by J. L. Curtis
The Grey Man
-Down South-
JL Curtis
© JLC&A August 2019
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Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Published by JLC&A. Available from Amazon.com in Kindle format.
The Grey Man-Down South/ JL Curtis. -- 1st ed.
DEDICATION
To all those who served in the out of the way places with little or no recognition.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Psalm 23:4 KJV
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to the usual suspects, and a shout out to Miguel Gonzales for fixing my lousy Spanish!
Thanks to my editor, Stephanie Martin.
Cover art by Tina Garceau.
Table of Contents
Looking Back
On the Job Training
Settling In
Active Operations
Debrief and Back to the Grind
Back Home
Side Trip
Back in Harness
Quiet Time
Ramping Up
Waiting
Looking Back
The old man just shook his head, thinking back thirty-plus years to his introduction to working with the DEA.
It had all started over Christmas dinner in 1975. Amy, tall, blonde and slim, and Ana, a tiny, beautiful Eurasian, had been in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on supper while John and Billy sat on the front porch sipping coffee as Jack shot cans off the fence posts with his new .22 rifle. It’d been an amazingly mild day for Christmas, with bluebird skies and temps near 70.
“What are you going to do, John?” Billy had asked.
“Not sure. Since mom passed, I’ve…been at loose ends. I know I’m getting on Amy’s nerves because I don’t have enough to do, and I take it out on her or Jack, or both. The ranch isn’t that hard; Hank’s been handling the cows for going on twenty years, and we contract all the oil stuff. All we do is collect the royalties. Hank still thinks of me as a kid, so I stay out of his way. I finished my peace officer certification just to do something, but it doesn’t look like anybody is hiring.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed you’ve been pretty grumpy the last few times we’ve talked. I thought the county was always hurting for people?”
He’d chuckled, “Oh, they are, for anybody not named John.”
Billy cocked his head. “Say what?”
“It goes back a long time; I think my grandfather or possibly a generation earlier. Nah, probably grandpa. Simonson’s family came into this part of the country back then and had money. Not sure from where, although grandpa always thought he was probably a crook. He tried to buy grandpa out when they found oil, but grandpa wouldn’t sell.”
Billy laughed. “Stubborn seems to run in the family.”
John winced, “Maybe… Anyway, Simonson tried bribes, and tried to muscle grandpa and grandma off the place. There was some shooting at cows, and some shooting at the house. That prompted grandpa to go to town, and he confronted Simonson, apparently daring him to draw. According to reports, Simonson took a swing and grandpa pistol whipped him in the middle of the street, then walked over to the police station and turned himself in, telling the chief the next time he would shoot Simonson on sight.”
Billy shook his head in amazement. “And he was serious?”
“Apparently as a heart attack. Grandma came in to get him, and apparently told the chief the only way grandpa would get the shot was if grandma didn’t get him first, because she’d been cut by flying glass when they shot at the house, and still had bandages on her face.”
“Damn.”
“Supposedly the chief had a talk with Simonson, telling him it was in his best interests to leave town while he could. Simonson apparently left the next day, and moved up to Pecos, but he kept the land he’d bought in the county.”
“Smart move, I’d say.”
John nodded, “Yep, and dad had problems with the next generation, and now the grandson, Burt, is the sheriff. The only way I’d get hired is over his dead body, and I don’t dare speed or anything else. Pay all the bills early and make damn sure we don’t step out of line.”
“You ever think about going back in the Army?”
“Nah. And you know why. Everything is winding down, and I’d lose a bunch of rank. Hell, I’m thirty-two. I’m not sure they’d even take me back.”
“Nothing with the state? Troopers or Rangers?”
“No, but I’ve got an application in with the troopers. Rangers won’t take you unless you’re a serving police officer.”
“City?”
“Nope. They’ve actually got enough folks.”
“What about the Feds?”
John shrugged. “Don’t think they have anything I could do. Certainly not in law enforcement. I don’t have the right degree. A bachelors in ranch management isn’t worth much.”
“What about that new Drug Enforcement Agency? They dumped BNDD and the Federal Bureau of Narcotics because of corruption, so they’re starting fresh with this new agency. They had people on campus last week recruiting. They’re recruiting a lot of ex-military, and special forces types. You’d go in as a GS-nine, pays about fifteen thou a year.”
“BNDD?”
“Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. Remember the ‘civvies’ that kept showing up and nosing around wanting to know if we saw any drugs in-country? The ones that the Christians in Action hated for poaching on their territory?”
John laughed. “Oh, those fuckers. Yeah, I remember them, a bunch went out with SOG and didn’t come back. You thinking about this…DEA?”
“Nah, I want to finish school and maybe get my law degree, if I can figure out how to pay for it. This is my last year of pre-law, then it would be three years of law school. Ana would shoot me if I did that, but maybe I can go work in the oil patch. Staying in the reserves is bad enough. You didn’t even do that, did you?”
