by Randall Wood
“No...No, I can do it,” Jack interrupted.
They waited in silence till there was a knock on the door.
“Come,” the Director called.
The door opened and Dave entered the room. He looked at the two agents against the wall before coming forward.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a seat, Dave. I have some questions for you.”
Dave calmly took a seat next to Jack. He looked a little nervous, and that was all Jack needed to know the truth. From an envelope on his lap, he pulled a stack of papers and tossed it in Dave’s lap.
“Have you ever seen this document before, Dave?” Jack asked.
Dave looked at the papers and then up at Jack. He said nothing.
“They arrived by fax while we were on the plane coming back from California. According to the time stamp, it came in at 2 a.m. I know I was sleeping, and I’m sure the rest of the team was, too. You, however, don’t sleep on planes, ever.” Jack let the statement hang.
When Dave offered no reply, Jack went on. “So I thought, hoped actually, that it just got misplaced. So when we got back today I pulled you all off the plane quickly and had it searched. Nothing, so I had all the documents we have so far inventoried, again nothing. So then I had internal affairs go through everybody’s bags from the plane.”
At that Dave lifted his head to see Jack looking him dead in the eye. He couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Why, Dave, why would you hold on to that list when you knew it could be key to the investigation?”
Dave’s face took on a hard look. When he spoke it was to the room. “My father was killed by a drunk driver when I was seventeen. It was the man’s sixth offense. Sixth! He was rich and he had friends. They kept letting him out over and over.” Dave looked up and met Jack’s face. “I thought if I could slow the investigation down, just a little, this man would have some more time to do some good.”
Jack sat back in his chair with a sigh. He was exhausted and unsure as to what to do now. That question was answered for him. With a nod from the Director, the two agents approached Dave. His badge and gun were placed on the Director’s desk, and he was led away.
* * *
“Okay, we have the photos from the hospital cameras. Our man is white, approximately six foot in height, 180 to 200 pounds. So...”
Eric had dumped the Department of Defense list into his laptop and was now using a program he had “modified,” as he described it, to sort the names.
“Midwest accent,” Larry added.
“Concentrate on southwest Michigan,” Jack added.
“Why?” Sydney asked. Jack dismissed the question with a wave.
Eric continued typing and hit the enter key with a flourish. They all waited, and when nothing happened, he got several stares.
“It takes a minute,” he explained.
After a short but tense wait, the computer started printing. Larry fetched the pages as they came out and passed them down.
“You can rule out this guy, he’s black,” Larry said.
“Mine, too. He’s in a wheelchair,” Sydney added.
“My guy’s in Korea,” Eric finished.
They looked at Jack only to see him reading intently. He sank into the nearest chair and ignored them all as he read.
—THIRTY-FOUR—
The state of North Dakota holds 1,239 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 830 are repeat offenders.
15 years ago. Panama, Central America.
The helicopter flared sharply before descending into the thick jungle. All six men in the back leaned out and stared into the black hole that was the landing zone. It was the third time in the last hour they had done such a maneuver, but this time they would go all the way to the ground, and an unseen tree stump or rock could end the mission before it even got started.
The green glow of the tall grass in their night vision goggles showed the rotor wash pushing it flat. One by one, a thumb was extended in the up position until the crew chief reported the site was clear of hazards. Gear was moved closer to the door, and safety straps were released as they neared the ground. The crew chief and gunner swept the tree line for any movement over the sights of their M60 machine guns. As the three-foot mark approached, the first two soldiers dropped from the doorways, pulling rucksacks of gear behind them. The Huey hovered with the sudden loss of weight, and the pilot let it happen, lest there be a landmine under the bird. The two remaining soldiers left the bird as well, joining the first two belly-down on the ground with weapons trained on the jungle. The pilot was already pulling the collective toward his armpit with an accompanying twist of the throttle. The team was blasted by the down-wash of the rotors as the helicopter lifted clear of the clearing and on to the next one. They would perform the same false landing a few more times before heading back to base. Anyone trying to follow their progress on radar would not know where the team had been dropped.
