by Leland Davis
“Will we be staying in DC?” Chip asked, bringing himself back into the moment.
“Only for a night or two, then we’ll move to a location a few hours away.”
“And we find out what this is about tomorrow?” Chip tried to hide the anxiety he felt over this mystery.
“Probably first thing Friday morning. We’ll have briefings and a planning session where we’ll need your input about the river stuff. Hopefully we’ll be able to make a best guess for the date when the water levels will be right, and then we’ll move on from there.”
Chip pointed out the restaurant on the right, and Harris looked for a parking space. Whatever this was about, he thought, he couldn’t complain about the epic week of kayaking he had just done or the bankroll he had built up. Combined with an entire rafting season’s worth of savings, the money from the past few weeks meant that he could probably skip winter entirely while paddling in South America. He would get to travel in style for once and be able to afford some hotels and meals out at restaurants instead of eating pasta and sleeping in the dirt. As exciting as that prospect was, what really haunted his dreams was that mysterious waterfall in the canyon that he would hopefully be visiting soon.
They all piled out of the vehicles and into the crowded taqueria, finding a table large enough for all five of them. Tonight it was tacos and cervezas, no matter what tomorrow might hold.
7
Friday, October 28th
THE SOUND OF the alarm felt like it was piercing Chip’s brain. He usually used a soothing song from his music library for the alarm on his smartphone, but there was no way anything but the harshest of noises could wake up him this early. He fumbled for the phone on the table beside his hotel bed and struggled to hit the right part of the touch screen to make the awful noise stop. It was 6 AM here in DC, but his body was still in a deep, 3 AM west coast slumber. Yesterday had been a long day. A four-hour drive back to Seattle had preceded a cross-country flight that had touched down late last night at Dulles. He thought he was in a Holiday Inn Express again, but there had been so many hotels over the last week that he couldn’t be sure. He struggled to the shower, noticing that Mendez—his roommate throughout the last week—had already left for his morning run. What was wrong with these guys?
The hot water brought him somewhat awake. He dried off, dressed, and staggered down to the lobby. He sniffed a coffee pot that smelled faintly of weak joe, then opted to walk outside and across the parking lot to a Safeway supermarket. He immediately regretted that in his morning confusion he’d forgotten to put on a jacket. From the misty grey weather he couldn’t tell whether he was in DC or still in the other Washington. As he entered the store he saw that he was in luck—there was a Starbucks inside. He got a double cappuccino then went through the grocery checkout line and grabbed a RedBull from a cooler. He paid with cash then stuffed the drink into his pants pocket, wishing again that he’d brought a jacket as the cold can pressed against his leg.
As he was opening the door to the hotel lobby to go back and fetch his jacket, the others were already coming out. Harris pulled up in the same dark blue Suburban they had used for their West Virginia rafting trip. Although they weren’t supposed to leave for another fifteen minutes, Chip was forced to turn around and pile into the truck with the others.
He barely finished his coffee before the truck stopped in front of an old, three-story brick office building. They scrambled out of the truck and into the building, where Harris led the way to the stairwell and began skipping up two steps at a time. After three flights of stairs, Chip was mostly awake and warm. He followed the others down the hall to the left to a door marked “Export Logistics, LLC.” As the rest of the group entered, he ducked back down the hallway to look for a bathroom. The coffee had gone straight through him.
A few minutes later, Chip sheepishly opened the door to the office suite and entered as the smiling receptionist waved him inside. She indicated a door to the right. When Chip stepped inside, the rest of the crew was sitting around three sides of a conference table. A large flat-panel TV on a rolling stand stood just beyond the fourth side. Chip winced as the stale smell of decades-old cigarette smoke wafted up from the ugly 1970s block-print carpet. The old suit, Sutherland, thin and drawn as ever, sat next to the TV working on a laptop which was connected to the large TV screen. Chip sat in the remaining available chair, stood back up to awkwardly pull the can of RedBull out of his pants pocket, then sat again and helped himself to a glazed jelly donut from a box on the table. The others were already eating.
Sutherland eventually leaned back in his chair, pulled his glasses off and put them next to his computer, then called the meeting to order.
“Welcome back, gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed the Northwest. Harris tells me that it was a productive training session, and that you’re prepared for what’s to come. You’re probably all wondering exactly what that is.”
He turned and addressed Chip specifically, “The rest of us are familiar with this sort of thing, but I need to emphasize here the importance of keeping everything covered in this meeting absolutely confidential, and that you in fact never share it with anyone.”
Chip nodded. He would agree to just about anything at this point to find out what this was about, and more importantly where that waterfall was located.
Sutherland kept looking pointedly at him until Chip felt the need to speak.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll never tell anybody.”
