your shirt on, Jack. Anything I know about your mission I heard from the fella asking for you. He's very interested in talking to you. He said you stole one of his boss’s boats."
It took a moment for Tate to make the connection. It must be the boat they'd taken from the two drug workers back in the jungle.
This wasn't making sense. How would they know who took their boat, or where to find him? If he wanted any answers, he'd have to meet this guy.
"Let him know I'll be back here tomorrow night. We can meet then."
"I'll make the arrangements, Jack," said Teddy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
The following night, Jack walked into the Blue Orchid and was silently escorted to a private booth.
Seated at the table was a well-groomed man, who was occupied with a small notebook. His suit had an expensive and tailored look to it. Several of his fingers wore tastefully crafted gold rings that stood out against his deep brown skin.
Tate sat down across from him without a word. He had few cards to play in this game until he knew what was going on; better to let the other guy do all the talking.
A waitress put a bourbon in front of him, which he thanked her for.
The man closed his notebook and slipped it inside his jacket. He looked at Tate with a pleasant smile and extended his hand across the table.
"You are Sergeant Major Jack Tate, yes?" He spoke with a minor Spanish accent that was more an embellishment than a sign of his native language.
Tate shook his hand, expecting it to be soft, but instead it was the firm, calloused hand of someone who didn't spend his life behind a desk.
"Yes, that's me," said Tate.
"Sergeant Major, I'll get to the point. I understand you've been operating in Valle del Cauca, where you took a boat belonging to my employer."
It wasn't lost on Tate that this man hadn't introduced himself or explained who he worked for; he sensed this stranger was measuring him up.
Was Tate a simple soldier who had stumbled across a drug lord’s operation, or had it been a planned mission to identify and wipe his business out?
Could he be intimidated by a man in an expensive suit, confused how this stranger knew he'd been to the ambassador’s villa? Or anxious that a complete stranger had tracked him down, knew his name and maybe knew a lot more?
This stranger had a game plan, and Tate knew the quickest way to the short end of the stick was to play by someone else's rules.
It was time to introduce some new rules.
To the stranger’s surprise, Tate stood up to leave. "I'm sorry. It looks like you went to a lot of trouble to find me, but I don't have your boat anymore. Thanks for the drink, but I'm gonna have it at the bar."
The stranger hurriedly came out of his seat, leaving behind some of his suave composure in the process. "We have one of the soldiers," the stranger blurted.
Now he had Tate's interest. He sat down again, trying very hard not to give away how hungry he was to get his hands on this soldier.
"And you're here to trade this soldier for something I have?" asked Tate.
After the initial ruffling, the stranger recomposed himself. "Not the soldier, exactly. We're interested in a trade of information. We provide you a window of opportunity to acquire whatever information you can from him, and in return you provide us information useful to our needs."
"From where I sit, you already have more information than I do. Why don't you balance things a bit by telling me who I'm talking to, and who you're asking me to get involved with?"
"I'm encouraged my proposal hasn't frightened you away. Since we've gotten this far, it's only fair, as you say, to balance things. I am Dante Barrios. I am the advisor to Nesto San Roman. He is the head of a minor industry, part of which you came across during your recent mission. Your forewarning of the approaching soldiers gave us enough time to prepare for them. Only one survived, but one is enough."
Barrios absently clinked his rings lightly on the glass of his drink, creating space for Tate to make the next move.
Tate put the pieces together quickly. Roman was running a coke operation in Columbia. Just like everywhere else, the outbreak must have wreaked havoc on the cartel. The survivors must have all charged into the vacuum of power to take what piece of the operation they could get away with. Occasionally, the warring drug bosses slaughtered each other in power plays to expand their operations and take out the competition.
San Roman must have seen a way to give his fiefdom an edge through a deal with Tate.
"What kind of information does the soldier have that I'd want?"
Barrios' smile took on a forced quality, and he seemed less comfortable than a moment before.
Whatever deal Barrios was proposing, Tate suspected he'd just found a hole in Dante’s plan.
"San Roman does not have an interest in the squabbles of other countries. He will allow you one day’s access to this soldier. You can question him for yourself."
Tate took a measured sip of his drink as he let Barrios' words sink in. When it clicked into place, he laughed out loud.
