The Executioner snugged the dark aviator shades tight to his face. To the east, he saw a squat concrete block running about fifty yards, north to south. Intel stated the building was Camp Triangle’s depot. Taking up one corner of the structure was a motor pool, filled with a half-dozen Humvees with mounted TOW antitank missile launchers and .50-caliber machine guns. There were also a matching number of black GMCs. Three forklifts parked on the opposite end, though, commanded a few seconds worth of Bolan’s speculation, as the ghosts of Wolfe-Binder danced over his shoulders.
Guard towers, he noted, loomed from each of the four corners, rising ten feet above twenty feet of chain-link razor-topped fencing that enclosed the detention center and depot. With spotlights in each watch station, they likewise housed .50-caliber machine gun nests encircled with sandbags.
Surveying the vast and all-points fenced-in acreage of airfield, Bolan counted two Bell JetRanger choppers and an equal number of Black Hawks, Hueys and twin-engine Cessnas to the east. The odd bird out was a custom black-hulled spook transport, grounded with its nose aimed through the open doors of a massive hangar. Add the number of fuel tanker trucks he’d seen before landing that lined the south facing of the warehouse…
Interesting, he decided. For a classified detention center that only housed twenty-five prisoners—with more ostensibly on the way from Gitmo, Iraq, Afghanistan or wherever first-tier Islamic militants were captured by American special ops or CIA operatives in the war on terror—Bolan found it quite an impressive feat on such short notice, if Brognola’s timeline for the construction of Camp Triangle was correct.
And that left the human—or inhuman—factor.
Whatever he’d perused in the official military jackets on the two main players sharing command—General Max Compton and Colonel James Braden—Bolan had decided to reserve judgment. Despite their sterling careers on record—complete with honors, medals, all the glory trimmings of heroes in uniform—Bolan’s grim experience had long since dictated there were always blanks to fill in with few exceptions, when it came stamped classified or black ops.
“Colonel.”
Turning, Bolan found a blacksuit squeezed in the hatchway. The C-2O was custom-built for the purposes of Stony Man missions. Inside, two-thirds of the fuselage was outfitted as a high-tech communication, surveillance and tracking center. As planned, Bolan would put it to the ranking powers the bird was off-limits, and that it would also double as his interrogation center for prisoners. The three blacksuits Bolan had selected from the Farm to aid and assist him for the mission were handpicked by Brognola. They were sworn to a lifetime oath of secrecy. They had their standing orders for the time being, and Bolan knew he could depend on the blacksuits, on the battlefield or working technical expertise.
“General Compton informed me he will meet you at the main North Gate marked A,” Michaels said. “Two minutes, sir.” Bolan caught the wry grin, as the blacksuit added, “He extends his apologies for not meeting you and for keeping you waiting.”
Flashing the blacksuit a tight smile, Bolan nodded for Michaels to carry on. The Executioner took his time as he began ambling toward Gate A. For effect, he checked his chronometer. A look west, and he noted the solitary guard station that, apparently, marked the only way in or out by vehicle. Like the watchtowers, the booth was encased in black-tinted glass. Bolan knew—could feel—he was being observed.
All told, he considered, Camp Triangle was sprawling—and suspect.
Much like Brazil.
Not unlike the history of other nations—where the victors in violence and oppression dictated the terms and grabbed up the lion’s share of the good life—Brazil’s story was a violent one. Bolan knew that something like three percent of the population owned ninety percent of the wealth, while twenty percent were mired in extreme poverty, with another twenty just clawing on to desperate subexistence. With a population of 170 million, that left a whole bunch of hungry mouths. Crime? Misery? Desperation? How about, he thought, a raging hell on earth that kept the Devil dancing 24/7. How about eight million children living on the streets, roving gangs of urchins killing or being killed, stealing, selling everything from their bodies to narcotics to cadaver organs while ducking death squads that often doused them with gasoline and set them on fire, often simply because they were an eyesore. Bolan knew that corruption tainted everyone in authority from the highest-ranking military brass to border guards.
