Retribution Road

by Jon Coon

  “Let’s just hope we make it home. We’re losing helium. If we lose too much, we’ll lose shape and we’re done,” the pilot said.

  “What can we do?”

  “We can add air to keep the hull rigid, but then we’ll lose buoyancy. There’s some envelope tape, but someone will have to get into the envelope and patch the holes. Problem is the helium. There’s not enough oxygen in that compartment.”

  “Will the tape hold?” Gabe asked. He was standing behind the pilot’s chair.

  “Yeah, we had it made just for this job. It will hold.”

  “How do I get up there?”

  “There’s a hatch, center stern. It releases by twisting the handle and pulling down. But what are you going to breathe?”

  “I’m still a good free diver. I should be good for three minutes at least. I should be able to plug a hole or two and then come back down.”

  “Okay, tape is in the floor locker back there, and you’ll need a knife to cut it. It won’t tear. There’s a safety harness and there are D-rings in the envelope. Use them. And good luck.”

  Gabe assembled the gear and a cloth utility bag. He stuffed the tape, knife, flashlight, and extra nylon strap with a pelican hook into the bag, climbed up on a chair, grabbed the handle, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply. With deep exhalations, he forced himself to relax, and then quietly offered his predive prayer.

  He took one gigantic breath, twisted the handle, released the seal, and hoisted himself up into the hatch. He quickly pulled it closed behind him, turned on the flashlight, and went to work.

  Hit several times, the blimp had both entry and exit wounds. Gabe cut generous pieces of tape and covered the holes he could easily reach. His brain began to buzz, and he knew it was time to go. He eased back toward the hatch, but as he did, the blimp bounced, and bounced him several feet away from the hatch. As he tried to claw his way back, he couldn’t get traction on the smooth Kevlar. He tried crawling, but the progress he made was countered by the pitch and roll of the ship, and he ended up where he’d started.

  Stars whizzed past, and he was seriously close to passing out and breathing that one fatal breath when the hatch opened and Tom threw him the nylon strap, then hauled him back to safety.

  “Well, if you were trying to set a record, I think you did it. I had you at three and a half minutes. How did it go?”

  Gabe gasped for breath. “Two more trips. This time I use the harness and safety strap.”

  “Roger that. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “How’s the pilot?”

  Tom shook his head. “It’s a good thing these ships fly forever, because I haven’t a clue how to land.”

  “Whatever goes up . . .”

  “True, but it would be nice to come down at a place and time of our choosing. I seem to remember a flight instructor suggesting it works better that way.”

  “Oh, you took lessons?” Gabe grinned and Tom cringed.

  “I knew oxygen deprivation caused brain damage, I just didn’t realize it could happen so quickly. Isn’t it time for you to go back? That gas we’re losing is pretty important if we want to stay up here.”

  Gabe was able to repair the leaks without further brain damage and then cover the bodies of the two dead pilots as Tom got more comfortable at the controls.

  “We’re lucky they didn’t hit the engines or our fuel,” he said when Gabe returned to the copilot seat.

  “Did you get a fix on the trackers?”

  “Yeah, but we’re going to need another way in. We’re too vulnerable in this thing.”

  “Roger that. How long till we land … or crash?”

  “We’re pushing a headwind. Maybe three hours.”

  “Why do you suppose they were shooting at us?” Gabe asked.

  “There are several paramilitary groups operating here,” Tom answered. “Looks like we got too close to someone’s hidey-hole. I got the GPS coordinates, but I bet they are out of there before the government troops find them. This jungle could hide regiments with elephants for decades.”

  Gabe stood and stretched. He twisted his neck and shoulders and then sat back down. “Well, we’ve got two dead pilots. Are you going to report it?”

  “Yep, and when our planes arrive, we just might have to pay those turkeys another visit. You up for that?”

  “Only if we’re flying in a real plane with live ammo.”

  An hour later they were both startled by the computer alarm. Gabe jumped from his seat to the computer desk. “What do I do?”

