Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  Fulton sat at his kitchen table, poring over schematics. Time was short, and he still hadn't solved the incompatibility issues. When Peter rapped on his door, Fulton almost jumped out of his skin. Damn, he thought, I need to loosen up. I'm no good to the project like this. As he walked to the door, he paused to dump the rest of his coffee in the sink. Better switch to decaf.

  “Hey, Robert.”

  “Hey, Peter. Come on in,” Fulton said, rubbing his eyes, “What can I get you? I was just about to make a pot of decaf.”

  “Decaf? Why would anyone want to drink that stuff?”

  “I'm a little edgy. That's all.”

  “Well, it sounds like you need a cold beer.”

  “You know, that's the best idea I've heard all day.”

  Robert's every action conveyed stress. Normally a neat freak, wearing his tie right up until bedtime, Robert now appeared disheveled. His tie was lying across the back of the couch. His shirt was untucked - his hair mussed. He had even removed his shoes. Robert returned from the kitchen with two Michelobs, downing a third of his before he took his seat at the kitchen table.

  “Work got you down?” Peter asked.

  “It's these goddamned missiles. Just when we thought we had the hardware compatibility issues resolved, the software started to crash. This Eastern Bloc technology is crap. I just can't integrate their technology with ours. It's like the two systems were developed on different planets.”

  “Well, would the SS-18's have the capability to carry out this mission if the launch tubes and software were Eastern Bloc?”

  “Sure. This is a cakewalk as far as SSM's go.”

  “Well, what if you dumbed down the American software? Strip it down to the basics.”

  “I can't. The self-destruct sequence is already coded. It would take weeks to rewrite and debug it.”

  “Then take the self-destruct sequence offline. If you have to abort, have the crew do it manually. A little strategically placed C-4 with a simple timer can work wonders.”

  “Peter, I can't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Peter, it's not an option. Just leave it at that.”

  Peter raised his hands in mock capitulation. “Okay, Man. You're the boss.”

  Robert finished his beer in three swallows. He knew Peter must think he was crazy, integrating the launch system with the self destruct system, but he was limited in what he could tell even Peter. He had only told Peter that the Prometheus, an oil tanker converted into a warship, was to launch SSM's with conventional payloads in some sort of sneak attack. No one, however, but Robert and the DCI knew at whom.

  “Robert, you're the best engineer I know,” Peter said. “If anyone can work this out, it's you. Have a couple more beers, blow off some steam, and I'll bet the answer will jump off the page at you.”

  Fulton raised his bloodshot eyes to meet Peter's face. He ran his left hand through his hair. “Thanks, Peter. You're a good friend.” They drank in unison.

  Later that evening, when exhaustion overtook frustration, Fulton lay in bed, wondering whether he should have crossed the line regarding killing American soldiers. He could still hear the DCI's words, It's not what we do that makes us the good guys. It's why we do it. Deep down, Fulton knew that he was more afraid of failure than of betraying his conscience. He hardened his resolve and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Somewhere off the coast of Brazil

  Lupe couldn't tell whether her eyes were open or shut. When she struggled, she discovered her hands were bound behind her back with worn and smelly leather straps. Her legs were joined at the knee in an extremely uncomfortable manner. She let her concentration flow over each part of her body, starting at the soles of her feet and scanning to the top of her head. She sometimes used this yoga technique to help her get to sleep. Now she used it to convince herself that she still existed. Aside from her bonds, she felt little else. She was lying on her left side, on a cold, hard floor. The floor surface was smooth – metal.

  As time passed, she became aware of a gentle disturbance in her inner ear. Lupe was so disoriented that it took her a while to notice it. The floor was gently rocking. A boat. She was on a boat.

  She was restrained with well-used devices designed explicitly for that purpose. What had happened to her? The last thing she remembered was being in the Botanical Gardens in Rio. She had been kidnapped - no question about it. But, if she were being held for ransom, why was she on a boat?

