by J. B. Hadley
These were the Christians that Lance intended throwing the lion to. He drove down after getting his call from Campbell, turned off the alarms, opened the gates and told the kids to call their friends (one of them called a radio station)—it was open house, he said, as he waved every—one in.
The gate was out of sight of the house, so Lance missed out on seeing what went on. That could not be helped, he reflected, directing in what had now become a steady stream of cars. It was his gesture that counted.
Although Campbell was often known as “Mad Mike” because of his wild exploits, those who knew him well—those who had worked with him, put their lives in his hands on a mission—always said Mike calculated his risks better than any other military man they knew. Campbell himself, always amused and puzzled at why he should be called Mad Mike, had been through the mill. While in the Green Berets, he had gone on his share of missions under orders of superior officers who did not know enough about what they were doing. Mike knew the feeling very well of having to obey orders by putting his life on the line against his own better judgment. He had never refused to obey, but had simply gone out and done what he could in his own way under the circumstances—and been made a colonel for it in the end. But it had been an arduous journey before he made that rank—though not long, because he had risen in rank under combat conditions.
The chief reason Mike ran his own merc operation was because that way he knew for sure what he was getting into or staying away from. If there were any big mistakes, they would be his own; and Mike felt that if he had to die because of anyone’s mistakes, he would prefer them to be his own.
Things hadn’t always been this clear in his mind. He had worked for others as a merc in Africa, and between assignments there he had come back to Florida once to make a run to Cuba. He knew the mission was CIA—backed, and it had been hinted to him that it wouldn’t hurt to have worked for the federal government on a few occasions if he should ever have future troubles regarding his status as a mercenary. So Mike “volunteered.”
The purpose of the mission was to eliminate a communications expert who was doing his job too well. All Mike had seen were some aerial photos and the location on the map of the communications surveillance station at which the man worked. He drove an old yellow Citroen, which showed up in aerial shots in a parking lot between electrical transformers and a dish antenna. Mike knew the man’s name and had been shown two grainy telephotos of him. He knew nothing more.
Things went wrong from the start. The fishermen who were supposed to pick up Mike and another man from the U.S. Coast Guard cutter off the north coast of Cuba did not appear. Having been told he could rely on the other man, Cesar Ordonez, for everything, Mike decided to go ashore under cover of darkness in one of the cutter’s aluminum dinghies. Since they had no time to scrape off the boat’s Coast Guard identification numbers, they sank it in fairly deep water and swam and waded ashore.
“Where to?” Mike asked Cesar Ordonez.
Cesar looked surprised. “Man, I translate for you and stick with you no matter what, but no more.”
“Shit, I don’t need a translator. I can speak Spanish. You’re a Cuban and this is Cuba. That’s why you’re along.”
Cesar shrugged. “Tell me what you want to do.”
It turned out that Cesar, who Mike understood knew all the details about their target that had not been supplied to him, hadn’t even been told who or where their target would be.
If it hadn’t been for U.S. government involvement, Mike would have aborted the mission there and then. Not for the first time, he allowed his love of country to persuade him to undertake what good sense forbade. Cesar Ordonez turned out to be so fanatically anti-Castro, he was willing to buck the odds too—just so long as it gave him a crack at a Cuban communist.
They slept in bushes by day and traveled by night till they reached the communications outpost, farther west along the north coast. The yellow Citroen arrived at 10:00 A.M.
Ordonez grinned. “With the communists, the boss arrives latest.”
Security was tight. Mike and Cesar had nothing but revolvers, and would hardly be able to get in close enough to use those. Even if they did, they would not stand a chance of escaping after the attack.
Mike’s attention focused on a long toolhouse. Its windows were barred, and an armed guard stood at its door. However, the man’s duties seemed to consist more of signing tools out and in than actually guarding the building, and his Kalashnikov assault rifle was slung by its strap across his back in a comfortable but not readily accessible position. He often wandered away to talk with whoever was getting into or out of cars in the parking lot.
Mike had some ideas floating around in his mind. Things would have to depend on what he found in that toolhouse. When the guard wandered off for one of his little chats, Mike and Cesar ran in a crouch through the bushes till they got to the rear of the toolhouse, then ran along its side and through its open door. Cesar stood inside the door, watching in case they had been seen. Mike searched about inside.
“Damn, Mike, he’s coming back by a different way,” Cesar whispered loudly. “He’ll see us if we try to leave.”
“So we stay,” Mike said unconcernedly, pulling a long roll of heavy cable from a shelf.
Cesar backed away from the door. A minute later, they saw the shadow of the guard as he stood outside on duty again. Cesar looked at Mike. Mike put his fingers to his lips and pulled out his revolver. If the guard came inside, he would see them right away, for there was no place for them to hide just a long open space with a floor of rough boards and walls of shelves loaded with light tools and supplies.
Mike gestured at the cable and tools he wanted them to take. Cesar nodded. When the guard left next, they would take them and sneak away.
The guard coughed. They saw his shadow move; then blue cigarette smoke wandered in along the shaft of light through the open door. Then his body darkened the door—way and he stood there looking at them for an instant.
