The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  “Well, there’s lots of things going on,” he replied. “I’ve done a little business with BCCI myself. Let’s take a simple example that I’m familiar with, gun-running. You’re moving goods and large amounts of money between dodgy countries with different currencies. Say I sell a load of rifles to rebels in Nigeria and get paid in Nigerian nairas. BCCI comes in handy because they have operations just about everywhere, especially where Western banks aren’t doing business. Nairas are no good outside Nigeria, so I deposit my nairas at BCCI in Lagos, and then I can draw it out somewhere else in U.S. dollars, BCCI making the conversion. They’ll take a big bite, but it’s worth it because it’s easy and risk-free.

  “Then there’s money laundering. A lot of dirty money finds its way to BCCI. Governments can’t necessarily monitor the deposits going in, but when, say, a mafia family or a front for a drug syndicate comes up with a sudden big boodle, warning flags go up in Customs, the IRS, the Fed, lots of places. Tax issues? Origin of the money? What they can do is deposit the money at one of BCCI’s subsidiaries, then take out a loan for the same amount less fees at another subsidiary. Loan’s never paid back; BCCI keeps the deposit, and nobody taxes money you borrow. Doesn’t show up on the watch lists. So casino skim, drug money, what have you will find its way there. Especially international dirty money—Colombian, Mexican drug cartels. Less evidence for their governments to compile.

  “It helps money disappear, too. Say some old African Strong Man wheedles a few million in humanitarian aid from Uncle Sugar. The only human he’s gonna aid is himself. A lot of aid money goes unaccounted for. It used to wind up in numbered Swiss accounts, but nowadays it’s finding its way to BCCI. Convenient, untraceable, and more their own kind of people, you might say. No way Uncle Sugar’s ever gonna follow that money into BCCI.

  “Vesco mentioned covert ops. Covert ops means paying for weapons, supplies, transportation, troops, also bribes and contributions to the right parties. Some of it’s illegal, some of it you don’t want anybody to be able to follow the money trail. In the case of the CIA, the Reagan people especially don’t want to give the Democrats any ammunition. You want to keep it all dark, and that’s where BCCI comes in. Your money’s accessible wherever you might need it, and no traceable records because being an offshore bank they aren’t subject to any government’s regulations, except maybe Pakistan’s, and all the Muslims care about is you don’t charge interest. CIA uses BCCI, so does the KGB, no doubt the Mossad, the PLO, and God only knows who else out there.

  “I don’t know anything about the Carter crowd he mentioned. Maybe BCCI wants to set up an operation in the U.S.? It’d be an endless source of deposits, and once a bank gets the deposits, it can create money against it at ten to one, or even higher. That’s the ticket—banks mint their own money by making loans.”

  “Okay, I get the idea,” I said. “Vesco said something about shell companies. I suppose BCCI would be useful there, too. And for any other financial scams somebody wants to keep out of sight. Bribery? That’s another possibility. A U.S. defense contractor wants to sell some planes to a third world government, where every palm needs a little grease. So the company deposits a million in an account at BCCI, and the Slobovian major domo draws that same million out of his local branch. Now you see it, now you don’t.”

  “No end to the angles Vesco might play,” Driffter reflected. “So he wanted those records to track down the money, he says was stolen from him, and he also could use them to blackmail the thieves into returning it. Or any other thieves, and the woods are full of them. That bribery angle, for example. The defense company CEO faces prosecution for bribery; the Slobovian government faces embarrassment, maybe the U.S. government honcho that okayed the deal is lookin’ at an investigation. I see his point about being safe in Cuba. Hell, Castro must be one of BCCI’s best clients. But now that we have those records, some rough customers will be taking an interest in us. The sooner I can peddle it off, the better. There’s no cash in that suitcase, but it’s chock full of money to be made. I’ve got an idea where I can turn a good dollar on it, but it’s gonna take some delicate dealing. I’m thinkin’ it through as we go.”