  “Where am I?” She was surprised at the sound of her own voice splitting the void of darkness and silence. Except when it came out, it sounded more like “Hmmf hm hmi.” A cloth - not a full sized handkerchief, but one cut down to lessen the danger of choking, gagged her. It was a sick world, but even so, the market value of dead women was limited.

  Lupe strained to hear or see or feel any clue as to her whereabouts. The only new thing she discovered was a sticky wetness in her crotch. She had peed herself sometime during her drug-induced sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Norfolk, Virginia

  Special Agent Fulton stood on the dry dock catwalk, overlooking the Prometheus. Project Crossfire was near its completion. The Prometheus was a masterpiece by any measure. Silos for 440 SSM's were invisibly installed below the deck of the apparently commercial vessel. Her flat deck with 166,000 square feet had the densest missile population of any ship ever built. The lower storage compartments were so crowded that the missiles could not be reloaded outside of dry dock. But reloading would not be necessary. Once the leviathan ship had fired its entire payload - in evenly dispersed launches of twenty-two missiles each – its mission would be accomplished. Shame the ship and crew had to be destroyed.

  Prometheus would depart in less than eight hours. Fifteen days into its mission, it would fire the missiles, precipitating a cascade effect culminating with the USA in control of the world's power supply.

  Peter quietly walked up beside him, “Thought I'd find you here. Nervous?”

  “Believe it or not – no. Somehow I feel calmer than I ever have in my life.”

  “So, I guess you got the bugs worked out?” Peter asked.

  “Yea. I followed your suggestion and took the self-destruct sequence off line until we resolved the launch codes. Once the two systems were operational, it was fairly easy to integrate them.”

  “One question, Robert. I've been with the Agency for over ten years, and I've never been given a project of this magnitude. What's your secret?”

  “Peter, Bob Hope once said he'd rather be lucky than good. Well, when I was stationed in Vietnam, I saved the life of a boy who turned out to be the godson of the DCI. It was really no big deal. Over there, lives are saved and lost every day. But, I was the one who shot the gook sneaking up behind David, so I got the prize. That single bullet has opened a lot of doors for me. You know, the DCI personally recruited me from the Bureau.”

  “I always heard it was because of some big drug bust,” Peter said.

  “Well, that is true, but how often have you seen someone enter the Agency at the Director level? I skipped the ten years of groundwork to prepare me for the role of Director of Middle Eastern Operations.”

  “You lucky son of a bitch,” Peter jibed.

  “Hey, what can I say?”

  Fulton turned to face his masterpiece. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fossil fuel odor that was Prometheus' signature. His hands tightened on the rail as he looked over his shoulder and said, “Peter, these are the greatest years of our lives. Just think about it. Half the world is at war, and here we are, in covert ops. I know I'll never be in the history books, but I'll be dead before they're written, anyway. This way, I have the satisfaction of knowing every citizen of the United States will owe me their freedom for the next hundred years.”

  “A little dramatic, aren't we?”

  “Peter, the DCI sanctioned me to end the oil embargo by whatever means necessary. Well
, my proposal took it a step further. If things go as planned, the US will control the world's oil supply well into the next century.”

  “Robert, I think there are better ways of solving problems than starting a war,” Peter said.

  “I'm not starting a war, I'm ending one. Syria started the Arab-Israeli war, in case you haven't read a newspaper lately. Now, Saudi Arabia is tacitly allied with Syria, but is officially neutral in the conflict. They give lip service to their relationship with the US, and the UN eats it up like candy. All the while, they're gouging us with crude oil price increases and production cuts.

  “As it stands, we can't take direct action against Saudi Arabia because of U.N. sanctions. As long as Syria and Israel continue with their minor tactical battles and posturing, the conflict will drag on forever. If I bring the US into the war, it'll be over in a matter of months. I won't be costing lives. I'll be saving them.”