Mollified by the verbalization of Chip’s commitment to secrecy, Sutherland reached to his computer and pulled up the first slide. It was a photograph of a man taken from some distance away and obviously without his knowledge. He was a Latino of what looked to be European descent, around forty-five years old. He had short dark hair and a thick moustache which angled down sharply from the base of his nose. He looked fit and competent, and was walking toward a dark Ford Expedition flanked by two serious-looking men in aviator sunglasses.
“This is Vicente Guerra Cardenas,” Sutherland began, “formerly of the Mexican GAFE—their elite special forces. Although the situation is somewhat muddled with regard to the power structure down there, we believe he is currently the number one man in charge of the Leones del Oriente drug cartel.”
Mexico! Chip’s heart raced. He was one step closer to knowing the where the falls was. It was familiar territory for him—he’d driven down there on several kayaking trips back when gas was cheaper and a South American trip wasn’t in his budget.
“This is one serious bad guy,” Sutherland continued. “He’s the driving force behind much of the violence that’s consuming Mexico and spilling over the border. Current estimates indicate that his organization accounts for as much as sixty-five percent of the narcotics that enter the U.S. from Mexico. Not only is he manufacturing his own, he is also the main liaison with some major producers in Columbia. His organization is known for the brutality of their methods, as well as for kidnapping innocent people to use as mules or soldiers in their ongoing fights with police and competing cartels. Virtually none of those kidnapped survive the ordeal.”
“Although most of his smuggling operations work out of the northern states of Tamulipas and Nuevo Leon, we believe he currently runs the show from the security of a secluded compound located farther south in a remote area in the western part of the state of San Luis Potosi.”
This was getting even better. Chip had paddled in San Luis many times during Thanksgiving and winter breaks from college, as well as several times after the rafting season had ended in the States. It was home to some of his favorite rivers to kayak south of the border, and he loved the culture and food as well. How could he have missed this river in his many hours of scouring the area on Google Earth looking for new rapids to run?
The display on the screen switched to a wide-angle satellite view showing a vast area of green jungle with a fringe of desert along the western edge. Sutherland slowly zoomed in on one area of jungle to bring up the familiar picture of t
he globs of green mountains with the ribbon of white river running through them.
“This is the compound where we believe he’s located. It’s isolated nearly ten kilometers of rough terrain from his perimeter, where he has a force of approximately seventy men on guard. The other side of the river has even worse terrain, and it’s about twenty kilometers from the nearest entry points, which are also guarded. Of course, the canyon and river are formidable obstacles as well.”
The men were all leaning forward intently now, each analyzing the terrain and immediate defenses of the compound, their years of training and experience quickly telling them more than Chip could imagine about the picture they saw. Chip, on the other hand, was analyzing every ripple and cataract visible on the surface of the river hidden deep in the jungle canyon. His years of experience were providing him with an entirely different set of information. The images were obviously newer than the ones he had seen a few weeks ago in the café in West Virginia, and there was less water flowing in the river this time. The rainy season was coming to an end down there. There still appeared to be more water than they wanted, but the time was drawing nearer. As the curls of whitewater called to him like an alluring siren song, his mind drifted to thoughts about the seventy heavily armed men. He didn’t like that part at all. That sort of risk wasn’t something he was comfortable with managing. He would have to rely on the skills, training, and experience of the team even as they’d relied on his for the rivers over the last few weeks. It still made his heart rate increase, so he switched his thoughts back to the waterfall. That didn’t help much either.
“The objective, obviously, is to take him out,” Sutherland went on. “We’re hoping that removing the head of the snake, so to speak, will lead to confusion and also interrupt the flow of drugs from the Columbians who he works with. Although there will certainly be an internal power struggle once he’s removed, we estimate that the impact on shipments of drugs into the U.S. will be considerable. More importantly, we hope that it will cause a significant decrease in the rampant killings along the border as the other cartels—whose methods are somewhat less violent—move in and take over the business. With any luck, this could mean the end of the reign of one of the more violent cartels and a significant stabilization of the border region.”
Sutherland slid his glasses back on and squinted at his laptop as he scrolled the screen to display an area about ten kilometers upriver of Cardenas’ compound. He looked up at the large TV and pointed a thin finger at a dirt track that was visible along the edge of a huge sugar cane field. A ridge of jungle separated the opposite side of the field from the river.
“The insertion will be from this road, through the cane field. We’ll have your driver drop you there just before dawn. You’ll have the entire day to make it to the river and move ten kilometers downstream.” He scrolled the view to show a short distance upstream of the compound, just below the smaller falls that Chip had pointed out in their last meeting. “You will wait here concealed behind the bend in the canyon wall until about one hour before dawn the following day. Then you’ll pass through the final rapids and stop just before the large falls.”
That explained why Chip had never seriously considered this river before. There was no road access, and a hike through the cane field and over that jungle covered ridge carrying his kayak could prove to be the hardest part of the mission. In his research, he’d discounted most rivers that didn’t have a road leading to them.
Sutherland scrolled again then zoomed in on the falls and the four thatched roofs on the canyon rim. Chip used the gap in the talk to lean forward and snag another glazed donut from the box, then cracked open the energy drink. The time zone change in combination with their early start definitely had him suffering.