  On we flew, eating up distance not nearly fast enough for me. I wanted Cuba in the rearview mirror; I wanted to be in friendly territory, out of this deal and shut of Driffter. He knew his stuff, though, sorry to say: dead on his estimate, about an hour after we left Vesco, he remarked, “Company incoming. Best you get back into the cabin, grab a G3, get yourself secure and get ready for combat.”

  “Combat? What do you see?”

  “A fighter-jet, coming high out of the northwest, probably based in Havana. He’s runnin’ a search pattern. He’ll spot us in a few minutes, no place for us to hide over open country. Don’t worry about the first pass. He’ll just buzz us, takin’ stock of the situation. I don’t think you’ll have much chance to get a shot at him, but be ready just in case.” In a short while a fighter jet whooshed by several hundred feet above us, a helluva lot faster than the Cessna, then began a long, high loop back around. Driffter abandoned his steady course toward the mountains and took to weaving to and fro and bobbing up and down in unpredictable patterns. The jet buzzed by us again, closer this time, there and gone in a flash. Down close like that, big as all outdoors and scary as hell.

  “I’m supposed to take him on with an assault rifle? Fat chance.”

  “We’ll have to do our best with what we have. He’ll try to force us down, pay it no mind. I’ve played this game before. He’ll try it a time or two more, and if we don’t respond then he’ll open up. It’s a MIG-21. Good plane at altitude, gave our flyboys a go in Nam. But useless down on the deck. They’re supersonic. Performance goes all to hell when they have to slow down for this kind of combat. Anyhow, Cuban pilots aren’t worth shit. No shootin’-war experience, only school training, and not much of that.”

  The green-blue peaks of the Sierra Maestra had appeared ahead to the east and drew steadily closer. The MIG buzzed us from the rear once more, then circled and came in from the front, the closing speeds far faster than from the rear. He dipped toward us head on, then veered back up and screamed above our rotor with an ear-busting roar, “He may try some gunfire on the next run,” Driffter remarked, “no chance of hitting us from abeam. Closing speeds coming in from the front are ‘way too short. He’ll have to come in from behind, but even so he’s got just split seconds to line us up for a shot. They should have sent out something suitable for ground support,” he tsked. Sure enough, after a few minutes a swarm of tracer whipped above us, the jet following in a split second.

  “I used to dodge these guys in Nam, nothin’ to it,” Driffter remarked. “The pilots are trained for air to air combat against similar craft, rockets from a half mile away at 800 knots or more. Two tactics. Either come from high above, take your shot and dive away below. Or come up from below, shoot and loop around for another pass. Can’t do either with us this low to the ground. So he’s gotta line up for a shot coming on a flat trajectory from dead behind us, and he can’t aim the plane too low, or he’ll hit the ground before he can pull out. So he can’t help but shoot high. I’ll juke and jive a little just to make sure. Here he comes.” Driffter suddenly threw the chopper to the right and dropped it down to within a few yards of the ground. Tracer passed high left, a football field off target, as the jet roared by.

  Driffter veered the chopper over toward some low foothills and took advantage of what cover he could find in terrain features. “He’s got time for maybe one more pass, and then we’ll be in that valley up ahead. Once we’re in there, there’s nothing he can do, and I don’t think they’ll have time to scramble any aircraft more suitable.” Driffter headed directly for a dark cleavage separating two looming mountains, steep and greenly wooded. “Here he comes, oh shit!” He hit the throttle hard and threw the chopper up and to the left. A rocket zipped by where we’d just been and flew on to explode in a field ahead of
us. As we passed over the settling dust, Driffter said, “Bastard damn near got lucky. That’s his last shot at us for a while, anyhow. No way he’s gonna draw a bead on us in the valleys.”

  This was getting hairy. Before the MIG could get around for another pass Driffter steered us into a welcoming cleft, its twists and turns drawing us deeply between forested ridges of the fabled Sierra Maestra. I resumed the co-pilot seat, strapped myself in tight and found myself wrenching through a wild ride to put Mr. Toad to shame. Might have been kind of fun if a MIG hadn’t had killing us in mind. Driffter’s CIA code name was DRAGONFLY, and he’d been a Laotian legend. I got it. Damn, the sonofabitch could fly a chopper. He slipped through the depths of valleys hugging the mountain slopes that afforded the best protection until the last possible moment, unerringly found a pass to the south, bobbed up, through and over, then flowed down the next declivity into another valley without giving the circling MIG a chance at a shot. The Sierra Maestra was mostly too wild for much sign of humanity, occasional shacks and settlements down on the floors, but in one of the valleys an odd construction caught my eye. “What the hell’s that?” I asked.