  “In the tool bar there’s an icon with a push pin. Mark it, and then see if you can see where it’s coming from on the Google Earth map.”

  “Got it. You’re going to love this. See that road on our west side? It’s coming from there.” Gabe got up and went to the camera. With its powerful zoom lens, he found a black Range Rover leaving a cloud of dust. “Heading west-northwest. Can we follow him? There’s a blacktop coming up. If he takes it, I might get a shot of his tag.”

  “On it. Just let me know if he changes direction. It takes a while to turn this thing around.”

  “He’s turning right. Damn it. The angle’s wrong. I’ve got the truck, but I can’t see the plate … I’m zooming all the way in. Maybe we can get his face … Wait, there’s a passenger.”

  “Anything?”

  “Just the lower half of his face. Can we get lower, closer? I don’t think he’s seen us yet.”

  “Have you still got a signal?”

  “Yeah, I just turned off the alarm. It was driving me nuts. But our signal is definitely coming from that truck.”

  Tom pulled back on the power and raised the nose. The wind caught them and pushed them sideways, away from the fleeing truck and highway.

  “What are you doing? He’s getting away.”

  “Yep, but there can’t be that many Range Rovers in these woods, and I’m not ready to show our hand yet. And I don’t particularly want to get blown out of the sky if he’s carrying heavy ordnance. We’ve learned a lot today and paid a high price for it. Let’s call it a day and be thankful it wasn’t worse.”

  It wasn’t Tom’s best landing, but, following the pilot’s adage, “any landing you can walk away from is a good one,” it was acceptable, and Rainbow Chaser was safely tethered. The maintenance crew scrambled to check Gabe’s repairs, and the bodies were removed and put into cold storage until they could be flown home.

  “No need to involve the Federales at this point. This is our business, and we’ll deal with it,” Tom said.

  The others agreed.

  They ate sandwiches and coffee in a tumbled-down tin hangar the “film company” had rented. Tom got out his secure sat phone.

  After checking in with Carol and assuring her everything was on schedule and without incident, he asked her to find Jimmy the Geek.

  When Jimmy picked up, his excitement was immediately apparent. “Everything is happening. The buses pulled out before dawn and are headed north. All five of the subs have been moved back to the base and are on their launch skids. It’s coming, and it’s going to be big.”

  “Can you get a count on the buses?”

  “It’s buses and trucks, and the line is over a mile long. I’ll try to get a more accurate count on the next satellite pass.”

  “Good. Now I’ve got a new project for you. Maria’s earrings are in a black Range Rover we last saw on a blacktop near Nuevo Canán. It’s near the river about forty miles south of Palenque. Get me a list of black Rover owners in Chiapas and anything you can about them. Next, there’s a military camp in the jungle about twenty miles south and two miles east from that road. They opened fire on us this afternoon. Hit the blimp several times. Killed the pilot and copilot. Find out who they are and why they tried to kill us.”

  “Got it, sir. Are you all right?”

  “Just frustrated and mad about those pilots. They didn’t sign up for this. I’m really beginning to hate this country. Get me contact info for the pilots�
�� families so I can call them when the time is right. Can’t do it now; we don’t want it in the news.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “That’s it for now, Jimmy. Call me as soon as you have anything.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  Truckloads of cocaine and heroin had been arriving all night, and forklifts were busy transferring tons of drugs—worth hundreds of millions of dollars, over a billion in all—to the subs, where sweaty crews loaded and secured the cargo.

  Two hundred and ten miles above, the advanced Kennan KH-12 satellite recorded the activity and transmitted the images back to several approved observers in various governmental and military agency offices. And then there was the bunker at Tom’s ranch, where the images were being “borrowed” to give Tom up-to-the-minute intel.

  Tom’s sat phone chimed. He answered and Jimmy spoke hurriedly from the other end.

  “That black Range Rover you are looking for—it just arrived at the sub base. We’ve got good images of the vehicle, the tag, and the passenger. What do you want me to do with them?”