  Robert gleamed with patriotism, proud of his grandiose plot. His sole regret was not making the time to tell his father. Fulton's father had been the ultimate patriot. He actually fought at Iwo Jima, climbing the hill with a flame-thrower; ensuring that no under-cooked Japanese occupied the many caves along the attack route.

  Robert remembered his story about the famous raising of the flag picture. It turned out that the original photo was deemed un-press-worthy, due to the disheveled appearance of the soldiers and the flag. So, the press liaisons had arranged another photograph with fresh soldiers and flag, not even the original men!

  Knowing the whole country had rallied behind a staged photo had burned his father's ass, and the man was not shy with his opinions. He had preached his purist views about the supremacy of the US to both Robert and Peter in their youth. But still, being raised a patriot was a far cry from being a warmonger. Robert had crossed a line that Peter would not.

  “So, exactly how do you plan to turn this squabble into a full blown war?” Peter asked.

  “Peter, I can't give you the details, but I can tell you to watch the news on March 18th.”

  “Robert,” Peter said, “I'm happy for your success, but I don't condone interfering in the politics of other countries.”

  “If not us, who?” Fulton asked.

  Peter didn't answer him. He turned slowly on his heel and left as silently as he had arrived.

  * * *

  Guanabara Bay, Brazil

  Fejo appeared relaxed as he reclined in the Captain's chair of his tramp steamer. Although he always had the jitters about getting out of port, his face and posture projected complete calm. Years of making a living by his nerves had taught him to reveal nothing in front of the crew. If he looked nervous, they would surely panic. There were many preparations to make before The Lady and the Tramp set sail in just a few hours. She had nearly a full hold – thirty-eight of forty guestrooms filled.

  Jorge, his first officer, entered the cabin noisily. “Captain, we're cleared for departure at 0800.”

  “Good. Set heading to 31.7 degrees. Once we clear port, all ahead full.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “And how are our guests?” Fejo asked.

  “Resting comfortably, Captain. There are a few toilet accidents, but nothing major.”

  “Good. Once we hit the open sea, begin changeover,” Fejo replied, referring to the procedure of untying the girls and cleaning those who needed it in preparation for the eighteen day journey to Tarfaya, Morocco. They were kept gagged and tied while in port to avoid any unnecessary noise. Invariably, there were those who soiled themselves out of fear or simply the inability to wait until the Lady and the Tramp was cleared by the Guanabara Bay Shipping Authority. Fejo closed his eyes and began mentally spending the money he would make for this haul.

  * * *

  A US civilian airplane flying south

  Drake was completely relaxed in his airline seat, swirling a cup of iced Coke while reviewing his game plan in his head. Drake and Gip were traveling as civilians, with nothing linking them to the US military. They had no tools to aid them in their mission except their carry-on bag full of cash. Major Briggs had made it clear that if they encountered trouble, they were on their own. Being young and arrogant, Drake paid this statement no heed. It didn't occur to him that life in a Third World prison or violent death were realistic outcomes of this mission. He was focused on facts; trying to pick up Lupe's trail.

  Gip interrupted his thoughts. “Man, this is fly. I've never flown first class before,” Gip said, “As a matter of fact, I've never flown any class before.”

  “Compliments of Uncle Sam,” Drake replied.

  “Okay, let's go over this again,” Gip said, “The girls were last seen talking to this guy Hector.”

  “The hotel concierge.” Drake said.

  “Right, and Hector is a black market sleaze bag.”

  “You were there. You heard what Briggs said.”

  “And because Hector is connected to a cab driver named Phillip…”

  “Felipe,” Drake interrupted Gip.

  “Yea, whatever. Do you honestly believe this Felipe will lead us right to the girls? That shit seems thin,” Gip said.

  “Look,” Drake said, “I know it's thin, but it's all we've got. Briggs said Brazil is the kidnapping capitol of the world. I don't think it's that much of a stretch. Besides, do you have a better idea?”

  “Okay,” Gip said, “So we just walk up and ask this Hector dude 'Excuse me, but we were wondering if you recently sold any American girls to white slavers,' and he'll tell us where he sent them.”