“Once there, you will lower your boats to the bottom of the falls and tie them off. You will then make your way to the compound by climbing up this weakness in the canyon wall.”
Chip had no intention of lowering his boat down that falls, but he figured this wasn’t the time or place to bring that up.
Sutherland pointed to a notch in the wall just above the lip of the falls and then used the trackpad to rotate the imagery to a lower angle view that showed a series of wide cracks in the rock face that could be used for purchase. The cracks ended on the top of the cliff near a point of rock that rose above the compound. Chip had spent plenty of days rock climbing on the amazing sandstone cliffs near the rivers where he worked in West Virginia. Although the climbing in the picture looked challenging, he didn’t think it would be a problem for athletes like these.
“Once you reach the top, one team will provide cover from this outcropping while another secures ropes to the supports of this building just downriver along the canyon rim,” he pointed out the round roof, “which will allow for exit by rappelling down to the boats at the base of the falls.”
“After the ropes are secured, both teams will move in and take out Cardenas in this building, which is his residence.” Sutherland pointed to the square roof on the canyon rim this time.
“We estimate a security force of roughly four to six men at this location, mostly stationed on the side of the compound toward the road and away from the river.” He indicated the square thatched roof that was farthest from the canyon. “With any luck, Cardenas can be eliminated with suppressed weapons without alerting any of these men. Once back in the boats, you’ll make your way downstream another fourteen kilometers to a point where a dirt jeep track ends near the river. Your driver will pick you up there. The river has much less gradient below the falls, but there will still be rapids.”
The men were all nodding. What would have seemed like an impossible mission before their recent training seemed like a solid plan now. They all liked the idea of avoiding resistance as much as possible since their team was so small. However, it was also patently obvious that the plan relied on surprise and silence. They would have to be very careful.
“What’s our cover?” asked the burly Roberts.
“You’ll be travelers on vacation, although we’re still working out the details of how we’ll conceal the equipment—especially the kayak.”
“Why conceal it?” Chip asked. “Tons of gringos go down there to kayak this time of year. We should carry one kayak for each of us, and we won’t be suspicious at all.”
“That’s a fine idea, Mr. Wilson, and it brings us to our next question: When should you go in order to have the optimal conditions for navigating the river?”
As was his habit, Chip had been using his smartphone to regularly check the water levels in rivers across North and South America throughout his recent travels. He knew the score from river friends he kept in touch with who were planning trips to that area this very winter.
“They’ve had a wet rainy season down there, but most of the tropical storms missed them. Judging from the size of that stream, I’d say it will most likely be good in mid-to-late November this year. How old are these pictures?”
“They were taken on Wednesday.”
“Yeah, it needs to come down a little bit more, but not too much. Do you know what the weather’s doing down there right now?”
“We know it was clear on Wednesday when the images were taken. It was wet leading up to that, but our best forecasts indicate that they’ll be getting sun for the next week at least.”
Chip thought for a minute before responding. This reliance on his judgment for planning was a little more than he had bargained for today. It wasn’t something he was unaccustomed to, though—he just hoped that the others would understand that this was not a precise science.
“The problem is that there are virtually no river gauges available online for that area. I’ll start hearing about the water levels from friends who are heading down there in two or three weeks, but we might want to be there by then. I suggest we head down in two weeks and check the conditions. We might have to wait a week or two for the level to drop in, but at least we won’t miss it.” Plus, adding a couple we
eks of paddling in Mexico onto this fall season of paid kayaking wouldn’t bother Chip a bit. This was getting better and better. He wondered if he’d get five hundred bucks a day for it. He might not have to work at all next year!
“So we’ll plan to deploy on the eleventh,” Sutherland stated with his mind made up. There would be details to work out, but that date would leave plenty of time. “Any more questions?”
As the date was set, the reality of what Chip had signed up for began to sink in. His mind drifted back to the covert entry and the large force of armed men.
“Yeah,” Chip said, “I’ve got a question. Are you gonna give me a gun?”
Sutherland looked at Harris, who met his gaze and slowly nodded.
“Yeah,” answered Harris, turning to Chip. “We can’t expect you to go into an area that hot unarmed. We’ll train you up over the next couple of weeks with the understanding that it’s for self-defense only. You will wait at the river and rappel directly from the lip of the waterfall to the bottom with the boats. We’ll join you there when it’s done.”
Duval lightly kicked Chip’s foot under the table to get his attention and gave him a wink and pantomimed shooting a pistol with one hand. Duval was the wild man of the crew, and he and Chip had developed a friendship of banter and outrageous antics over the last few weeks. Duval was the most like a river guide of the bunch, which often set Chip at ease around the more rigid military guys.
Sutherland looked at Harris, “I think a weekend off is in order for all of you to catch up on family time. After that you’ll go to The Woods?”