by Paul Lally
“Clark Bar” hesitates just long enough to ponder the pixels representing a speeding boat containing “security expendables.”
“What the hell,” he thinks to himself but doesn’t say a word out loud. After all, he’s not only a four-star general, he’s also got the day shift overseeing the operations of joint military operations around the world—including the Gulf of Mexico, where his old pal, Admiral Lewis has a hair up his ass about “lack of mission support,” when in fact, it’s the CIA’s greedy fingers hogging the triggers on a “potential target” that could end this stalemate in a microsecond if they’d just share the damned armed drone.
But they won’t.
Wait just a second.
Hells bells, he’s the top dog, and can bite anybody’s ass he so chooses. Right?
Right.
Including the CIA’s?
Especially the CIA.
He’ll be good GODDAMNED if he’s going to let that throat-slitting son-of-a-bitch Vargas go back home and drink tequila and laugh at the Americans before killing another one of ours because a howling pack of CIA super-spy hyenas won’t share the kill.
Civilians. Can’t live with them...and would much rather live without them.
All of these thoughts General Clark thinks in the space of nanoseconds... and ends up saying the following sentence loud enough for the others to understand it comes as an order from the top dog:
“Transmit direct to Triton from Dealer Six: Weapons free, clear to fire on designated target; Juliet Uniform Bravo one-niner-six. Repeat, Juliet Uniform Bravo one-niner-six. Weapons free. Commence firing.”
At 50,000 feet there’s nobody’s around to hear the “click-click-whirrrrr” as the Triton’s weapons bay clamshell doors snap open.
They don’t stay that way very long.
Ever since the UAV’s laser target designator started painting Muñoz’s cigarette boat, it’s been updating its entire load-out of five AGM-116 air-to-surface Hellfire missiles and two AGM-88 Harpoon missiles, because you never know which type and how many the top brass might order up, should they smell blood in the water.
They do.
The subsequent choice of weapon-type is made by algorithms beyond the scope of this account. Suffice to say that seconds after receiving SOCOM’s “priority override” command, two Hellfires drop free into the frigid, dark-blue sky.
Hungry wolves in search of prey.
Seconds later, their high-performance, minimum-smoke, solid rocket motors ignite, jacking up their speed to Mach 1.3 as they plunge full vertical to gain speed. Upon reaching five thousand feet AGL they’ll level out and take up a bearing that leads them directly to their assigned target in less than twenty-five seconds.
That’s fast.
But Vargas is even faster.
After a brief struggle, the tables have turned.
Now he’s got the Glock and Ivan’s on his knees staring helplessly at the muzzle aimed straight at him, while the helmsman, like a taxicab driver studiously ignoring his fare fighting to the death going on behind him, keeps steering for distant shore.
Nothing left to say.
No clever back-and-forth dialogue between these two.
This is not a movie.
It’s life—Iván’s to be precise—and now it’s about to end, thanks to a 9mm bullet fired from his own weapon. With a muzzle velocity of 1108 ft/sec, the Glock’s soft-nose round won’t take long to make mincemeat out of his chest.
Speaking of speed...
Two Hellfire IIIs rocket through the air at over 1000-miles-an-hour, while continuing to dutifully obey the laser target-designating commands emanating from the Triton, faraway and high above.
Having sent its airborne “children” off to their great adventure, the Navy UAV partially shifts its attention back to other reconnaissance duties.
Capable of remaining airborne for over thirty hours, it’s only been aloft for sixteen, so it has no issues with keeping that malevolent red laser designator dot dancing on the speeding cigarette boat while poking its nose elsewhere into other bad guys’ business.
With the Hellfires flying faster than the speed-of-sound, Vargas can’t appreciate the peril he’s facing. While it’s true, he’s peripherally aware of a distant roar; the Maya blood pumping through his veins makes his situational awareness ultra-keen. But sound waves are sound waves, and no amount of his ancestors’ DNA can help him now.
