Retribution Road

by Jon Coon

  Tom thanked Jimmy and hung up, then worked to piece it all together in his mind. Who was this guy? Weren’t drug lords supposed to have houses with four-foot-thick walls made of hundred-dollar bills?

  With the chaos at the border Caldera had caused by releasing the Guatemalan refugees, it was that much easier for his mules—often drug-hauling families—to sneak across the border. For every one caught, ten made it across and quickly vanished into neighborhoods of dealers and dopers.

  In the Gulf, the five subs were within hours of Galveston, Morgan City, Apalachicola, Crystal River, and Key West. All chosen because of their remote coast lines, minimal shipping, and friendly distribution networks. From the air and on the sea, the military followed the signals of the trackers Ray had installed during their daring raid. It looked like success was assured. Finally, a bust that might really do damage to the hated cartel.

  Off the coast of Galveston, at the fringe of the Baytown oil field, the first sub came to periscope depth, and with its digital optical periscope, scanned the surface. Convinced they were alone, they signaled two shrimpers to meet them and transfer the cargo. The sub remained at periscope depth until the shrimpers arrived, and then the sub surfaced, and the boats tied up, one on either side, and the crews began the arduous task of transferring six tons of plastic-wrapped drugs. From its low orbit above, the KH-12 got clear images of the transfer as it raced across the clear night sky.

  The shrimpers pulled away shortly before dawn and, dragging their nets, began working back toward the coast and their home port—a processing plant just past the expansive Texas A&M campus, docks, and marine labs. Docking at the loading pier, they awaited the forklifts with pallets and large tubs that would be lowered into the boat’s holds and surface with bricks of drugs covered with lots of ice and a few shrimp.

  Unloading took place in broad daylight with security fences assuring no tourists would come for casual dock walks during the process. Once inside the immaculately clean building, the drugs were immediately loaded into delivery trucks, this time under boxes of quick-frozen shrimp and fish.

  It was a plan that had worked for years. Only this time there was a slight variation: as the trucks were loaded, DEA Agent Mickey Valentine slipped tracking devices into the bins before stacking in the seafood boxes and dry ice. When her job was done and her shift finished, she changed out of her white rubber boots called Cajun dancing slippers, removed her heavy black rubber gloves and apron, put them in her locker, then calmly punched out her time card and walked out of the plant, never to return.

  The DEA vehicles gave the trucks plenty of room as they dispersed through Galveston Beach and beyond, but with each stop, cameras rolled and notes were made. By the end of the day, the request list for arrests and warrants included dozens of businesses and hundreds of names. Galveston Beach would have clean streets … at least for a day or two. But the bust had to wait until the process could be repeated with the other five boats.

  Offshore from Morgan City, Louisiana, when the sub surfaced, it was met by a single, hundred-foot, black-hulled crew boat—lean, loud, and fast. The drugs were stacked on pallets on the rear deck and covered with heavy tarps. As the sub submerged and disappeared into the dark-brown water from the Atchafalaya River, the crew boat captain pushed the throttles to the max, put the boat up on plane, and headed inshore to the pass and then upriver to trucks waiting at a fuel dock on the edge of town.

  The crew tied up the boat and waited until dark, and after making certain they were the only boat at the dock, called for the trucks and the small truck crane that quickly offloaded the pallets into them. This time it was the job of a roustabout, Emile Wilson, to plant the trackers. As he slid the slings off the pallets, he slid the trackers in place, and no one was the wiser.

  Well-constructed wooden boxes were placed to cover the pallets and then the trucks rolled beneath a large hopper and were partially filled with white shell used for road construction. Louisiana was known for using shell rather than gravel.

  Last, heavy tarps were spread over the shell, and the trucks pulled out onto the highway. DEA vehicles followed … well behind them.

  In Apalachicola, Florida, oyster capital of the universe, it was oyster boats that met the sub, and oyster trucks that made the haul.

  It was Crystal River, Florida where things went wrong.

