by Dave Edlund
Just then, Lieutenant Lacey entered the lab and approached Jim. “Sir. Confirmation has been received. Confidence level is greater than 90 percent. We have him.”
“Okay. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Jim sighed. “Well, Peter, that’s what we’ve been waiting for. You’ll have to excuse me; I have work to do.” As he turned and walked out, he was joined by Bull, who never seemed to be very far away.
Chapter 24
October 2
Sacramento, California
Over the next several hours, Jim was sequestered with Bull, Homer, Magnum, Ghost, and Sergeant John Wiley. They stood clustered around a small table in Jim’s office. Jim had his arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed on Sergeant Wiley.
Unlike the majority of the SGIT team, Wiley was a fourth generation leatherneck, signing into the Corps upon graduating from high school. He joined force recon and earned his sergeant’s stripes. Not one to back down from a fight, Wiley distinguished himself during an unpublicized skirmish in Iran, near the Afghan border, where he was instrumental in destroying a large munitions depot that, at least according to the Iranians, didn’t exist. When word reached Colonel Pierson, he approached Wiley and asked him to join SGIT.
“Wiley, we’re going to need you on this mission. That means you’ll need a call sign. And as commander, it is my prerogative to give you that call sign.” Jim paused and thought for a moment. “Under the circumstances, I can think of no more appropriate nom de guerre than Coyote.”
A cheer arose from his fellow warriors. “Coyote!” they all said in unison. “Wiley Coyote!” they repeated. Sergeant Wiley grinned in response to his new name.
“Now to business. We will insert by helo about three clicks from the camp. Right about here.” Jim was pointing to a spot on a large, highly detailed topographic map.
“The training camp is located here, near the village of Puerto Nuevo along the Ecuadorian side of the San Miguel River. We will have an Ecuadorian guide to lead us through the jungle from the drop zone to the training camp. Tensions have been high between Ecuador and Colombia for some time, ever since Colombia decided to attack alleged FARC camps on Ecuadorian soil. Questions?”
Homer spoke first. “Estimated number of bad guys at the camp?”
“Intel puts the number at 30 to 50 trainees and maybe a dozen instructors.”
“Weaponry?” asked Magnum.
“We don’t have a solid read on that one. Probably light weapons—AKs, maybe some RPGs. We anticipate typical arms for terrorists and revolutionaries.”
“What’s our time frame, sir?” This question was from Ghost.
“We hit the camp in approximately 50 hours.”
Jim looked across the faces of his team. No one flinched or looked away. This was what they did, what they were trained for, and they were good at it.
“Okay. Let’s get to work. Coyote, I want a recommended list of armament. Bear in mind we are going in on foot through the jungle. The terrain will be relatively flat, not much for hills.
“Magnum, Homer—work out the logistics. I need a coordinated schedule, including when and where we pick up our local guide.
“Ghost and Bull, you two cover communications, rations, medical. And brief with Lacey—I want you prepared for whatever hard intel we might come across. Got it?”
In unison, “YES, SIR!”
“That’s it gentlemen. Go to work. We will regroup at 2200 hours and run through the plan from the top.”
They broke and went in different directions, and Jim returned to his desk. There was a lot of planning to do—countless details that had to be analyzed, set up, confirmed, and confirmed again. This insertion would be in a foreign country, albeit friendly, but still not U.S. soil. If things went wrong, it could go very bad in a hurry. Help would be slow to come—if it came at all.
There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” replied Jim. His elbows were resting on the edge of his desk, head down concentrating on some documents. The door opened, and Peter entered with a tray of sandwiches and coffee.
“I thought you might want something to eat.”
Jim leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head, then folded them across his chest. “It smells good. What do you have?”
“Reuben sandwiches and coffee.” Peter set the tray down on the end of the desk. The top of the desk was covered in papers. Not a square inch of the wooden desktop could be seen.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Okay, I guess. Ask me when we’re ready to depart for South America. There’s still a lot of work to be done.”
