by Joshua Hood
Instead of answering, JT was muttering to himself, fingers flying over the keyboard. “That doesn’t make any sense, why would it be denied unless . . .”
Hayes had almost drifted off to sleep when JT slapped the table with the flat of his hand and shouted, “Hayes, you dirty motherfucker!”
“Hey, man, I was almost asleep,” Hayes said, sitting up and doing his best to appear confused.
“Bullshit,” JT said, “I’m calling bullshit, you played me.”
“Played you? What the hell are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? Is that how you want to play it? Fine with me,” JT said, turning the computer so Hayes could see the screen. “You see that?” he asked, pointing at it. “You know what that is? It’s ten years in a federal fucking pen.”
Hayes leaned forward and read the words on the screen.
SAP/Directory/Operations—Gray, Jefferson
Critical Actions Program
Operations:
Silver-Lake. Emerald-Serpent. Syphon-Filter.
Treadstone 71
“I’m not going to jail, not for you or anyone,” JT added.
But Hayes wasn’t listening; all of his attention was taken up by the information on the screen. He’d never heard of the operations listed under Gray’s name, but he knew enough about the DoD’s code-name-generator database to know they were randomly created and had no attachment to actual places or events.
“You have any idea why the CIA is running a special-access program in Venezuela?” he asked aloud.
A special-access program was the security protocol the government used to protect its darkest secrets. Typically they were reserved for black projects, programs like Treadstone that would keep most Americans up at night if they knew they existed.
“No idea, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know,” JT answered. “Like I said, I’m not going to jail.”
“You’re not going to prison. Now shut up and see what you can find out about the Critical Actions Program.”
JT huffed but did as Hayes asked, and after a few additional keystrokes, a second window opened up. “Looks like the Critical Actions Program is some kind of joint CIA/DoD special-mission unit. Your Jefferson Gray is at the top of the pyramid and his direct supervisor is Senator Patrick Mendez of—”
“The Senate Actions Committee,” Hayes finished for him.
“You know him?” JT asked.
“Not personally, but I know his reputation,” he answered, turning his attention back to the window.
The Senate Actions Committee was set up after the War on Terror expanded into Iraq. Around the time the CIA started using drones to knock off terrorists in places like Yemen, Pakistan, and Sudan. The Agency referred to these strikes as “targeted killings,” but to the rest of the world, they were assassinations.
Oddly enough, the CIA made no attempt to hide what it was doing, and soon the drone feeds started to show up in the daily military briefings at the White House. It wasn’t until the media brought up Executive Order 12333 and began discussing the legality of the targeted killings that the president started to worry about the ramifications.
Known to officers in the intelligence community as “twelve-triple-three,” the document signed by President Reagan laid out the legal framework of the national intelligence effort. It was Paragraph 2.11 that had the president’s legal counsel worried, specifically the language that read “No person employed by or acting on behalf of the United States Government shall engage in, or conspire to engage in, political assassination.”
To distance the White House from potential legal and political fallout, the president formed the Senate Actions Committee to oversee all of the Agency’s black programs. Senator Patrick Mendez was chosen to head the committee, and with a scratch of the president’s pen, he became the overseer of all the Agency’s black programs—programs like Treadstone.
In an instant Hayes realized that he’d found the answers to the questions that had been haunting him since the attack back in La Conner. So that’s how they found me, he thought.
This is not a coincidence, the voice warned.
36
LA ESTACADA, VENEZUELA
The first sign that Waters had not checked the weather report became evident when the CASA descended to 15,000 feet. One moment Hayes was sleeping peacefully on the nylon bench and in the next instant he was flying across the cargo hold.
“Waaaaters,” he yelled, bouncing off the bulkhead, “what the fuuuuck?”
“Just a touch of turbulence,” Waters answered from the cockpit.
Hayes climbed to his feet and grabbed ahold of the anchor line cable. He managed to steady himself long enough to look out the port-side window, catch a quick glimpse of the jet black and the yellow fingers of lightning cracking across the horizon before a cross wind slapped the plane across the sky.
“On second thought, you might want to hook up,” Waters said, his voice devoid of its usually cockiness. “Like, right now.”
Dear God, please let me live long enough to kill him, Hayes prayed, stumbling to the back of the plane, where he snapped his static line into the cable and palmed the red button mounted to the strut.
“I’m punching through,” Waters yelled as the ramp cracked open. He shoved the controls forward, sending the CASA into a screaming dive.
The clouds rolled into the cargo hold, the air heavy with the smell of rain and wet earth. Hayes was blind and being tossed around like a pea in a rattle can, too busy trying to stay on his feet to curse the pilot.
And then they were through, and the sky was clear and smooth as glass.
Below the plane the triple-canopy jungle shimmered in the haze of the twin turboprops. An endless sea of green, broken by sporadic scars of the black and coffee brown of the Arauca River as it coiled southeast toward Colombia.
“One minute out!” Waters yelled.
Hayes nudged the drop bag containing his gear closer to the edge of the ramp and snapped its static line next to his. Then he tightened his chin strap, eyes glued to the amber light mounted to the strut next to the ramp.