  “Send me a copy and then run everything. If that’s El Patrón, we need to nail him. I’ll let the senator know. Just keep up the great work, Jimmy.”

  “The next pass is in three hours, eleven minutes. I’ll call you then.”

  Juan Caldera took off his shirt in the steamy afternoon sun and joined the line of men passing the plastic-wrapped bricks of coke and heroin into the subs. He encouraged them to keep working and to make certain the loads were secure. The loading took hours, and when it was finished, Caldera inspected every sub, every tie down, and spoke quietly with each of the crews.

  “This shipment is the largest and most important we’ve ever made. The money will go to feed and protect our people. Without it they will go hungry and babies will die. You are not criminals—you are patriots protecting our homeland. Feeding our children. You must not fail. We are brothers here, and as your brother I expect you to do your best for our family. Be brave, be strong, be victorious, and you will receive a hero’s welcome when you return.” Caldera shook the hand of every man and looked strongly into their worshipful eyes.

  “This is the most important week of your lives, the most important voyage you will ever take, and I promise it will be the most rewarding. Now go, and may the Blessed Virgin watch over you.”

  The KH-12 satellite streaked across the sky at 17,000 miles per hour, proof that it wasn’t only the Blessed Virgin who was watching over Caldera’s youthful crews.

  “Do you suppose it could be true the cartels have 450,000 people on their payrolls?” Tom asked. He was at his computer in the rusted tin hangar.

  “Where did you get that number?” Gabe asked.

  “Here, on the internet.”

  “Well then, it has to be right,” Gabe answered with a grin.

  “I wonder. That’s amazing.”

  “You’ve said that before. Why are you visiting that again?”

  “I’ve been wondering, if it weren’t for drugs, would they have anything to eat? Any income at all. Look at the poverty here in Chiapas, or Argentina, or Guatemala … Is there any possible solution for that?”

  “The only answer I see is Christ’s second coming or another miracle of that magnitude. Like the one it will take to heal the chasm between the political parties at home. Only a miracle or a war will ever resolve that.” Gabe scratched the stubble from his three-day beard thoughtfully, then added, “And I’m praying it won’t be war.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. It’s just so broken it looks impossible.”

  “But that’s what God does. When we realize there’s no way we can manage it, that’s when he steps in. Like the Israelites at the Red Sea or David and Goliath. Once we make room for God then there’s a chance,” Gabe said, more to himself than to Tom.

  “I certainly hope you’re right. And this would be a great time for him to prove it.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “It’s more like third or fourth thoughts. We have to win this, but the cost could be terrible. On one hand, I want revenge for Maria and the ranch. On the other, I’m beginning to wish there were another way.”

  “There probably is. We just haven’t met our David yet.”

  “We’ve got him,” Jimmy said. “The car was owned by a phony shell company, but the facial recognition nailed him to a police record from when he was a teenager. He was arrested in a demonstration for the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. His father was killed by police, and he and a bunch of others arrested. Mostly kids.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “That camp you asked about, it’s a Zapatista camp. Supposedly they are more nonviolent now, but very active on behalf of the tribes. They claim the right of the tribes to clear and farm the rainforest, even though the last of it is now a national bio-sanctuary. The Mexican government hates their guts, but the optics are bad, so at least for now, there’s sort of a truce.”

  “Are they the communists who paint the images of Che Guevara all over the country? The ones who had the big fight with the government in the nineties and got their butts kicked?”

  “The same. Apparently they’ve reorganized and are trying to influence Mexican politics now. Perhaps the nonviolence is just a ruse and they are planning something else?”

  “Could be. Okay, so who is our ‘El Patrón’?”

  “His name is Juan Mateo Caldera, shown as a wealthy landowner and philanthropist, a big supporter of schools, hospitals, and care for immigrants. Big political contributor, friend of a lot of high-ranking politicos. His wealth is attributed to holdings in Europe and the States, but no original source of income or wealth is given.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “The Zapatistas work for Caldera, and he funds them. Cozy arrangement, according to our government contacts. Finally, there must be some reason for them shooting at you, but our guys didn’t know what or why. Maybe just target practice, or open season on air ships.”