  “Where?”

  “Off to the right, in that little notch between the slopes. Looks like a giant vacuum cleaner.”

  “Oh yeah, I see it. Don’t know. Could be some kind of air defense installation the Russkies put there. Could be a charcoal plant. Maybe a sawmill? Probably not a sugar refinery, they’d have it closer to the plantations. Cubans don’t build things according to the same specs we use. Could be anything.”

  It faded away behind us as we mounted the slope and slipped over yet another ridge. “In a few minutes, we’re going to clear the mountains and hit the coast, and the MIG’s going to make another pass at us. He don’t want to return to base empty-handed. I don’t like those rockets. I think we’d best return fire.”

  “What’s the point? There’s no way in hell I’ll ever wing him with an assault rifle. He won’t even notice.”

  “Ever use a Redeye?”

  “Never had any use for them on LRRP patrols, no.”

  “It’s sort of like a bazooka, shoulder-launched, heat-seeking. It’s designed for surface-to-air against slower-movin’ craft, but it’s the best firepower we got. Go back and get one, I’ll show you what to do.” I unstrapped myself and groped my way to the cargo bay, bracing myself on any surface reachable against the buck-and-weaving of the chopper. Driffter pointed out the safety/actuator, led me through the get-ready, showed me the trigger. “He’ll fire another rocket at us and pass us by, above our rotor,” he said. “I’m gonna bank over as he goes by to give you a clear field of fire. The second he comes abreast put your sight on his tailpipe. A MIG could outrun it at top speed, but he’s slowed way down here. You’ll get one shot, so make it count.”

  So then it was a matter of waiting as we sped through the valley, vaulted the final mountain ridge and slid toward the coast margin. The MIG couldn’t follow us down the slope. He circled around, high above, as we cleared the shoreline and started across the open sea. I rehearsed firing the Redeye. Seemed simple enough—aim, shoot and high tech does the rest. “He’s got enough space behind us for him to make a run at us. Ready on the right side. Here he comes.” Taking aim and making my shot at the moment of opportunity amidst Driffter’s bouncing the chopper around was the challenge. I braced myself as best I could at the open port on the right. “Here comes the rocket!” Driffter shouted. It hissed below us. “Up and at ‘em!” He banked the Huey hard over to the left, exposing my port to the passing jet. It was all I could do to keep from being tossed across the cargo bay and out the other port, but I got the shot off.

  The MIG started its climb. “Guess I missed him,” I said.

  “Give it a sec. It’s chasing his tailpipe, and it can turn inside the arc he’s taking.” Presently an explosion flashed orange at the tail of the MIG. “God damn; you got him!” Driffter exclaimed. Sure enough. The plane faltered in its climb and went into a crazy spin. A dark object popped out of it, and then a chute opened, the pilot ejecting.

  “We’re home free?” I asked hopefully.

  “Don’t we wish. I’ve had enough of this trip, want to get it behind us. That’s probably the last we’ll see of Cubans, but there’s still another hundred miles over open sea, and I’m afraid the word has gotten out by now. They know about the robbery at BCCI. They know we took off with the suitcase from Grand Cayman. They’ll be checkin’ your hotel, find your stuff. They can ID my chopper. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vesco put out an APB on us, so they’ll know we left Cuba, and Jamaica is the only possible destination. We just shot down a Cuban jet, and they’ll hear all about that plenty pronto.”

  “They? What ‘they’?”

  “Why, every damn body with an interest in the contents of that suitcase, a mighty big legion of ‘theys’.”

  “How are we doing for fuel?”

  “Evading the MIG used up more than I like, but we’ll probably make it, just barely.”