A grim realist, Bolan stopped himself. He knew wherever Animal Man plied the darkness of his heart on the weak, defenseless and vulnerable, there would always be corruption, brutality, tyranny, just to name of few of the ills that plagued Brazil to a demonic extreme few nations on earth could rival.
Along those lines of dark and angry reflection, he suspected that the remote bloody region where Argentina reached out to meet Brazil and Paraguay was selected for good reason.
The Triangle was known within international intelligence and law-enforcement circles as one of the most dangerous, treacherous, vicious outlaw cesspools on the planet. And Bolan knew it was a region—a bloody shadowland on the Brazilian border—where every viral strain of criminal, smuggler, trafficker, bandit, rebel, terrorist or rising dark star could take refuge and ply his cutthroat trade in the hopes of fattening illicit gains or hatching murderous plots. Provided, of course, they had ready cash, pure malice of heart, or contacts within the military, law enforcement or intelligence arenas they could grease, blackmail or threaten.
Not more than a dozen or so miles west from where he stood, the lesions of this inhumanity primarily congregated in a boomtown den of thieves and killers on the Brazilian-Paraguay border known as Ciudad del Este. Aware of its proximity to Camp Triangle, the Executioner had been informed by Brognola that the Countermeasure Task Force had convinced the President to set up classified shop there, in part, because Task Force Talon was interested in penetrating potential terror operations, or recruiting contract informants in Ciudad del Este. The argument—a strong one, Bolan had to admit—was the criminal haven was a potential gold mine for intelligence gathering on Hamas, Hezbollah, al Qaeda and other Mideast militants who used Paraguay much like the Nazis who fled Germany after World War II. Seeking asylum from their crimes perhaps, but in the age of terror plotting mass murder was more likely in the cards for the new breed of viper hiding in South America.
He could see how the SCTF had spun the web. If it was all a smoke screen for some larger insidious agenda, if they had baited, hoodwinked the President…
Bolan paused. They were five minutes into the waiting game, as the door opened on the windowless north facade. There were eight of them, slowly crossing a stretch of no-man’s land, but Bolan recognized only Compton and Braden. Two Marines in dark green fatigues and carrying M-16s led the procession. The others donned the midnight-black fatigues—what passed, he knew from intel, as their uniform—of Task Force Talon. The rearguard, wielded submachine guns, their buzz cuts topped by black berets. Braden and the two unknowns flanking him toted only Berettas in shoulder rigging. Nobody looked eager to welcome Colonel Stone with open arms.
As Bolan walked slowly to the gate, one of the Marines punched in a series of numbers that electronically slid open the first of three mesh barriers. General Compton, working hard on a cigar, followed a Marine down the short chain-link tunnel, waiting while the next gate slid open. A TFT commando marched past him to key open the last gate.
Compton forced a smile that reminded Bolan of a used car salesman. “Colonel Stone. Welcome to Camp Triangle. My apologies again for keeping you waiting. We had some last-minute reports to prepare for you. It’s been a busy morning already. I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled in and get down to business.”
Was that a scowl, Bolan wondered, that Braden flashed at Compton?
Bolan unzipped his windbreaker while Braden fell in beside Compton and the two TFT commandos picked up the general’s right wing. The Executioner noted the emblems on the berets were screaming hawks in iron cast
and full swoop, and he felt ice in the air. Compton, the only one of the quartet not hiding his eyes with sunglasses, started to hold out his hand when Bolan produced a thin sheaf of papers. Dumping them off to Compton, he got a nose full of whiskey fumes.
“My orders from Washington,” Bolan said.
Compton quickly hid his annoyance with a tight smile. “Colonel, we already received those, and we’re fully aware of why you’re here. Rest assured, you will receive nothing but the fullest compliance in accord with Washington’s orders.”
The general, Bolan thought, was trying too hard to show him nothing, but he was telling him everything.