As soon as the man-made storm ceased, the four men rose as one and sprinted for the tree line. Entering the jungle was like stepping into a dark room. Fortunately, the night-vision goggles, with the help of the star filled sky, helped to bring day to night. After penetrating a few meters into the wall of vegetation, they stopped and formed a small circle facing out. They listened intently for one minute, mouths hanging open, before the leader spoke.
“Equipment check,” he whispered.
Each team member quickly felt for every piece of equipment with one hand while the other kept a tight hold on the grip of his weapon. When they were done with themselves, they turned to check on the man next to them.
“All okay,” they hissed back to the team leader, one by one.
“Good.” His teeth glowed brightly in the goggles. “Welcome to Panama.”
The leader checked his watch and compass. He paused as he oriented himself with the map in his head.
“Jack, you lead off. We have eight hours to be in position. Stay twenty meters in front till it thins out a little, then push it out and get some slack.”
“Twenty meters, got it,” he answered.
“Let’s move.”
With that they rose and moved into and through the jungle. Using the walk-dance they had developed, they avoided the vegetation and moved silently. The clearing was once again a dark and silent hole in the jungle.
* * *
Eight hours later found them on the military crest of a ridge overlooking a small valley. The journey to their current location had been anything but easy. Stopping only twice for water, they had covered several kilometers of jungle. The constant up and down of the terrain, as well as the heat and other dangers, were exhausting. The compass had refused to work at one point due to iron deposits in the area, and two of their party had slight injuries. One was the result of a misplaced boot that caused a stumble. The injury was not to the foot, but to the hand that had reflexively grabbed for the closest tree only to be filled with quills from a black palm. With some quiet cursing, the quills were yanked out or broken off at the skin surface. In a couple of days they would fester up enough to be dug out by a doctor, but for now, the hand was covered in a smear of camouflage makeup to make up for the loss of the cut off leather glove. The other injury was to the eye of one of the security team. A branch had found its way around the goggles and the eye was red and puffy, an inconvenience only at this time. Now, two of the team lay wet, dirty and tired as they surveyed the valley before them.
“What do you see?” Sam asked.
“An airstrip, small hangar with fuel tanks, couple of Jeeps, small house. I’ve got a headcount of twelve so far,” Jack replied.
“Weapons?”
“A-Ks all around. Few grenades. A 60 on the red Jeep.”
“Any sign of our boy?”
“Negative.” Jack panned the spotting scope left and right. “When’s he supposed to show?”
“Sometime in the next few days was all they could give me.”
“Well th
at’s just great. Makes you wonder how they call it intelligence.”
“Yeah, well. You volunteered.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Sam smiled at his protégée. Jack was fifteen years younger but showed great promise. A skilled soldier and natural leader. Sam had recognized it early and taken Jack under his wing.
“Soon as they get back from scouting our way out of here, I’ll double check the routes. You keep up your scan and start a log. Make up a schedule, too. Two men on—two men off. Six hour shifts. Find a good position for the Barrett. By the way, your ghillie suit, it really stinks.”
“Thanks. I left it hanging in the jungle for a week like you said. Had to comb the bugs out when I retrieved it,” Jack replied.
“Did I forget to tell you about the flea collar trick? Sorry about that.” Sam nudged him with his shoulder before crawling backward up the ridge.
Jack wiped the sweat from his eyes with the bandanna wrapped around his wrist before returning to the scope.
Flea collar trick? He’d ask later.
* * *
Two days later found Jack in the same spot. He noted the position of the men around the airfield. Twice planes had landed and taken off in the last two days. Always unloading or loading a nearby truck. Mostly small bags, not too heavy. That meant cocaine, cash, or maybe both. One flight carried a man of some importance, but the face was not what they were looking for. He stood by while the bags were off-loaded into the truck, calmly smoking a cigarette. Jack had zoomed in on the face and was surprised to see it was white. The clothes were American made, stylish. The scope was connected to a camera, and a few shots were taken for the DEA guys. Otherwise the mission had been uneventful.