John shook his head, “No. Mom would have had a hissy fit if I’d done that. Drug En—”
Amy came to the screen door, “Jack, come wash up. John, Billy, five minutes. I need your help getting that damn bird out of the oven.”
They got up as Jack came quickly back to the porch. John said, “Leave the rifle here. It’s empty right?”
Jack racked the lever down, turned it on the side and looked, “It’s empty, Dad.”
“Okay. We’ll clean it after supper.”
***
Two months later, John had kissed Amy goodbye at the Midland airport, “Thank you for letting me try this, Hon.”
Amy smiled, “If this makes you happy, it’s good. Jack and I can manage, and Hank’s probably happy to see you go. It’s not like you’re going to be gone all the time, right?”
“Not according to the folks I talked to. I may even end up in Laredo or El Paso. I have to go to Quantico for a traini
ng class and to do paperwork. I should be home in a month or two. Remember, if you need help, Scotty Halvorson is only a phone call away.”
Amy stepped back, hands on hips, “John Cronin, you’ve told me that a hundred times already. Jack and I will handle things with Hank and the hands.” She kissed him and he held her a moment longer, until they called for the flight to Dallas. He walked slowly across the tarmac, and climbed on the Convair 600, stopping in the door to turn and wave.
The next morning, he started class with twenty other candidates, and spent all morning filling out paperwork. That afternoon, they did the physicals with a government doctor, picked up all their books after the physical, then returned to their assigned rooms in the barracks. John was surprised to find that they were in individual rooms, without a roommate.
The following morning was PT testing, and he noted two people were already missing. He asked Agent Ramirez where they were and was told they’d failed the physical and had been sent home. After PT, they spent the rest of the day in lectures on laws, ethics and conduct. As the days turned into weeks, the class shrank. At the end of the seventh week, they pulled him in, “John, you speak Spanish, right?”
“I speak border Spanish, it’s close and I have no problems making myself understood in Mexico, if that’s what you want to know.”
The agent made a check on a form, looked up and said, “I think we’re going to push you out early. Your military experience and shooting ability mean you don’t need the rest of the BS classes, and we need a Spanish speaker to fill in down south. The combination of those is going to bump your pay. You’ll qualify for a nine step ten.”
“Where will I be going?”
“Florida first, then forward from there. You’re going to a FAST team.”
“FAST Team?”
“Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Teams”
“When do I have to be there? I’d like to go back to Texas and see my family.”
“We can probably get you five days, since your class isn’t supposed to graduate for another two weeks. Turn your shit in, do your checkout in the morning, and I’ll have you some plane tickets for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks.”
Three days at home were a blessing, as short as it was. Amy was smiling the whole time, and Jack got sent to bed early the first and last nights, as John and Amy enjoyed each other’s company, with Amy joking that if they weren’t careful, Jack might have a little brother or sister.
He’d shown up on a Monday in Jacksonville, FL, with a smile on his face, and was issued gear, two passports: one for his courier cover and one for his primary cover, and was on his way to South America on Tuesday morning as a “diplomatic courier” with a diplomatic pouch carrying his equipment.
When he’d arrived in Brasilia, he was promptly driven to the embassy, given an in-brief, and told he was being sent to Guatemala instead of staying in Brazil.
He was given enough time to get a quick shower, change clothes, turn over his courier passport, and to return to the airport in three hours, backpack in hand. Placed on a Helio-Courier and flown out of Brazil via Panama to a camp in Guatemala, he’d been dumped on the side of an unimproved strip of a runway in the jungle.
Well if this isn’t a crock of shit, I don’t know what is. I’m just supposed to sit here and wait, wherethehellever ‘this’ is? John looked around for any assorted things that might bite him before sitting on the log at the end of the track that ended at the strip. Taking his 1911 out of the holster, he rechecked it once again, making sure there was a round in the chamber, before sliding it back in the holster, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Odd that I should think of Psalms right now. I wonder…well, at least I’ve got the rod in the form of my 1911. He chuckled as he added, And because I’m meanest mother in the valley. He sat for two hours until he heard a jeep grinding down the track, and faded into the jungle on the opposite side, leaving his pack sitting on top of the log. The jeep stopped at the log, and a lanky American looked at the bag then stepped out of the jeep. “John? John Cronin? I’m Darryl Mason. I’m your contact. I’m supposed to pick you up.”
“I’m right behind you. Keep your hands where I can see them, please.” He eased out of the jungle, moving until he was off to the side of Mason and could see his face in the dusk. Then he holstered the 1911 and stepped up. “Sorry about that. The last couple of days have been a bit…sudden, with all the changes.”
Mason stuck out his hand, “Sorry about that. I was pulling intel at the embassy when they said you were inbound. I didn’t want anybody else picking you up. We’re rough camping a half hour or so from here. We’re supposed to hit a smuggler’s caravan in the next forty-eight hours. Hop in.”