"He won't talk, will he? You guys tortured him for information, but my guess is he's some country’s special forces. The kind of extreme resistance training he's had made your interrogation look like amateur hour, and that's why you're here. You're thinking if I can get him to talk, and that's a big 'if', I'd be willing to cut a deal with you guys? Mr Barrios, it sounds like I'm doing all the work in this proposal of yours."
"I will say that our conversations with him were less productive than we expected. But, you see, I think it's doubtful you will experience the same reluctance with him. The reason I'm here is because he asked for you. By name."
Tate's instincts were tingling. Who was this soldier? Who sent him, and how did he know about Tate? More importantly, what else did he know?
He had to be careful with Barrios. Getting into a business deal with even a small time drug boss could make Tate’s life badly complicated, fast. Was the risk worth the reward? It always came down to that.
"Did he say anything else?"
Dante Burrios smiled. Whatever he was about to say, he felt like it would seal the deal, and that made Tate nervous.
"Yes," said Dante. "He seemed to feel it would be of significant interest to you. He said, 'good is the enemy of great'. Did I say that right?"
Tate’s mind fumbled with those words, trying to attach them to something that was naggingly familiar. His thoughts groped through fragments of memories for the connection.
Suddenly, the realization slammed home, leaving him rocking between disbelief and anger; those were the words he'd spoken to Private Cooper.
Sergeant Wesson had commented that Cooper had been on his phone the morning of their mission. When they were attacked at the villa, Tate remembered finding Cooper with a handful of those secret documents.
Cooper was a mole, and his treachery had nearly cost everyone’s lives; there was no question in Tate's mind that he would do just about anything to get the rest of the information from Dante’s prisoner.
"What does your boss want in return?"
"Forewarning, nothing more," said Dante. "You will contact us regarding any planned encroachment of your military into San Roman’s territory."
"His territory? You understand that the entire South American continent is now part of the United States?" said Tate.
Dante Barrios sat back in his seat, gazing around the club with an expression of boredom. "Sergeant Major, geo-politics holds no interest for me. Let’s return to the reason I'm here. We give you information, and you do the same for us. Do we have an agreement?"
"And if your boss gets a heads-up US soldiers are going to be in his neighborhood, what's he going to do to them?"
Barrios looked surprised. "Do to them? You make it sound like I'm asking you to be complicit in ambushing your people. The last thing Mr. San Roman needs is for the US military to declare war on him. No, no. He wants your warning so he can avoid contact. The fewer Americans that know about this, the better it is for everyone. No one gets hurt, and everyone gets what they want."
Tate reluctantly ad
mitted to himself that this was a deal he could live with. The current plan to re-settle South America was to move along the north coast and east, a path moving away from San Roman; it was only a fluke that Tate and his squad were there at all.
There was little risk of the US military stumbling into San Roman’s sand box, but that did little to silence the voice in Tate’s head that said what he was about to agree to was wrong. Justified, yes, but wrong.
Dante reached his hand across the table to Tate, who looked at it as demons and saints battled inside him.
Tate's expression hardened, as he made his decision and shook Dante’s hand.
* * *
When he got back to his quarters, Tate checked the secure phone he'd been given by the colonel.
Hewett had called, leaving a message for Tate to call him back.
"I read your mission report," the colonel growled. "Is this some kind of joke?"
Tate couldn't tell if he sounded more angry or worried. "No, sir. That's what happened."
"An enemy special ops team. On our soil? I know it's been a long time since anyone's shot at you. Details get blurred in combat. You probably ran into some scavengers. We know they're organized and well equipped. I see reports all the time of contact with them, stripping whatever they find and selling it on the black market. Some of them must have seen you as a prime opportunity for a good haul. I'm glad you didn't take any casualties, but damn, Tate, the fact is you've been out of special operations for too long. You're rusty and got caught with your pants down. It happens. There's no shame in it."
Tate heard the colonel sigh and papers rustling. "I'm sending back your report before anyone else sees it and questions if you're the right man for this project. Your revised report will state your team made minor contact with a gang of scavengers. Okay, Jack?"
"But colonel..."
"Do you understand me, Sergeant Major?" said the colonel, with contained anger; it was more a statement than a question.
The Grave Diggers Page 13