A light tap on the foot was all the warning Jack got of Sam’s approach. It startled Jack. Something Sam enjoyed doing.
“How are the boys?” he asked as he lay parallel to Jack.
“Alpha, Echo and Hotel are working in the hangar, otherwise nothing,” Jack replied.
“Bored?”
“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “A little.”
“Your first real mission. I waited nine days once for a shot.”
“How many times have you done this?” Jack asked.
“More than once,” was Sam’s reply.
An hour later they were surprised to see activity during the normal noon siesta. The men, from Alpha through Romeo, spilled out of the house and hangar and began putting things in order. The Jeep was fired up with a cloud of smoke, and a couple of passes were made up and down the runway, stopping to remove debris that the jungle and wind had contributed. Obviously someone was coming.
Sam reached for his throat and pressed down on the microphone strapped around his neck before speaking. “We have some activity. Get ready.”
He was answered by the double click of the microphone on the other end. They kept their transmissions short to avoid detection. He knew the two security men just over the ridge would be in contact with base on the satellite transmitter, placing the extraction helicopter on stand-by.
Jack had moved to the Barrett and taken up a shooting position. Sam moved the spotting scope on its small tripod in front of him and began scanning. Occasionally, the large arrowhead shape of the barrel would block his view as Jack scanned the area.
The Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle was the Cadillac of its kind. With a range of over 1800 meters, it was the only weapon of choice for this mission. The hard part had been the act of transporting the thing all that distance through the jungle. At 33 pounds it was not exactly light. Fortunately, it broke down into three pieces, four counting the bi-pod. They had all taken turns carrying the heavy barrel, and now the assembled 57-inch rifle stood ready to reach all the way to the opposite side of the airfield below them. The fact that they had only brought five rounds of ammunition in the ten round magazine would make most people wonder. But if the mission took more than one round, they had screwed up somehow. Regardless, the rifle would not be coming out with them. A rapid departure was necessary, and a shaped charge stood by, ready to be affixed to the weapon after it had been used. A timer would destroy the rifle and bi-pod shortly after they departed. Serving both its purpose and discouraging anyone foolish enough to try and follow.
The sound of an approaching plane was soon heard, and Sam moved to the right and rear of Jack’s position. This was to take him out of the muzzle brake area. The double arrowhead shape of the muzzle brake was worse on the spotter than the recoil was on the shooter, and Sam did not wish to be blasted in the face. He turned the scope on the plane as it circled once before coming in to land. The plane was a Cessna 414 twin engine propeller, very common in the area, and a favorite with drug smugglers. The pilot was good, setting the gear down without a bounce on the end of the runway and holding the nose up until the last minute. The plane taxied to the hanger where a man in a white shirt and khaki pants exited the aircraft. His presence was greeted with great respect, and he was led to the canopy out of the sun. Bags followed and were placed on the ground next to the large outdoor table. Another man exited the aircraft, carrying a large black hard-shell suitcase. He set it up on the table and laid out a variety of equipment. He appeared to be measuring the quality of the product in the bag and immediately got to work.
“Well?” Jack asked.
Sam was comparing the face in his scope with the one on the paper in front of him. The hair was different. Look at the eyes, he remembered. He returned to the scope to see the man cooperating by removing his sunglasses.
“That’s our boy. The chemical guy is on the list, too, but the man in the white shirt is target one. Whenever you’re ready, Jack.” Sam paused to press the mic against his throat again. “Target in sight, be ready.” He got the familiar click-click in response.
Jack took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax. He adjusted his elbows so his bones were in contact with the ground. The scope was already dialed in to accommodate range and elevation. The area around the position had been adjusted to account for the muzzle brake. A quick swipe of the wrist band removed the sweat from his forehead and eyes. His target was now holding agreeably still as he leaned on the table with both arms and discussed something with the other white man.