John dropped his pack in the back of the jeep, and Mason turned it around and sent it bouncing back down the track. “You been in the jungle before, Cronin?”
“Call me John. Yes, I’ve got some experience in the jungle. Up on the trail with the Montagnards, in ‘Nam.”
Mason whistled. “Green Beret?”
“Yeah, Fifth Group. Three tours.”
The rest of the ride was quiet, until they got within a mile or so of the camp, then Mason said, “Uh, I guess your training is going to be OJT. I assume you speak Spanish?”
“Yeah, border Spanish. Fairly fluent. Why?”
“The other three on the team are Hispanic, and they’ve been together for almost a year. They’ve survived.”
“Gotcha.”
The second night, John was sitting in the jungle camp in Guatemala, looking across the fire at a bull of a man, Jorge Ortega, who had ignored him the entire first day, spending his time drinking tequila. “What the fuck! They send me a damn white boy gonna stick out like a sore thumb out here. You even habla niño?” he slurred.
John had seen these dick beating games in Special Forces, and he casually pulled the Bowie knife he carried, using it to carve off a piece of the meat roasting over the fire. He’d mimed burning his fingers on the meat, thrown the Bowie, sticking it in the crate Ortega was sitting on, just below his crotch. As Ortega had jumped back stumbling to the ground, John drew his 1911, snicked the safety off as he stepped around the fire, and planted it between Ortega’s eyes so quickly that nobody else even had a chance to move.
Ortega’s eyes crossed, and he started to raise his hands until he saw John’s finger tighten on the trigger. He stopped moving as John told him softly in Spanish, “You won’t be the first man I’ve killed up close and personal. I like it up close and personal. You fuck with me again, and I’ll shoot you like the fucking dog you are.” He raked the pistol down to Ortega’s nose, starting a little blood running down Ortega’s face, “And don’t think you can fuck with me in the jungle. I spent two years with the Montagnards in ‘Nam on the trail. I’m better than you’ll ever be.”
Mason said, “John, please put the damn safety on before you slip. Please?”
He took a step back, put the safety back on, reached down and pulled the Bowie out of the crate, then stepped around the fire. He resumed his seat, picked up the piece of meat that he’d flipped away, brushed it off, and ate it, “Not bad. Needs a little better seasoning.”
Two weeks later, the situation became moot, as Ortega tripped a grenade that killed him instantly as they approached another possible cocaine smuggler’s stopover camp deep in the Guatemalan jungle. John’s ability to get along with the remaining Hispanic members of the team, his ability to move through the jungle, and ability to handle everything from intel to taking out sicarios led Mason to recommend John be given more responsibility. Two months and quite a few successful operations later, he moved down to the embassy in Quito, Ecuador, ostensibly as the assistant to the Ecuadorian Opportunity Liaison officer.
***
John’s first meeting with the new team at the safe house the first night proved to be interesting, when the first person he saw was He
ctor Velazquez. “Hector? What are you doing here?”
Hector had jumped up. “John! Madre Dios, it’s been… what, ten years,” he said as the handshake turned into a back pounding hug.
“More like fifteen, and my original question stands, what are you doing here?”
Hector laughed. “Apparently the same thing you are. Fighting the damn drug runners.”
The other three stood, watching the two of them with smiles on their faces. Hector turned, “This is the crazy Norte Americano I’ve told you about. His family raises longhorns too! We’ve known each other since we were kids.” He turned and pointed, “John, this is Pasquale Arrego, he’s a Kaibil- Guatemalan Special Operations. I warn you; he is also a devout Catholic and does not like cussing.”
John said, “Pleasure, Pasquale,” as he shook hands with him, seeing a squat, powerful man who moved like a panther.
“The lazy one by the couch is Fernando Duarte. He is a Costa Rican cop from San José. He does not like the jungle. He’s a big city guy, and likes his comfort,” he said with a grin.
“Fernando, glad to meet you.” Fernando was the best dressed of the four, with a pencil line moustache and long hair.
Fernando laughed. “Don’t believe a word that puta says. He is the one useless in the jungle. He gets lost in the first hundred yards. Yes, I prefer my creature comforts, but I also know the jungle.”
John laughed. “I know to take Hector with a grain of salt.”
“Maybe a bit more, maybe a kilo or so…”
Hector jumped in. “Insults. These minor slings and arrows one must endure against their betters. I am an officer. These others not so much,” he said with a twinkle in his eye as the others laughed. Pointing to the last man who leaned quietly against the wall, “Felix Obregon. He’s one of yours.”
Felix pushed off the wall and surprised John when he said in a broad New York accent, “I go by Niño, youngest of six, I’m from Brooklyn. Former Marine, one tour in Nam, medical discharge for leg wounds. I’m off the books, so don’t expect me at the embassy.”