“Let me know if there is anything I can do, okay? Even if you just need me to schlep sandwiches and coffee.”
Jim smiled. “Thanks, I appreciate the offer. This is what we do, so don’t worry. We put in the hard work up front so it goes well on the mission. Every hour of preparation helps to ensure our success.”
Peter pulled up a chair next to the desk and took one of the sandwiches. He bit off a big chunk of bread, meat, and cheese. “The chow from the deli is pretty good.”
Jim nodded, sandwich in hand. He was repeating Peter’s offer in his mind when an idea popped in. “Actually, there is something you can do for me, Peter.”
“Of course. Name it.”
“When we toured your company a couple weeks ago, I saw something in your shop that could be helpful. It just might be the ticket to extend our element of surprise a bit longer before all hell breaks loose.”
“Whatever you want.”
“The repeating MI gun. I need six of them for my team.”
Peter paused, surprised by this request. “I told you, it’s a prototype. There’s only one, and it hasn’t been field-tested yet.”
“So, consider this mission the first field test.”
“No, it doesn’t work that way,” Peter protested. “The power supply isn’t fully integrated.”
“It looked complete to me,” said Jim.
Peter shook his head. “I’ve cobbled together a battery pack, but it’s not reliable. It’ll be another three weeks before we integrate the correct power supply.”
Jim rose and walked around his desk, turning over the options in his head. He turned to face Peter. “We’ll adapt. You have one six-shot MI gun. I’ll take it, along with five single shot Mk-9s. Plus 50 rounds of ammunition.”
“Whoa.” Peter held up his hand, palm out. “Your men need training on the Mk-9s. And the prototype revolver isn’t ready.”
Jim drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Then I guess you’ll be coming along.”
Peter stared back, speechless.
“Strictly in an advisory capacity,” Jim added. “On the flight south you can train my team. They’re quick studies, so that won’t be a problem. If you feel it’s necessary they can each squeeze off a few rounds on the ground in Ecuador. I’ll take the prototype gun and you’ll stick with me. Bring along whatever you need—extra batteries, wires, whatever—to keep it operational. Bring along a tool chest if you have to.”
“All right.” Peter gave in. He knew he wasn’t a soldier, but his trepidation was offset by his desire to see Ramirez captured. The certainty of knowing that the man threatening his father was no longer in circulation counted for a lot.
“Thanks. I have a plane fueled and crew on standby. The pilot tells me the flight time will only be about 70 minutes. How soon can you be ready to go?”
“Can I finish my sandwich first? I’m starving.”
Chapter 25
October 5
Forest in Western Venezuela
The Strategic Global Intervention Team had worked through the night planning the mission. The team oversaw the loading of their gear prior to boarding the C-130 transport for the long flight south, and the nearly 4,000-mile flight from McClellan Business Park to Quito, Ecuador, provided ample time to sleep.
About two hours prior to landing, Peter opened a yellow waterproof plastic case and removed a Mk-9 MI gun from the foam padding. Th
ere were four more still nestled within the protective padding while the prototype six-shot MI gun was in a separate container.
“Okay, everyone listen up,” Jim ordered. “You will each be issued a new sidearm. You will still carry your Beretta in the tactical holster. I am told this new pistol is extremely quiet, so it should be the primary choice for taking out an opponent without revealing your position. Also, there is no muzzle flash. Peter is here to provide you with instruction and training. Listen well; you may have only one chance to get this right.”
Jim took two steps to the side and Peter moved in front of the SGIT team. He had conducted training dozens of times before, but typically it lasted a full day and consisted of a combination of classroom instruction and range time. Now, he needed to condense all that down to about one hour, and there could be no live fire exercises within the aircraft.
Fortunately, the SGIT team members were all proficient in a multitude of weapons, and they showed little trouble in understanding the functioning of the single-shot Mk-9 pistol.
“It’s sort of like an old single-shot .22 I used for target shooting as a kid,” observed Coyote.
Peter smiled. “Any other questions?” he asked.