  “What else do we know about Caldera?”

  “A couple things. He has friends in high places. As long as he keeps the pesos flowing, it’s not likely his friends in the government are too interested in where the money is coming from.”

  “I think we’ve heard that song before,” Tom said. He shifted the phone to his other hand and slapped a bug just for spite.

  “There’s more. He’s a big family guy. His wife is Lareina Gutierrez. Her father was from a wealthy family in Chiapas who went to the States legally and was a chemistry professor. He was successful and living the good life with one kid in college and another near the top of his class in high school. Then it all went south. His son got involved in drugs. There was a raid at the father’s house, and the parents were killed under very questionable circumstances. Lareina left college and came back to Chiapas to live with her grandparents. She met Juan, and they were married a year later. Four kids including twin girls, active in church, and volunteers in several organizations. Devout Catholic. Hates the US.”

  “Do we know how to find them?”

  “They have several homes. Not all in Mexico, but I’m working on it. Also, he owns three black Range Rovers. So good luck with that. What’s next?”

  “Follow the money. Get me everything you can on his financials, especially holdings in the States.”

  Chapter 41

  AS THE SUBS GOT UNDERWAY for their two-day journeys north, they were shadowed by every bit of technology the Navy and Coast Guard could mobilize against them. The tracking devices, designed to look like the zincs put on the boats for cathodic protection, worked perfectly, and survived even the closest inspection of Caldera’s workers.

  With strict orders not to engage, the American vessels tracked them silently as the sub courses diverged to major coastal cities. In the sky above, Poseidon P-8A, submarine surveillance planes, provided overwatch as the invasion of drugs proceeded north.

  In Washington, the president ord
ered 5,000 National Guardsmen to the southern border and woke the president of Mexico, demanding the caravan be stopped before it reached the US. In keeping with the new immigration agreements between the US and Mexico, the Mexican president woke his chief of staff with orders to stop the convoy. Before long, phones rang and lights came on in the homes of military and law enforcement officials across the nation. The message in all the calls was the same—the caravan must be stopped.

  The caravan, however, had no intention of stopping. The buses stopped, the trucks stopped, and thousands of refugees were given food and water, patted on the back, and pointed north on every back road and goat trail in northern Mexico. It would take every Federale in Mexico to find them all. And, in the meantime, the narco-subs, oblivious to their dark shadows above, proceeded through cool blue water.

  Tom sat in the heat of the Palenque hangar, 488 miles southeast of Mexico City where the airshow would take place at an old airfield now seldomly used, except for the flight school and the skydiving operations.

  At the abandoned airfield, rows of hangars stood rusting and empty. Not even civilian pilots entrusted their planes to the deteriorating buildings and broken tarmac. It was, however, a terrific venue for occasional air shows. This one, on Independence Day, was a long-standing tradition, helping to celebrate “the cry of independence”—the beginning of Mexico’s revolt against Spain on September 16, 1820.

  The World War II vintage airfield had ample parking and plenty of room for portable bleachers and vendors. Some of that assembly had already begun, including a large podium that, when finished, would fly red-white-and-green flags and banners.

  Tom awaited the arrival of the first of the CAF planes and pondered the possibilities. He saw multiple opportunities and wondered, like a game show contestant, if he had chosen the correct door to the grand prize. They would stage the planes in Palenque, then fly two hours northwest to the abandoned airfield for the show. So far so good.

  Tom’s sat phone rang again. “Caldera is broke,” Jimmy reported. “His holdings in the US and Europe—fake news. He bought a lot of land in someplace called the Lacandon Jungle, and he’s given millions to various charities and politicians. He’s land rich and cash poor. He couldn’t make a car payment on a ten-year-old Prius.”