They were dirty. He had no doubt.
“That’s just in case you lost the originals, or there’s any misunderstanding,” Bolan said.
Compton looked flustered, turned and introduced Braden, who threw Bolan a curt nod. Then Compton said, “This is Turkle and Hanover. They’re part of Colonel Braden’s interview team. The colonel and his team will gladly provide any assistance you might need when interviewing the prisoners.”
A few choice remarks flew through Bolan’s head, but why show his hand? Bolan sensed the nervous agitation on Compton, but he was taking a strong and unpleasant read off the TFT threesome. They were sizing him up and down, from the com link wound around his neck to the side arms, wondering. Their grim silence, though, spoke in rock concert decibels. Measure them, Bolan thought, top to bottom, a triple combo chip on the shoulder, attitude flashing him the invisible middle finger. These men were dangerous, and his first instinct told him they had something to hide.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be working alone,” Bolan said, and laid out what he wanted. He watched the TFT trio stiffen. From immediate refueling of his craft, which was hands-off to all Camp Triangle personnel, to numbers on the keypads for all gates and doors, diagrammed around the compass and written out. He wanted keys to one Humvee and a GMC, both fully fueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice. He wanted free and ready access to any aircraft of his choosing, all craft likewise topped out with fuel and shipshape.
He informed them he would begin his interview of the prisoners once he toured the facility, but it would be done on board his Gulfstream and his men would escort the detainees to and from their cells. He expected his men to be given the same no-questions consideration he would receive. Free access. Anywhere. Anything.
“Any problems with this?” Bolan asked.
For the first time Braden spoke. “Whatever makes you happy, Colonel Stone.”
Bolan felt it pass between them. Cross a line, and they would have his ass, and Washington could kindly kiss their collective butts. They had their own agenda here, and Bolan suspected it went beyond gaining intelligence on terror operations through unconventional means.
“I want the processing paperwork,” Bolan told Compton, “on all twenty-five prisoners. I want complete transcripts of each interview. I want the videotapes of each and every interview, all of it in my hands in the next ten minutes. And I hope you have more for me on the detainees than name, rank and serial number.” Bolan watched as Compton glanced away, cleared his throat, gnawed on his cigar. “Is there a problem with my request, General?”
Compton looked at Braden, then said, “Colonel, why don’t you gather up the processing paperwork and what we have on the record as far as interviews while I walk Colonel Stone through the facility.”
“Don’t forget those keys, and my diagram with all keypad numbers.”
Braden hesitated. “I might need a little more than ten minutes, if you want all that.”
“You have twenty minutes,” Bolan said.
“If you’ll excuse me then, Colonel,” Braden said. He wheeled and headed for the open outer gate, his comrades falling in.
Compton cleared his throat, turned away from Bolan, teeth still chomping his cigar. Right then, the general struck Bolan as a man bobbing in a sea teeming with sharks, as desperate as hell for someone to throw him a lifeline.
“If you’ll follow me, Colonel.”
10
“Fifty-thousand dollars is not exactly what I had in mind for an advance, nor does it make my heart sing with joy. I hope you intend to show me more than a mere pittance which, may I add, borders on insulting.”
Braden chuckled as he threw a look over his shoulder at Colonel Miguel Poscalar. Poscalar was sitting in a chair in front of his desk, one silk-swathed leg crossed over the other, decked out in threads that would cost most Brazilians more than their annual wages. The dark sports jacket and matching shirt were woven from the finest silk, or so he bragged. A gold crucifix the size of a man’s fist hung from the open shirt, unbuttoned halfway to his navel in neodisco fashion. With Italian loafers, a white broad-brimmed hat perched on a full head of coiffed black hair and the Havana cigar jutting out beneath a salt-and-pepper mustache, he struck Braden as picture perfect for a narcotrafficker, or officer on the take. Which, in fact, he was. The floating rumor was he was also the commander of the death squads that roved from Ciudad del Este to the slums of Rio de Janeiro. Behind Poscalar, Hanover and Turkle formed a human barricade at the door. Just in case Stone didn’t find it necessary to knock, the Washington stooge would have to barge past them first.