Since he was jumping off the ramp, Hayes couldn’t see the drop zone, which put him at the mercy of Waters. Not only was the man responsible for keeping the plane steady and maintaining a safe jump speed, Hayes was also trusting him to tell him when to jump.
Too early and he would fall short of the drop zone. Too late and he would overfly it. Hayes was about to steal a glance into the cockpit, just to make sure Waters was paying attention, when the light flashed from red to green and Hayes kicked the drop bag off the ramp, waited for the static line to jerk taut, and then took a powerful step off the back of the ramp.
He shoved his chin tight into his chest, locked his feet and knees together for a moment before the prop blast hit him in the face. The exhaust was hot, and the acrid taste of the aviation fuel scalded his skin, sucking the air from his lungs.
The slipstream grabbed his legs and slapped them over his head, and Hayes fought to keep his body tight while falling at thirty-two feet per second. He kept track of his descent by counting in his head.
One thousand, two thousand . . .
A moment later the static line reached the end of its travel and yanked the chute from the pack tray. But instead of the violent jerk of the canopy opening up and gathering air, Hayes kept falling.
Looking up, he immediately diagnosed the problem: The risers that connected his harness to the chute were tangled and keeping the canopy from expanding. Hayes kicked his legs, trying to get the risers to unwind, knowing that he was falling too fast.
Pull your reserve.
His hands dropped to his chest and he was about to pull the rip cord when the chute caught air and the risers snapped tight, burning his neck and breaking his chin strap.
Usually Hayes spent the remainder of a d
escent in quiet reflection, enjoying the breeze against his skin and the warmth of the sun on his face, thanking the airborne gods that he was still alive and not a bundle of broken bones and skin on the ground, but as he steered the chute into the wind and got his first look at the drop zone, Hayes realized he had a second problem.
From the satellite imagery the clearing looked massive, but from a hundred feet in the air, the drop zone looked like a dot of brown in a sea of green. But it wasn’t the size of the DZ that had him worried, it was the chute of the drop bundle below heading toward the trees.
The sudden cross-breeze grabbed his chute and shoved it hard to the right. Hayes reached up and grabbed the left riser with both hands. He tugged it into his chest, trying to steer the chute clear of the tree line.
Not happening.
Hayes let go of the riser, brought both hands to the top of his head, interlaced his fingers so he could use his forearms to shield his face, and then he was in the trees.
Without any air to hold it open, the canopy collapsed, and Hayes was falling through the trees like a lawn dart. He saw the flash of the limbs and leaves through the space between his forearms, flashes of brown and green. Branches raked the exposed skin of his wrist and neck. He looked down and saw the jungle floor rushing up and he prepared himself for a broken leg or back, when the chute finally caught on a branch and pendulumed him into the trunk of a cacao tree.
The blow knocked the breath from his lungs and filled his mouth with the coppery taste of his own blood. Hayes shook his head and blinked the tears from his eyes. The first thing he saw was a pair of howler monkeys grinning at him from an adjoining limb.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he demanded.
The monkeys chittered away, leaving Hayes to take stock of his situation. He estimated that he was twenty feet above the jungle floor. Too far to drop. His only option was to deploy his reserve and use the chute to climb down.
Hayes pulled the metal rip cord handle free, releasing the pins that secured the front panels of the reserve. The moment the tension was released, the spring-assisted chute tumbled out of the pack tray and fell toward the ground.
Careful to keep his weight balanced, Hayes unhooked his chest and leg straps. He reached out for the reserve, knowing that one wrong move would send him falling to the ground. Hayes managed to wrap his right hand around the silk and then coil it between his legs. Slowly he shifted his weight out of the harness, and after transferring all of his weight to the chute, he swung free. Unlike rope, the silk was too thin to get a firm grip, and he slid toward the ground like a fireman down a greased pole.
He landed with an ummmmph and a muffled curse.
That sucked.
Hayes rolled over to see if anything was broken and was about to sit up when a bearded man dressed in a faded brown campesino shirt, filthy jeans, and a dingy straw hat stepped out of the shadows.
“Cole Boggs,” the man said, lifting a bottle of Wild Turkey to his lips and taking a long pull. “Welcome to hell.”
37
LA ESTACADA, VENEZUELA
Hayes wasn’t sure what to make of the man standing over him. According to Shaw, the man was considered eccentric. But as Hayes took in his clothes, the AK-47 strapped over his chest, and the bandolier of shotgun shells around his waist, eccentric was not the first word that popped into his mind.
This dude has gone completely around the bend.
“Adam Hayes,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing the bark and dirt off the front of his clothes.
“I was gonna give you a nine,” Boggs answered, resting his free hand on the machete hanging from his belt and pointing the bottle at the chute hanging from the tree. “But then you went and fucked up the landing.”
“Cute,” Hayes said, pressing the earpiece connected to his radio into his ear. “I must have missed the memo. Didn’t know we were playing dress-up.”