The assembled men were silent. “You’ll carry the Mk-9 in these holsters that you will fix to your load harness,” said Jim as he offered five black nylon holsters. “Five rounds are secured to the front of each holster. We’ll be landing soon, so check your gear and max out your ammunition supplies. There’s fresh water in the cooler; make sure your hydration bladder is full.”
While the team was checking and rechecking their loads, Peter provided Jim with instruction on the unique features of the six-shot repeater. “The magnetic rounds are loaded in this cylinder, much like a normal revolver.”
Jim scrutinized the weapon, focusing on the amber-colored cylinder. “Yeah, but this cylinder is made from clear plastic, not steel.”
“That’s right. The polymer is very strong and tough, and it machines well, taking a polish. You can’t do that with acrylic and polycarbonate. Most importantly, it’s not magnetic. Remember, this gun fires a magnetic projectile that is accelerated by magnetic fields. Since we don’t have to design the weapon to tolerate high chamber pressures, we have the freedom to use many new, high-tech materials.”
Jim nodded understanding. “Let’s make sure I got this down. The power switch is here,” he pointed to a slide switch at the top of the grip. “Red light here,” Jim’s finger indicated a small LED just below the rear sight, “tells me the weapon is energized and ready to fire. Pull the trigger, shot is fired, cylinder rotates next round into position.”
“You got it,” Peter replied.
“Seems simple enough.”
“When it works the way it’s supposed to. If you do not get a red light, the power supply has most likely failed. If that happens, cycle the switch. If the problem persists, the power supply needs to be removed and a new one inserted.”
“How do I do that?” said Jim.
“You don’t. We don’t have time for me to train you. Just give me the weapon; I have three spares and I’ll swap out the old one.”
Peter showed Jim how to reload the gun and explained that the muzzle velocity was fixed at 1,000 feet-per-second, sub-sonic so there would not be a sharp crack from the projectile exceeding the speed of sound.
“Later on, when we have the proper power supply qualified, we will include velocity adjustment.”
“No problem—subsonic is what we want for this mission.”
Satisfied, Jim inserted the prototype MI pistol into its holster and turned his attention to filling his hydration bladder.
With everyone around him busy, Peter was alone with his thoughts. What am I getting into? Whatever, I don’t really have a choice, and if this is what it takes to see Ramirez captured, it’s worth it.
Thirty minutes later the transport received clearance to land. On the ground in Quito they met their local guide, Manuel. A lieutenant in the Ecuador Army, Manuel was tapped for this mission for two important reasons: he spoke fluent English, and he was attached to the intelligence branch. It had long been rumored that the CIA controlled Ecuador’s intelligence agencies, and although this was not literally true, the CIA certainly exerted substantial influence when it chose. Such was the case now—not that Manuel objected. He strongly preferred the excitement of fighting terrorists to the mundane daily routine at the barracks.
Dressed in black from head to foot and with faces painted black, the team boarded an Ecuadorian army helicopter that flew them to the jungle-landing zone in the northeastern part of the country close to the border with Colombia. They touched down at 2:30 A.M. The moon had just dropped below the horizon, and the sky was crystal clear but dark, save for the thousands of tiny star-lights.
Darkness was their ally.
The team members were all equipped with state-of-the-art communications gear and night vision goggles, or NVGs. Manuel took the lead, hiking at a good pace, heading east along a barely discernible jungle trail. The terrain was close to flat. They had to cross numerous small creeks and streams, but the water was not very deep. Thankfully, the night-time temperature was a cool 67 degrees. But the air was humid, and heavy with the odor of rot and decay.
Everywhere they stepped there were bugs—mostly ants and an endless variety of beetles, but also, centipedes, scorpions and spiders… big spiders. Bull placed his boot forward and felt, as much as heard, the squish of something giving way to a gooey mess. I hate bugs. He wanted to mumble the words but knew better.