He speaks to the helmsman without taking his eyes off Iván. “Forget Puerto Morelos, head for the compound.”
“Señor?”
“You have enough fuel to get there?”
A moment’s pause. Then, “Absolutely.”
“Get me a radio connection to the compound.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vargas allows himself a brief moment to imagine the smile on Señor Garcia’s face when he announces his freedom. The message must be short and sweet, and end with a dramatic shout.
Let the boss wonder just what the hell happened.
Let his mind stew about all sorts of gruesome possibilities.
And then later, a GIGANTIC smile when Vargas himself pilots the cigarette boat to the dock at the Garcia compound, a free man.
But....
He must remember to do his best to be highly distraught when he reports the sad news that, during a violent engagement with the gringos after his daring at-sea rescue, many lives were lost, especially Iván’s, Muñoz’s, and the boat driver—all of whom fought desperately before the enemy overwhelmed them.
He’ll not make a big deal about his torn clothing and disheveled appearance—proof of his own heroic involvement—and most of all, remember to be modest when Garcia escorts him into the compound to deliver a more detailed report.
While it’s true, his original grandiose plan to cause a seismic shift in the Mexico/U.S. drug world with his heroin/fentanyl cocktail has been delayed, there’s always tomorrow to try again. One good thing about science; unlike human emotion, you can replicate formulas over and over again, and they never ever change.
But for now, after lots of pats on the back and “welcome homes” from Garcia, with any luck, an hour later, he’ll taking a steaming hot shower while Adriana washes off the dirt and grime, and the chaotic memories from his body, and he contemplates sliding between cool silk sheets for some hot love.
All of these thoughts in a microsecond....
The radio call to Senor Garcia takes less than ten seconds—ending with his shout, just like he planned.
“What the hell are you doing?” Iván says.
“Taking care of unfinished business.”
Vargas stares deep into the man’s eyes, then pulls the trigger.
Iván’s eyes widen in stunned shock. A flash of perfect union between two deadly rivals.
Then he falls backwards, but not without Vargas observing the amazing transformation human eyes undergo when life leaves the body.
He’s seen it before in his other helpless victims. Their “windows to the soul” shifting to opaque glass. By the time Iván crumples to the deck, his eyes are glazed over while his soul beholds infinity.
It’s then, that an increasingly louder sound commands Vargas’s full attention.
He swings around to the east because his ears tell him it’s coming from somewhere over... there.
He manages to raise his hand halfway to his brow to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, when two small black dots—like pesky flies—dart into his peripheral vision.
He raises his right hand to swat them away.
A millisecond later both Hellfires strike.
Armed with blast-fragmentation warheads, thousands of shards of metal and white-hot thermite decimate Miguel Lopez-Vargas and the boat driver, too. The double blast transforms the multi-million-dollar high-speed vessel into carbon fiber splinters that drift across the water like plankton.
While it’s true, Iván reaches the Great Beyond before Vargas does, it can’t be by much.
He’ll pro
bably barely have time to realize what happened to him before his (former) archrival shows up too.
No way to know for sure what happens next of course, living as we do here on the planet earth, but it’s nice to imagine these two assholes fighting tooth and nail for all eternity, while Satan cheers them on.
Major Williston hands over his headset to DEA Agent Jensen. “It’s for you.”
Jensen slips it on. “Hello... hi, mom” he says to the vice president of the United States. “Yes... yes...I’m all right, I’m fine.”
The rest is none of CW’s business, so he heads out of the officer’s wardroom, leaving Jensen and the other DEA agents to rest and recover in grateful repose, safe and sound on the Rock.
After the ferry docked in Cozumel, they said farewell to their Mexican Infanteria Marina counterparts. Soon they’ll reunite with their loved ones. Many by phone, like Jensen’s doing right now.
It’s not the first time CW’s pulled off a hostage snatch, but something tells him this will be his last. It’s okay to bend the rules now and then, here and there. He’s done it for years and paid the consequences, mostly by promotion boards passing over him like roadkill.