  With that disquieting thought in mind, I settled into my seat as we whapwhapwhapped our way across the empty sea, staying low. The deep blue surface showed a little swell, no chop to speak of. We buzzed fishing boats here and there, passed over a big Bertram motor cruiser and a couple of big sailing yachts scudding along outside Cuban waters, a lovely day for a leisurely helicopter jaunt about the exotic blue Caribbean. If only. As the day leaned toward sunset Jamaica’s grey mountain peaks peeked over the horizon, then grew in the distance—forty miles away, fifteen or twenty minutes maybe?

  What a twenty minutes it was soon to be! “Shit, now we’re in for it,” spat Driffter. “Incomin’ chopper on the east horizon.”

  I peered to the east, couldn’t make out anything. Driffter had pilot’s eyes, he surely did. Presently I espied a little black dot. It was like the scene in Lawrence of Arabia at the waterhole, where a distant blur materializes into a murderous brigand on camelback. Except this was no raghead with a muzzleloader, it was a combat aircraft. Driffter suddenly put the Huey into a stomach-dropping climb. “What is it?” I asked.

  “A Cobra,” he said. “We need altitude. That MIG was no problem, but this will be.”

  “We called Cobras ‘flying tanks’,” I said. “Attack helicopters, great for air strikes.”

  “Good for a lot of things, and it’s got us outgunned and out-classed. They’re hopped-up Hueys, a little faster, a lot of firepower. If I was them, I’d try to get above us—they could fire down, we couldn’t fire up through the rotor.”

  As it closed on us, I made out that it was black, no markings. “Who is it?”

  “From their bearing, they must of come from Gitmo. Meaning American. Shit, it’s always something! Little problem here, Fonko. I’ve never done chopper to chopper combat. None of America’s enemies had combat choppers, except the Russkies, and we never went head to head with them. Never encountered any in Africa, either. We’re wingin’ it here; no pun intended—makin’ it up as we go along. One thing for sure, we can’t let them get above us. If they get directly over us, they can ride us to the deck. They’ll stay there, keep us from rising and take away our lift with their downdraft. I’m trying for maneuvering room. Only a couple things in our favor. The Huey’s a little nimbler with a higher rate of climb and a higher operating ceiling. They have to line up nose-on to shoot at us whereas we don’t. And we’ve got a better pilot… I hope.”

  Driffter turned up the radio as we continued to climb. As we reached 5000 feet, sure enough a hail squawked out. “Huey, Huey, come in.”

  “Might’s well see what they have to say.” He picked up the mike. “This is the Huey. Identify yourselves, you in the Cobra.”

  “Negative on that. Big mean bastards is all you need to know. We’re going to escort you to the nearest landing point. Reduce your altitude, follow a course on 218 degrees heading.”

  “They mean to t
ake us down on the Jamaican coast,” Driffter breathed. “Fuck that. Get back in the cargo bay. Ready a Redeye and grab a G3.” Into the mike he said, “Identify yourselves. I don’t take orders from strangers.”

  “You’re kidding! Come off it, the jig’s up, Driffter. We’re your worst nightmares. Take a 218 heading and come quietly, or we’ll blow your sorry ass out of the sky.”

  “Shit, they know me. Get ready for the ride of your life, Fonko.” He leveled out and goosed the chopper toward the looming hills, the coast now maybe fifteen miles distant. The Cobra closed in fast and climbed above us. They had maybe 10 knots speed advantage, not huge but helpful. Driffter peeled away. As the Cobra came around to face us, he turned and went into another climb, getting above the Cobra. It became a cat-and-mouse dance, Driffter snatching distance toward the island every chance he got. This couldn’t be good for fuel economy. The Cobra looped away, then came in at us. A cascade of sparks in the nose sent a raft of tracer fifty yards ahead of us, the obligatory shot across the bow. Jesus—an M197 Gatling gun, 1500 rounds per minute! And me with a 20-round clip in a G3.

  “Driffter, quit fucking around and take your chopper in,” the radio squawked. “We aren’t going to waste any more time here.”

  “Shouldn’t we just give it up? “ I asked. “They could blow us away any time they want. It’s Americans. We can work it out?”