He leaped out again fast as a deer and slammed the door after him. Mike heard a bolt being shot home as he reached the door too late, and then another. The guard yelled an alarm and was answered by others.
Mike and Cesar looked about them. They were prisoners. The windows were barred. The walls, floor and ceiling were constructed of wide, rough-cut boards. They had revolvers. The guard had an automatic rifle. More guards were coming. Cesar cursed. Mike winked. He handed Cesar a jimmy and took one for himself.
Four other guards joined the one outside the door. They checked the safety catches on their Kalashnikovs and nodded to him. He slid back the two bolts and pushed in the door. The guards went in fast, rifles held at hip level, ready to empty the magazines into the intruders.
No one was there. Just a long open space with shelves. They watched, amused, as the guard who had raised the alarm walked the length of the toolhouse and looked, mystified, at the barred windows.
“Know where the gringo spies have gone, amigo?” one of the four said. “Back to your house to make love to your wife.”
The others laughed and one said, “Look under the bed.”
They left and were followed outside by the guard in charge of the toolhouse. He was apologizing.
As in an old honor movie, a hand rose from beneath the floor and raised a board. Mike climbed up from beneath it, replaced the board fast and tiptoed up behind the door. When the guard walked in again after the others had gone, gun at the ready, to look things over, Mike brought down the steel jimmy on the back of his head.
“Okay, Cesar,” he called.
Another floorboard rose and Cesar appeared. The guard’s skull was stove in, and they put him beneath the floorboard after relieving him of his rifle and spare magazines.
They carried the cable and tools outside to the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. The yellow Citroen was parked close to the undergrowth, so Mike was able to conceal the two cables he attached to the car’s bodywork and run them back through the b
ushes toward the electrical transformers. He climbed the Hurricane fence around the equipment, having checked for the presence of guards, and Cesar threaded the two cables through the fence to him and then climbed over himself.
Mike bared three feet of heavy-duty wire at the end of each cable, then he took one and Cesar the other. Mike pointed to the place for Cesar to let the bared end of his cable drop, and at his signal, both wires fell simultaneously onto the high-voltage contacts. Huge sparks snapped like pistol shots, a smell of ozone spread in the air and the heavy copper wires melted like chocolate over the steel contacts. But they held.
The car should now be part of this high-voltage circuit, insulated from the ground by the rubber and air of its tires—ready to zap a load of power through anything that connected it to the ground.
Mike and Cesar climbed back outside the fence and positioned themselves in the bushes with a clear view of the Citroen.
Mike looked at his watch. “Ten minutes to twelve. I’m betting he drives into the town for lunch at twelve sharp. Let’s hope they don’t start up a search for the missing guard before then.”
But no one was looking for equipment from the tool—house this close to lunch hour. Mike and Cesar saw three figures enter the parking lot from the far end.
“He’s early,” Mike whispered to Cesar. “He’s the tall one in the center.” He readied the Kalashnikov. “Let’s hope the right man touches that car first. If I have to use this rifle on him, we won’t stand a dog’s chance of escaping from here in the middle of the day.”
“Fire if you have to,” Cesar ground out coldly.
Mike smiled. “I’m betting on their confusion to give us a good start. It’ll take them awhile to figure out what’s happening if I don’t have to use this rifle.”
The three men neared, and Mike and Cesar watched in silence.
The tall man reached with his key to insert it in the door lock. Sparks flickered about his hand. He stiffened and his mouth opened in a silent scream. His eyeballs rolled back in his head and he sank slowly to his knees, his right hand still glued to the car door.
His nearest companion shouted something and tried to lift him by his armpits. He too writhed about, but as he fell, he lost contact and broke free of the flow of electrical power. He lay on his back on the ground, unmoving, his eyes closed.
The third man looked from him to the first, now huddled motionless against the yellow Citroen’s door. A ribbon of back smoke curled upward from where his clothes and skin burned on contact with the steel. The third man looked about him wildly and then ran.
“Let him go,” Mike restrained Cesar.
Both of them retreated deep into the cover of the bushes in the direction of the coast. Some distance from the communications center they holed up till after dark. Mike used the Kalashnikov to commandeer a small fishing craft, and they made their rendezvous offshore with the Coast Guard cutter. Mission complete.
Mike had done occasional things since then for a couple of other federal agencies, and as a result enjoyed a limited immunity from government interference. So long as he stayed away from sensitive areas. El Salvador was a very sensitive area. The powers that be would slap him down real fast if they had any notion he was moseying in that direction.
Campbell had been in El Salvador twice before, each time as a point of unobtrusive entry to somewhere else—once to Honduras, the other time to Guatemala. He knew he needed someone very familiar with what was happening there, yet who could be relied upon because he was not personally involved. In other words, he needed someone who understood Salvador but was not Salvadoran. Cesar Ordonez. Mike knew his phone number in Miami. Their paths had crossed several times since their trip to Cuba, and Mike had tried twice unsuccessfully to enlist him on merc assaults in Africa. Cesar was less a soldier of fortune than an anti-Castro fighter. He had told Mike he would have gone with him to Angola to fight the Cuban reds there. The Salvador guerrillas were getting Cuban aid. Maybe he would go there. It was worth a try.