But this time, he and JJ bent the rules until they broke.
Yes, the mission was a success.
And yes, there are happily-ever-after grins plastered on every face in the Rock’s wardroom, and in Cozumel, too, when a half-hour ago, the Battleship Boys re-joined the Rock, and the Infanteria Marina guys double-timed into the waiting arms of their fellow Marines who whooped and hollered and back-slapped each other like they’d won the World Cup.
But...
Not everyone made it back, of course. Which is why the living celebrate life like there’s no tomorrow. Seven of those hostages don’t have any tomorrows left, including the son-of-a-bitch responsible; Miguel Lopez-Vargas.
From the SOCOM reports coming in, nothing’s left of that jerk but random molecules floating in the ocean. Maybe next time around they’ll re-assemble into something better. Maybe a human being who does something to help the world instead of enslaving it to drugs like the Spanish conquistadors enslaved his Maya ancestors to endless servitude.
Who knows?
What CW does know is that he jacked up Admiral Lewis to the point where the two of them took the law into their hot little hands. The Constitution they both swore to defend became something they decided to enforce as well. Judge, no jury, no closing arguments, gavel down, case closed, no trial, just the death sentence.
Instead of following the chain of command, the admiral broke it and handed the pieces to CW., who busted it up even more.
Morally wrong?
Hell no.
“Eye for an eye” and all that, according to Moses, right?
But doing so outside the sacred and inviolate chain of command “box” makes it completely wrong. And for that, heads will roll—most likely his will be the first to drop into the “Discharged Less than Honorable” basket.
Maybe not.
Maybe he can talk his way out of it and land on the street with an “Honorable.” Sure, he’ll be a late middle-age man with slim prospects and skillsets more suitable for a serial killer than a dues-paying member of society, but at least he’ll be able to hold his head high and point to his DD214 with pride.
He muses all this as he climbs to the docking bridge, where he plans to watch the Rock’s departure from Cozumel and enjoy the bright February sunshine. Better do it while he can. No telling where he’s going to be hanging his hat a week from now. Odds are, out on his ass and on the street. Would be nice to have somebody to come home to in his little adobe house back in Winslow, Arizona.
But nothing’s there now but patchy snow outside and empty cupboards inside. Got to be some tuna fish, though. Cans and cans of that stuff. And if his satellite dish is working, maybe—just maybe—he’ll be able to get Netflix.
That’s where his mind randomly jumps, like flipping through cable channels. Mostly because he’s still coming down from heavy-duty physical exertion and equally heavy-duty emotions.
It’ll take time. Always does. But if he knows SOCOM—and he does—they’ll have their Osprey plopping down on the battleship’s stern before the day is out. They want those guys back home.
And they want his hide.
By the time he gets topside to the “dashboard,” Captain Koga, directly below on the navigation bridge, has already artfully used the ship’s thrusters to swing the bow of the ship to port to exit the channel south before taking up a heading for home.
Admiral Lewis is there, along with Tommy and Jack Riley, while Bob Martin’s media crew is over at the far corner of the bridge, busily filming away. Bob hasn’t quit since CW and the hostages got back from the mission. He’s turned into a regular movie director, determined to tell the story of their amazing rescue mission—the minute he’s allowed to.
CW stuffs his turbulent feelings inside the closet of his mind and says cheerfully, “Behold, the Three Musketeers!”
The guys grin and that’s answer enough. No matter what happens to his career, he’s going to remember these smiles until the day he dies.
“Boys doing okay?” JJ says.
“Happy as clams, sir. Nothing like freedom to perk you up.”
“Excellent. I need to head below and make the rounds—but first, got a minute, major? We need your opinion.”
“Fire away.”
JJ and the others smile broadly and look at each other.
“What’d I say?”
“Nothing,” Jack Riley says, “Just your choice of words.”