  The sub surfaced in sight of the Crystal River Nuclear Power Plant and was met by a large, offshore charter dive boat. The dive boat’s captain sat in his wheelhouse chair watching the loading process but kept one eye on his radar. He watched a large blip, thirty miles out, stop and sit quietly. Captain Billy, a twice-busted drug runner, guessed immediately the radar blip was company they didn’t want. He ran down the stairs to the deck and told the sub captain what he feared.

  The sub captain remembered the pep talk Caldera had given before their departure and how important the shipment was to the welfare of his family and friends. The cargo was only a third unloaded, and the blip wasn’t moving.

  The crew immediately reloaded the drugs, and within a short while, the sub, with its full cargo, dove and set a course for open sea. Captain Billy had the crew scrub down his deck and then, as if running with a full load, set a course for his Crystal River dive center.

  As soon as the dive boat began its run, the blip followed, still keeping its distance. Two hours later, the dive boat moored in its marina slip, and the bus to haul the stash arrived. Billy waved them off without a word. The bus from Nashville, painted with colorful dive scenes, pulled out of the shell parking lot to make a disappointing trip back north. On board, DEA agent Robin Watts rode in the darkness and hit a text code on her phone: The op is blown. Warn the others.

  Tom had been sitting anxiously in the hangar by his computer and sat phone. When the phone buzzed, he grabbed it and waved to Gabe, who was already headed his way. Tom put the phone on speaker and answered.

  “Captain Bright, this is Lieutenant Stone from the Coast Guard. Sir, I’ve been told to tell you we lost the sub at Crystal River. We still have the tracker signal, but she headed back to deep water without unloading her cargo. Our captain is uncertain what you want us to do now?”

  “Looks like our intel operation is blown, Lieutenant. She’s carrying six tons of poison. My suggestion is if you can find her and she refuses to surrender, sink her. And get a fix on her final resting place. We might need to raise her later.”

  “I’ll pass your recommendation on to our captain, sir. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  “Lieutenant, will you keep me informed?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll contact you as soon as we’ve resolved the issue.”

  The blip on the radar screen became a battle stations assault vessel. Sirens roused the crew to “general quarters,” and the ship surged to full power. They covered the thirty miles in less than forty-five minutes, and with the tracking signal, were on target in an hour.

  “Invite them to surface,” the captain said calmly to the lieutenant.

  “Aye, sir. Sending the invitation now.”

  A depth charge set to blow safely above the sub was launched. The blast shook the ship and sent green water high into the air.

  “I believe the invitation has been received, sir.” The lieutenant grinned, and the captain nodded.

  “She’s on her way up,” the sonar man reported.

  “Launch the boats. Let’s take this one alive.”

  “Aye, sir.” The lieutenant said. “Sir, permission to leave the bridge?”

  “Granted. Good hunting, Steve. Be safe.”

  The cutter launched two ribs, fiberglass hulls, Kevlar tubes, big engines. Once in the water, the ribs waited alongside the cutter until they saw clouds of bubbles rise and then the sub broke surface. The hatch opened, and men in life jackets emerged and jumped overboard. Strangely, the last man out closed the hatch.

  “They’ve blown the buoyancy,” the lieutenant shouted. “Try to—”

  Too late. A series of small explosions roc
ked the sub, and she dropped quickly out of sight.

  “Mark our location and depth,” the lieutenant ordered.

  “Got it, sir. Depth 171, and I’ve set a GPS waypoint. Sir, what shall we do with the survivors?”

  “I know what I’d like to do.” He scowled.

  “Yes, sir, but isn’t that illegal?” the twenty-something bosun’s mate replied.

  Four go-faster boats waited for the sub. Fifty feet long with four 300-horsepower outboards, there wasn’t a boat on the water that could touch them. Built for one thing and one thing only—cargo hauling at high speed—they sat riding the Atlantic swell halfway between Key West and the Dry Tortugas. Alerted to the problem at Crystal River but confident they could outrun anything the Coast Guard or DEA threw at them, they waited, and soon the sub, unaware of the problems encountered by their sister ship, surfaced in the rolling blue swell.