  “Depends on the way I ask,” Drake said, smiling broadly.

  “I still say that shit is thin.”

  “We'll just have to be…” Drake paused, searching for the right word. “Persuasive.”

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Go right ahead,” Drake responded.

  “How'd you get roped into this assignment? Briggs sold me a line of shit about me having a talent for making black market connections because I was a drug dealer. That, plus he said a munitions specialist was essential to the mission.”

  “I have a strong conscience,” Drake replied.

  “What the Hell does that mean?”

  “All the most effective killers have strong consciences. They all do it for a reason.”

  “So, what's your reason?” Gip asked.

  “That's heavy, man. I don't even want to go there,” Drake replied as he reclined his seat. He recalled the image of Tammy standing in their front yard, crying at the thought of her husband going into combat. Life had dealt her some heavy blows, and now the one person she leaned on was in harm's way. Drake promised himself he would make it back, not for himself, but for her. He contemplated Gip's question of exactly what he would do with Felipe when he found him. The answer was obvious. Gip didn't know because he couldn't face the answer.

  * * *

  The Kechla Citadel

  Tartus was startled out of his light nap by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Keeping his eyes narrowed to a slit, he quietly freed the holster strap from his Glock 9mm. He immediately began forming contingency plans. If the door opened without a knock, he would feign sleep until he got a head count, then he would either shoot or run. When he heard the knock, he relaxed slightly. He waited until he heard his faithful servant speak.

  “It's Falon,” the voice whispered in Arabic.

  “Come in, my friend,” Tartus answered, knowing Falon would have referred to himself as 'me' if there were any trouble.

  Falon, recognizing the code phrase, 'my friend' = 'all clear', entered without his weapon drawn.

  “Falon, it's good to see you,” Tartus said graciously. He knew a visit from Falon meant one thing – money. He wasted no time getting to business. “You have news for me?”

  “Fejo has a shipment of thirty-eight. The ship is due in Tarfaya in eighteen days. They should be here in Safi in nineteen,” Falon said, adding a day for the three hundred mile drive.

  “Please, sit
. Tell me about the shipment.” Tartus made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

  “Thank you. Tartus, Fejo may have what we've been waiting for. The recruitments were all made in Brazil, but there was an unexpected boon. Three of the girls appear to be Americans. They are light skinned, and Jorge heard them speaking to each other in English.”

  Tartus stroked the stubble on his chin. Of course, everyone spoke English. But in situations of extreme stress, people tended to revert to their native tongues.

  “What race are they?” Tartus asked.

  “One is slightly Hispanic, but mostly Caucasian. The other two are pure white,” Falon said.

  “I'll want to see these three first.”

  “Of course, Tartus.”

  Three American girls would bring a premium greater than the other thirty-five combined. Because they were exceedingly difficult to acquire, American girls went exclusively to Tartus' most elite clientele. Even in Brazil, Americans were hard to come by. They seldom traveled to dangerous places without the protection of bodyguards or at least large groups. In fact, Tartus knew Fejo avoided Americans like the plague. They were much too dangerous.

  If Fejo actually had three American girls, it would most likely be by accident. Then again, Fejo was already posturing to elevate his price for this shipment. Why else would his mate Jorge have made it a point to mention the Americans to Falon? Well, business meant money, and Fejo had brought Tartus considerable revenues over the past eight years. If the smelly little man wanted a taste of the big league, Tartus would grant it within reason, considering the difficulty of making trustworthy partners in his line of work. He dismissed Falon and picked up the telephone. After making the international connections, his grip tightened as King Fahr answered.

  “Hello, Honorable One,” Tartus said in Arabic, “I believe I have something that will interest you.”

  “I'm listening,” said the man able to inspire fear even in Tartus.

  “With my next shipment, I'll have some rare merchandise - three units from America. I thought perhaps you would like to discuss the matter in person.”