“In case you’re interested, and we think you might be....” JJ points across the water to the distant shore. “Commander Goldstein informs me that the distance to target is eighteen-point-six miles as the crow flies—or in this case—as a sixteen-inch-high explosive projectile does.”
“’Flies’ at what particular target did you have in mind, sir?”
JJ’s face is the picture of innocence. “You don’t think we’re leaving these fair waters without finishing the business at hand, do you?”
“I don’t understand. The boats are sunk, the bad guys gone, and ours are safe and sound below—plus the Mexican Marines are back home too. All is well.”
“Almost ‘all.’ Twenty minutes ago, Commander Goldstein’s team triangulated a radio transmission to a location eighteen-point-six miles from here. Upon coordinate confirmation from SOCOM, guess what?”
“I’m clueless.”
“SOCOM’s not. It’s the compound of one Hector Ruiz-Garcia, who just so happens to be the head of the cartel that started this nightmare in the first place.”
“He’s there now?”
“Affirmative. They did a voice print match and a GPS fix on the call.”
“And?”
Tommy butts in. “And what do you think?” Then he gives CW the “look” he’s given to many a jury member, when asking them to fill in the dots while he waits.
It doesn’t take long—not with these guys, not after all they’ve been through.
CW says. “Let me make a wild guess. You want to do something about it, right? Something big.”
The three others nod like identical triplets.
“’Big’ as in the Rock’s sixteen-incher?”
JJ says, “Stanley’s already in the turret. The gun crew’s on the way. Commander Goldstein’s parked a drone over Garcia’s compound, ready to report shell fall.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, sir. We’ve raised enough hell already. SOCOM’s gonna’—”
“—Already greenlighted it.”
That stops CW in his tracks. He manages to stammer, “General Richardson, he—”
“Not Clark Bar. The official go-order comes straight from the White House, and I quote, “Use all available means—wait one, got it right here.”
He fumbles inside his Hawaiian shirt pocket and pulls out the message.
“Couple came in a while back, while you were below.
Uh, read this one first. They misspelled your name, by the way. There’s two ‘l’s’ in Williston. But you gotta’ give them a break. All this is happening fast. I mean, twenty-four hours ago...”
While JJ goes on and on, CW ignores him and reads the message; a blend of commendations and congratulations to all involved; the Battleship Boys, Captain Koga, Admiral Lewis, etc. and especially Major William Wiliston (sic) USMC—wait a second!—.... “hereby field-promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel by Executive Order for the successful completion of a highly dangerous rescue mission.”
“Damn!”
He finishes reading, not quite computing the fact that he’ll FINALLY be wearing silver oak leaves on his shoulders instead of being a Walmart greeter in Winslow—not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. It’s just a LOT less fun welcoming shoppers than living the life he’s grown accustomed to. And a lot less dangerous, too.
How about that?
Lieutenant colonel!
Even better, he won’t have to live off cheap-ass canned tuna fish and rotgut scotch whiskey for the rest of his life.
“Well, I’ll be damned, sir... but... it doesn’t say anything about the ‘target’ y’all are talking about.”
“Duly noted.” JJ pulls out another slip of paper. “But this one does.”
The blah-blah official wording doesn’t interest CW. What does are the words that jump out at him, like JJ said: “...use all available means without restriction to disrupt and destroy the Garcia Cartel headquarters.....”
Tommy turns on his heel and starts heading out.
“Where you going, Pop?” Jack says.
“Stanley’s going to need a hand. When it comes to manual sighting, I still got my chops. And if you doubt it,” He points out to sea. “Ask that oil rig.”
“Room enough for a visitor?” Jack says.
Tommy shrugs. “More than welcome.” He raises a cautionary finger. “But I’m warning you, it’s a lot quieter in the turret than it’ll be on deck when we start shooting. Not nearly as sexy, either.”
“Fine by me. I’ve had enough drama for one day—what about you, admiral?”