  After a brief discussion, the decision was made to transfer the cargo and take their chances. The first two came alongside, and the crews went to work. They offloaded six tons of product in two hours, and the 1200-horsepower bullets blasted to a secluded coastal marina where a giant forklift raised them from the water and placed them on racks in an enclosed boat barn. When the doors closed, the boats were unloaded, and in the process, DEA agent Kevin Jones slid small transponders into the duffel bags used to hide the drugs. Laundry trucks pulled into the boat barn, and the duffel bags were added to the bags of hotel and restaurant linens ready to be delivered. The Miami/Fort Lauderdale hospitality industry was about to get a lot more hospitable.

  It was a DEA/FBI operation now. Tom was both disappointed and relieved. Even with the loss of the Crystal River sub, it would still be the biggest bust in the history of the DEA. He sat beside his computer waiting for news of the hundreds of arrests and tons of drugs confiscated. It wasn’t a long wait. Headlines flashed across TV screens everywhere. It was the largest coordinated operation in the history of the war on drugs. Thousands of officers made hundreds of arrests. Well-known businesses were implicated as were several national-level politicians and judges. Tom rocked back in his chair, humming “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and saluting the screen with a double shot of single malt.

  Gabe came in, and Tom called him over to watch. “We did it, son. We really did it.”

  Gabe grabbed a Coke from the cooler and watched as reports came in from across the East Coast. A network of dealers far larger than anyone would have guessed was going down in flames in national media. One network reported the annual volume of illegal drug purchases in the US to be over $100 billion per year, and another set the estimate at over twice that much. Costs for treatment of illegal drug abuse mostly paid by American taxpayers were estimated at nearly $200 billion per year. Other studies suggested the cost of criminal activities associated with drugs approached another $200 billion per year or roughly $1,800 per year per US citizen. Add to that the cost of government and law enforcement efforts in the pursuit of the drug networks and the tab nearly doubled.

  “That’s staggering,” Gabe said.

  “We made a dent. Might be only a small dent, but someone’s going to feel it.”

  Tom had hoped to destroy Caldera’s empire, already close to collapse. If Jimmy the Geek’s intel was correct, these raids would be catastrophic.

  Now for the final act.

  It was nearly dusk when the five planes arrived. The squadron included two North American B-25 Mitchells, named for Billy Mitchell, a pioneer of US military aviation, and the most built and flown medium bomber of WWII; a Martin B-26 Marauder, known for having the highest survival rate of WWII bombers; a rare Douglas A-26 Invader; and the most unique, a Lockheed P-38, known as a “fork-tailed devil,” because of its tri-hull, twin-boom design. All twin-engine, medium-range fighter bombers, they touched down on the grass beside the tarmac to save their tires and taxied to waiting hangars where doors were quickly pulled closed behind them and unpacking began.

  Tool chests, spray painting equipment, metal ammo crates, and tanks of napalm were quickly removed and hidden. The planes wouldn’t see daylight again with any markings identifying them as Commemorative Air Force. In fact, by the time the paint crews were done, the planes wouldn’t be recognized at all.

  Tom walked into the first hangar, where one of the B-25 Mitchells was being unloaded. He stepped up behind three flight crew members in jumpsuits with multiple flight patches who were talking among themselves. He greeted them and then took a step backward as one of them turned around, removed her CAF ball cap, and shook out her long, dark-red, radiant hair.

  “Hi, Dad. How are you?” She waited for him to regain his composure before approaching and giving him a hug and kiss.

  “What are—”

  “Henry let me fly left seat and it felt good. It’s been way too long. Besides, with your team already here, they were a little shorthanded.”

  “Henry let—”

  “Hey, Tom.” Henry Atkins, president of CAF, greeted him. “Didn’t think you’d mind. It’s great to have Carol back with us again.”