“My ropas?” Boggs asked, looking down at his chest. “What’s wrong with ’em?”
“You look like a mix between Pancho Villa and Sancho Panza.”
“Well, after all the fucking noise you made coming through those trees, we are going to need a posse to get out of here alive.”
I like this dude.
“You let me worry about that, Sancho,” Hayes said, turning on the radio and pressing the talk button. “Covey to Grinder.”
“Do I get a call sign?” Boggs asked.
Waters’s voice came over the radio. “Go for Covey.”
“On the ground and linked up with code name Sancho,” he said and grinned.
“Uh, roger that, Grinder. Be advised, looks like you have company coming in from your west. Two trucks coming from a camp by the river.”
“Roger that.”
“That’s Vega’s territory. We better vámonos,” Boggs said.
“You mind if I . . . ?” Hayes said, reaching out for the bottle.
“Knock yourself out,” Boggs said.
“I know you have your own way of doing things,” Hayes said, taking the bottle. “And I want you to know that I respect that.”
“Well, that’s good, because to be honest I was kinda worried— Hey, what the fuck?” Boggs asked as Hayes turned the bottle over and dumped the contents on the ground.
“Let’s get something straight, Sancho. I didn’t jump out of a perfectly good airplane because I wanted to go day-drinking. This isn’t a fucking picnic. You do what I tell you when I tell you, comprende?”
“Listen here, padna,” Boggs interjected, the anger bringing his Cajun accent out. “I didn’t come out here to pass a good time. Ford—he was workin’ for me when they took him down.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“You got somethin’ you wanna say?” Boggs challenged, taking a step forward. “I loved that man like a brother.”
“Easy, Sancho, I’m just telling it like it is. The way I see it, there are two ways this thing plays out,” Hayes said.
“Enlighten me, boss man.”
“You can fuck off—go find you a new bottle and a nice deep hole to hide in,” he said, tossing the bottle into the undergrowth.
“Or?”
“Or you can come with me and get some payback,” Hayes answered, before turning in the direction he’d last seen the gear bundle.
“They weren’t lyin’ when they said you was an asshole!” Boggs yelled at his back.
You have no idea, buddy.
* * *
—
Hayes hadn’t understood the importance of standards until after he was assigned to the 82nd Airborne. He’d been with his new platoon for less than a month when they went to the range and Hayes noticed one of his squad leaders providing “corrective training”—the politically correct way of saying he was trying to smoke the soul out of the offending soldier.
Sergeant Mills had this kid doing push-ups, flutter kicks, and sprints until Hayes thought the boy was going to die. Wanting to be a good leader who was respected and liked by his men, green-as-grass First Lieutenant Hayes stepped in and suggested that Sergeant Mills had made his point.
Hayes never forgot the look of disgust on the sergeant’s face.
The next day during physical training Sergeant First Class Jones joined Hayes for a run.
“Sir, Sergeant Mills told me what happened at the range.”
As Hayes was a new lieutenant, every day at the unit was like drinking from a fire hose, and he had since forgotten all about the incident.
“Going to have to help me out here, Sarge.”
“Sergeant Mills said that he was disciplining Private Andrews and you told him to stop.”
“Yeah, I said that he’d made his point.”
The look on his platoon sergeant’s face was the same expression that he’d seen on Sergeant Mills, and he knew instinctively that he’d made a signifi
cant mistake.
“I fucked something up, didn’t I?”
“Sir, a platoon is like a family. As the lieutenant, you are the benevolent father. You bring us the things we need, like bullets and food, and you keep the brass off our ass, and we love you for that.”
“Okay.”
“The noncommissioned officers, the sergeants,” he said, pointing to himself and then over at the squad leaders, “we are the collective mother of this family.”
“I think so.”
“The privates, or ‘joes,’ as we call them, are the children. Are you tracking, sir?”
“I’m with you.”
“Now, as parents we have worked hard all our lives, scrimped and saved so we could put a roof over the kids’ heads. That roof and all the nice things under it are the standards that we live by. Still with me, sir?”
“Mom, Dad, and standards.”
Sergeant First Class Jones nodded his agreement.
“So what’s the problem?”
“The kids, sir.”
“Kids?”
“The privates, sir, the joes—they are our kids and they are evil, destructive motherfuckers.”
“Jesus, Sergeant,” Hayes said, surprised by the conviction in the man’s voice.
“That’s right, sir, they need Jesus, because if left to their own devices, our fucking kids will burn down our house with Mom and Dad in the fucking bed.”
“That’s . . . that’s some heavy stuff, Sergeant.”
“Heavy is the crown, sir. Just remember to always lead from the front and keep the standards; everything else will take care of itself.”
* * *
—
It was a lesson Hayes had never forgotten, and why he wasn’t surprised when he heard Boggs following him through the undergrowth.
“Your gear is this way,” he said, jogging up beside him. “But we seriously need to get the hell out of here.”
Twenty yards ahead Hayes could see the break in the trees that signaled the clearing, and by the time they cleared the tree line, sweat was pouring down his back. Damn humidity.