“This is Mike Campbell. Remember me?”
“Sure, Mike. Go ahead. You can talk on this line.”
Mike recognized his voice but did not want to say too much. “I’m going somewhere I expect to run into some Cuban technicians and advisors. I thought you might like to meet them.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line, then a laugh.
“You wouldn’t shit me, Mike?”
“No guarantees, but I hear they are in this place. Money is good too.”
“I don’t care about the money and I don’t care about the place.”
Mike gave him Andre Verdoux’s number.
After Mike had hung up, Andre said to him, “Looks like you’re stuck with me, like it or not, Mike. It seems I’ll be organizing our training camp and taking care of logistics.”
Mike laughed. “I couldn’t have a better man for the job, Andre. Stateside we’ll need all the help you’re willing to give. No deal overseas, though.”
“Understood, mon vieux, understood,” Andre purred. “Where will we train?”
“Where Washington will least expect us,” Mike answered. “Right in D.C.’s backyard.”
Chapter 7
MIKE Campbell pulled the pickup next to his mobile home. Tina rushed out to meet him. They em—braced long and hard, to the amusement of the old couple in the aluminum lawn chairs on the next lot in the trailer park. Tina helped Mike carry in the loaded shopping bags. As soon as they were inside, she jumped him.
Mike caressed her long black hair out of her eyes, stroked her cheeks and kissed her lips. He felt her soft body press close to him in a kind of wordless plea for him not to leave on this mission. He felt himself rise to the warm provocation of her belly and thighs. Then he gathered her shapely body into his arms and cared her to their bed.
The old folks in their lawn chairs shook their heads at the rhythmic shaking of one end of their neighbors’ mobile home.
“Going at it real good for this early in the day,” the old boy commented with a wink.
“That man is an animal,” his wife said disapprovingly. “I can’t imagine why on earth that woman tolerates him.”
Mike set up ten separate medical kits, each one independent of the others, the extras to replace lost or damaged kits or to be given to friendly forces in the field. He wanted to bring as little as possible of a suspicious nature through the El Salvador customs—but he could not compromise on medicines. Weapons he knew he would find in abundance there, but quality medical supplies were often not to be had abroad for any kind of money. Each team member would bring his own kit in with him.
He packed the bottles and packets tightly into coffee cans and snapped on the plastic caps. Two broad-spectrum antibiotics, tetracycline and ampicillin. Chloroquine and primaquine against malaria. Flagyl, as an anti-amoebic. Paregoric and Lomotil against dysentery, and Metamucil against the opposite, constipation. An electrolyte solution in case of dehydration. A bottle of pure alcohol to rub on arms and legs to disinfect and ease the itch of cuts and insect bites, which tend to fester quickly in the tropics. Band-Aids. Ointments against eye and ear infections. Merthiolate as an antiseptic and germicide. Vitamins, salt tablets, aspirin, Tylenol #3, codeine, Novocain, morphine . Cortisone against swellings and asthma, Benadryl and epinephrine against allergies. A surgical mini-kit including sterile-sealed scalpel, tweezers, mosquito clamps, sutures, needles, gauze pads and bandages. Scotchcast, a fast-hardening plastic for making casts for broken bones. He made notes to add things he had forgotten to buy.
Each kit contained a small quantity of every item, so the kit’s bulk was not so great as a list of its contents might indicate. The experienced men would not bitch about having to carry what inexperienced men might regard as an oversupply. The importance of having an adequate medical supply was one of the first grim lessons Mike had learned as a merc. He and others with only regular army experience behind them had not realized how much they had depended on the backup forces a regular army
provides as a matter of course. The irregular soldier, whether merc or guerrilla, more often than not cannot depend on any backup. Mike had seen mercs die slow and agonized deaths in Africa for want of some drug no one had thought to bring into the bush—or succumb to African river blindness, transmitted by black flies, for want of the little white pills taken only twice a week.
He packed the kits into three cardboard boxes. He would send them by UPS to Andre Verdoux in New York on his way to the airport in Phoenix. Mike had booked a flight to New Orleans and a connection from there to Mobile, Alabama.
Before leaving, he phoned Andre to warn him not to leave it up to the men themselves to get their shots. Verdoux promised to personally ensure that each man received the inoculations Mike had decided on.
Andre was going to be a problem. He was being sneaky and keeping a low profile, making himself indispensable. Mike knew his game and couldn’t do anything about it. Because Andre was indispensable. Bob Murphy or any of the others Mike would trust in a firefight, but if he sent any of them to Woolworth’s for a ball of string, he’d be willing to bet they’d come back with something else. He could depend on Andre. Pity he was over the hill.
A soldier needs a gun. This is often a problem for a merc who wants to infiltrate unnoticed into a designated zone. If he tries to bring the hardware in with him, he increases his chances of being detected before he ever even gets started. If he waits till he is positioned where he wants to be, he may have to use second-rate equipment and find that his promised supplier proves less dependable than he had believed. Another problem is that a man who sells armaments is often also willing to sell information, so that the existence of a mission becomes known through its requirement of weapons.