  “Just great …”

  Gabe came in, saw Carol and was just as surprised. “What are you …”

  “Dad asked me that same thing. I just came for the show and to check up on you two. Everything is good at the ranch, and I hired extra security to watch the kids. I was getting worried, not hearing from either of you.”

  “Things have been …”

  “Busy? We were just starting to get news about the drug busts. That’s huge. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

  “Just a little. How are the kids?”

  “They miss you. So do I.” Over Gabe’s shoulder Carol saw ammo boxes being unloaded. She turned to look for Tom, but he was long gone.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  “You’ll have to ask your dad. It’s his show. I’m just along for the ride. Come on. Let’s get you out of here. There’s a good little restaurant not too far, and then we’ll have to find you some place to stay. We’ve been here on cots, but we can do better than that for you.”

  “A cot will be fine. But right now I’m starved.”

  Back in the Gulf, at 171 feet deep, Juan Caldera waited until he was certain the Coast Guard had left the area. He opened the compressed air tanks and blew the ballast water. The sub silently rose from the bottom to periscope depth. After using the digital optics to scan the night sea, he brought the sub up just enough that the conning tower and hatch would be dry, then opened the hatch.

  Air in the sub was stale. The night air and Atlantic breeze were cool and refreshing. He couldn’t remember the last time he was alone, this far out at sea, and this far away from everyone and everything he loved. But he was on a mission and motivated by hate and a burning desire for revenge.

  He watched a satellite move quickly across the night sky and wondered if it was sending back his image to monitors at NSA or FBI. He raised a single-finger salute and cursed them all. He saw a single navigation light perhaps ten miles off to the north. As it approached, it flashed long, short, long, short. Their recognition signal. Caldera lifted his handheld spotlight and returned the signal. He waited and watched as the sixty-five-foot bottom fishing boat motored steadily toward him.

  He went below and increased the sub’s buoyancy, bringing the deck up enough to be above the swells. He moved down to the deck and caught lines thrown from the fishing boat. Tires ran the full length of the hull, and the crew snugged the sub against them.

  Men climbed down to the sub’s deck and soon, with Caldera’s help, were passing the drugs onto the fishing boat. It took two hours, and when they were done, men opened an ice hold and began passing fifty-pound boxes back to the sub. Large red letters on the boxes read SEMTEX 10, with the appropriate high-explosives warnings. It took another hour to transfer the Semtex, and then the bottom fishing boat bid Caldera good luck and farewell.

  He tossed the lines, closed the hatch, and settled the boat fifty feet deep. He set a c
ourse at slow speed on the autopilot and hit the bunk closest to the helm for a few hours of much needed sleep. The norteamericanos had destroyed his empire. Now it was his turn.

  Chapter 42

  WITH THE ADULTS IN MEXICO, Paul and Angelica had the run of the ranch. They finished their chores early and headed to the lake. A few easy strokes got them to the raft where they eased out of the water, and Angelica lay on her stomach, undid the clasp on the top of her suit, and asked Paul to rub on her lotion. He did so with enthusiasm. “Now roll over,” he suggested, innocently, when her back was well protected.

  She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, there’s no one out here. It’s just us.”

  “Cool your jets, Top Gun. We’re not there yet and you know it.”

  “Angie, you know how I feel about you. I’m not one of those guys who hurt you. I would never do that. Why can’t you just relax and let nature take its course?”

  “Girls who let nature take its course have a name—mothers. I’m Catholic, and I have future plans. Being a single mom isn’t part of that plan.”

  “But you love me. I know you do.”

  “I do, that’s true. But one of us has to keep our hormones balanced if this relationship is going to work. Are you ready to tell your grandfather we’re pregnant? Don’t think that’s going to fly very well.”

  “I suppose not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t roll over.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t.” She reattached the suit strap and rolled over. “Happy now?”

  “You’re treating me like a kid.”

  “Come here, kid.” She pulled him into her arms and kissed him.

  They stayed together until it was apparent they needed to be apart. She pushed him away.