“One half breath and squeeze,” Sam prompted.
Jack took up the slack on the trigger as he settled his sight picture on the man’s chest. The man’s open shirt flapped slightly in the small breeze, and Jack forced himself to ignore the movement. He took the half breath, as he had been taught by the man beside him, and increased the pressure on the trigger.
The rifle roared as the trigger broke, sending the round across the valley. One thing that had awed Jack when he had first fired the Barrett was that you could actually see the round as it traveled downrange. He regained his sight picture in time to see the round tear into the man’s chest, spinning him around. The sheer kinetic energy of the round tore the right arm off with a shower of blood. The power of the Barrett left no doubt to the fatality of the shot.
Jack’s attention was snapped from the scope by the sound of gunfire. The men around the plane were shooting blindly at the ridge in their general direction. Fortunately, none of them were close, and the range was too great. Jack moved to withdraw, but a hand on his leg stopped him.
“Wait till they’re done,” Sam said.
Jack watched as the men fired magazine after magazine into the jungle. Most of the fire was directed below them where the jungle ended at the edge of the airfield. The men only knew their own weapons. Not the range of the Barrett. To conceive that the shot had come from the top of the far ridge was not in their experience.
“I can get the other guy,” Jack whispered.
“No,” Sam replied in his normal voice. “They’ll see the muzzle flash, next time. You extract, I’ll set the charge.”
“Okay.” Jack frowned but began moving backward in slow motion up the ridge. When he had topped it and was able to turn around he saw the two security men w
ith rucksacks on, ready to go. He quickly doffed his ghillie suit and rolled the mess of burlap up into a cylinder before strapping it on his own ruck. He was soaked in sweat. Not all from the jungle heat, he admitted to himself. Accepting the offered CAR-15, he took up a position facing the ridge top. He was soon rewarded with the sight of Sam’s boots edging over the top. He grabbed a boot and pulled him the last couple of feet. Sam silently did the same dance as Jack had done, doffing the ghillie suit and accepting the CAR-15. He pulled back the slide to ensure a round was in the chamber before asking his first question.
“Extraction?”
“In-bound. LZ-six. About seven hours, give or take. Just after dark,” the man replied.
“Good. That’s got us out on route two. Lead on.”
“Did you get him?” the other man asked.
Sam just pointed to Jack.
“Yeah, we got him.” Jack couldn’t help but return the grin. He felt goofy, but when he looked, they were all sporting the same silly grin.
“Let’s go,” Sam ordered. “We only have fifteen minutes before the charge blows. You lead, you’re behind him and Jack’s behind you. I’m trail.”
They all stood and waited for the lead man to get some distance.
“Oh, one more thing,” Sam added. “Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Nice shot.”
Jack nodded a thank you before turning to follow the point man. The jungle soon swallowed them.
* * *
Seven hours later Jack sat on the aluminum floor of the Huey helicopter as it flew at treetop level over the jungle. They were soon out over the ocean and heading for the canal. The security team looked asleep despite the noise. Jack was too tired to sleep. He looked up to find Sam watching him. He’d had several hours while they moved through the jungle to think about what he had just done. A lawyer in the States would have said he was guilty of murder. The only thing that separated what he had done from murder was a signature on a piece of paper. The President had decided that the man was a threat to the security of the United States, and had authorized the mission. Jack wondered if he was any different from a Mafia hit man. He reminded himself of the thick file he had seen on the man, the many crimes: murder, drug trafficking, slavery. They had let the snipers see it all. There was no doubt the world was a better place as a result of Jack’s actions today. Over the last couple of hours, he had made peace with what he had done. It was only then that he had noticed he had not taken a turn at point. Sam had placed him in the slack position on purpose, knowing his mind would be occupied. He looked at his friend now and got a grin.