The SGIT squad had to cover three kilometers in 45 minutes. They kept moving at a fast pace, stopping only once to rest for three minutes and to drink water from the large bladders strapped to the back of each man.
Jim was using the call sign Boss Man—or Boss for short—as he always did when leading a mission. The plan allowed 45 minutes to reach the training camp, fifteen minutes to find and capture Vasquez Ramirez and any other persons of interest, and to gather hard intel. That left 60 minutes to hike back to the landing zone, or LZ, for extraction. An additional twenty minutes contingency was added to the plan. Since the entire mission was being carried out within Ecuador, a friendly country, there was no reason to plan for a backup LZ.
The team kept up the pace and stayed on schedule. Manuel still had the point, and Magnum covered the rear, while Peter remained three steps behind Jim. No one expected to encounter the enemy until they reached the perimeter of the camp, but Boss Man wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t want to stumble upon an unexpected enemy patrol.
From satellite photos of the area they knew that the training camp was comprised of several tents and two small structures. The vegetation surrounding the encampment had been cut and cleared away—perhaps for security, but maybe just to provide a buffer against many of the jungle creatures. The high-resolution photos also revealed coils of wire, probably barbed wire or concertina wire, delineating the boundary of the camp.
As they approached the camp, Manuel abruptly came to a halt and held up his right fist, signaling the rest of the team to stop and be alert. The SGIT soldiers crouched on one knee, weapons—an assortment of AA12 automatic shotguns, H&K 416 assault rifles, and a M32 40mm semiautomatic grenade launcher—at the ready.
Boss Man edged forward until he was next to Manuel. Through the NVGs, he could see a lone guard standing ahead, maybe 50 yards away. The figure of the guard was green against a green and black background—it always reminded Jim of a wraithlike image. Beyond the guard the jungle opened up, and they could see some of the camp structures.
Boss Man edged closer, leaving Peter with Manuel. He was crouched, moving very slowly, silently. He parted the vegetation, staying to the side of the trail so his body would not appear to the guard as a dark silhouette. When he was within fifteen yards of the guard, he could see the man’s features clearly—he was awake and seemingly alert. The guard was shifting his weight slowly and moving his head from side to side, p
eering in Jim’s direction. Had he heard them? Did he sense the presence of another person? The rifle was still slung on the guard’s shoulder, and he was not talking into a radio, so Boss Man figured he had not raised an alarm.
Dropping to one knee, Boss Man drew the MI pistol from the holster strapped across his chest. He raised the weapon, and Manuel could see a tiny red light on the weapon facing Boss Man. The guard would not have been able to see the light, only the shooter. An instant later the guard fell to the ground. The only sound Manuel heard was a very faint click as the action rotated another magnetic projectile into the chamber. The prototype impulse gun had worked flawlessly.
Boss Man returned the weapon into its holster and signaled for the squad to continue forward. The men assembled around Boss Man as they surveyed the camp and perimeter wire fence. The camp itself consisted of two wood-framed structures or cabins, six tents built on platforms, and two larger awnings with screen sides that appeared to be mess tents.
Four more guards were stationed at various locations in the camp. They seemed to be loosely patrolling around the camp rather than staying at fixed locations. The camp was dimly lit by a dozen or more kerosene lamps hung near the tents, casting a yellowish glow. The scent of burning kerosene hung lightly in the still air, contrasting with the musty, earthy smell of the jungle. More lanterns hung near the doors of the two cabins, one showing a glow from within. But overall, the camp was quiet.
The wooden cabins were placed far from the wire perimeter, at least 60 yards. This would make the approach dangerous for Boss Man’s team. His men might be able to use the tents to shield their approach, but the roving guards made that plan very risky. One or two of the guards could be silently removed, but how could they take out all four without the alarm being sounded?
Boss Man split his team into two squads. Manuel, Coyote, Bull, and Magnum would go to the right, staying just within the jungle outside the wire fence. They were ordered to circle around to the far side of the camp and enter through the wire. Boss Man, Ghost, Homer, and Peter would enter from the front.