Stooge? Braden thought, correcting himself. Whatever Stone was, Braden knew he was no inside-the-Beltway flunkie. The big SOB had a look, a way he carried himself Braden knew all too well from walking down more than a few dark and dangerous roads. The no-shit attitude warned Braden someone in D.C. believed the worst about Camp Triangle, and Stone had come to make it right. Which meant their days—now hours, in truth—had to be numbered.
Thinking he’d be damned before he let Stone cuff and stuff him, Braden returned to rifling through the pile of classified documents on the war table, determining what he would deliver to the SOB and what sensitive materials he would he shred before he walked out of his office. The processing papers were no problem, he knew. Standard write-ups, they contained that name, rank and serial number Stone had cracked smart-ass about, with country of origin, alleged ties to whichever miltant group, how each detainee was captured and so forth filling up most of the document. Then there were Defense and Pentagon memorandums confirming they had garnered hard intelligence while grilling the Warrior Sons of Islam detainees since their transfer from Gitmo to Camp Triangle. He made sure their successes landed on top, thinking Stone had to surely be aware that four major al Qaeda cells had been smoked out from Buffalo to Miami and at least two terrorist plots thwarted in the past month. If Stone was here, playing spook games and chumming the waters, Braden decided he could blow smoke in his face, too.
“You find this amusing, Colonel Braden?”
Braden ignored Poscalar as he clipped together all the materials relating to contacts, locations and satellite imagery of black ops best left for no one’s eyes. Then he went to his desk and began hastily sketching out the detention center, filling in the requisite keypad numbers over each gate.
Poscalar scowled behind a cloud of smoke. “If our arrangement is to continue, Colonel, I must be compensated adequately. Without me, there would be no Camp Triangle, and since I stand between you and my colleagues in Brasilia, the peacemaker and arbitrator, if you will, to men who could terminate this base on a whim, I suggest you begin digging into your black funds coffers a little deeper, and soon. Beyond that, you have entrusted me to search out Arab militants who may have links to the prisoners here. That by itself is extremely risky. Am I reaching you, Colonel?”
Braden busied himself completing the whole package, knowing he had more problems than a slicked-up, designer-suited buzzard. The last shipment of supergrade pesticide, for starters, was not yet delivered, which, if there was a bright side, was good news. That kind of cargo would unleash a barrage of questions from Stone for which he had no good, or at best, rational answers.
As if reading his mind, Poscalar grabbed the bull by the horns. “Then there is the matter of the pesticide shipments, and yes,
yes, I know what you claim they are. Nonetheless, it is costing me a small fortune alone to warehouse your cargo in Ciudad del Este. I have guards to pay, there is daily overhead to consider. There is transport to arrange. Now you tell me there will be no more shipments, but I am thinking I do not need the hassle.”
And what about that? Braden wondered, grinding his teeth so hard he heard his jaw crack. Harper and his black ops crew had mysteriously vanished. No one was picking up the phone on the New Orleans end or returning his e-mail. Vanished. Ghosts, smoke blown away in the wind. Two scenarios burned his anxiety deeper on that score. Harper and crew either had been discovered by federal law enforcement as exporters—middlemen actually—of a highly toxic substance that was two to three steps at best from being refined into nerve gas, and arrested. Or they had jumped ship, skipping off with whatever cash they had on hand for the paradise of their choosing, leaving him to twist in the winds of doom.
Then there was Compton to worry about. Would the functioning alcoholic buffoon crack under pressure, confessing his own sins to save his blubbering hide from life in Leavenworth, playing the blame game from now until kingdom come, implicating everyone short of the Devil himself? And last but not least there was Stone, sure to demand—as soon as he took one look—to know why the hell there were six detainees who had faces like smashed tomatoes. If that happened…
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