Heroes Proved

by Oliver North

  “Okay, but how do just a handful of our Hostage Recovery guys find Dr. Cohen, then get him away from whoever is holding him in—what did you call the Yucatan Peninsula last night, ‘the Federation Cartel’s private domain’—and do all this in two or three days?”

  “James, you know what a DEA Foreign-deployed Advisory and Support Team does, right?”

  “Sure, despite the benign name, they’re the direct-action arm of the DEA overseas. My MARSOC unit was with FAST-ALPHA when I got whacked in Afghanistan back in ’25. As you probably know, CSG now provides logs, aviation, and training support for them.”

  “Right. Well, it just happens that DEA FAST-KILO has dip-clearance to dispatch a six-agent survey unit to Mexico. They are slated to deploy as soon as possible after this hurricane passes. A friend of mine at DEA agreed I can send an Intelligence Committee staffer with them to assess their work for our upcoming budget decisions.”

  “I thought FAST teams were supposed to be ten or twelve agents.”

  “Usually they are, but they often task-organize for specific mission requirements. Since CSG will already have highly trained, Spanish-speaking HRU specialists on the ground, a small FAST unit, supplemented by CSG specialists and an able-bodied SSCI staffer, sounded about right.”

  The pair arrived at the pier and turned beneath the massive structure to head back into the wind, toward Cair Paravel. James walked in silence for a few steps, then, looking at the older man as though he were seeing him for the first time, said with a faint smile, “You know, Mack, you never cease to amaze me. You came up with all this since we talked last night?”

  “Actually, no. Your dad came up with the idea two days ago. It took a day to push it through the DEA Special Operations Division. I got the green light from a friend at DEA at about oh-four-hundred this morning.”

  “You have a lot of amazing friends.”

  “No. I have many relationships—among them are a fair number of people who claim friendship, but only a very small handful of truly reliable, good friends. You and your family are in that little group of steadfast, ‘I would die for you’ good friends.”

  “Well then, you have some amazing relationships.”

  “That’s true. And in this case, all those you have heard me refer to as ‘friends’—at the White House, in the military, our intelligence services, such as they are, in the DEA—are all people who have put themselves at risk for the benefit of our country and one another, not just me. We all share a common belief that our country is in serious trouble right now and we all agree this is a time when we must stand up and do what is right—regardless of the risks.”

  “So you think I should go with DEA FAST-KILO to Mexico as James Lehnert, SSCI staff member.”

  “Well, it’s one way to get you out of the country and out of the clutches of the people in this White House who are trying to make you a scapegoat for Houston. If DEA’s FAST Team finds Marty Cohen, you could also be crucial to identifying him, since only his captors—whoever they are—and you know exactly what he looks like.”

  “His PERT will do that.”

  “Only if his captors haven’t removed it—or it hasn’t gone dead from not being charged.”

  “Oh yeah . . .”

  “James, the decision is yours. I also know this is going to be a hardship for Sarah and your boys. I recommend you talk it over with her before you decide. You can let me know on the PID I gave you.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if memory serves me correctly, you have some other important matters to deal with in the next two days.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, since tomorrow is your tenth wedding anniversary—and you shouldn’t be seen wandering around off this island—I suggest you take the kids off Sarah’s hands for a while tomorrow so she can go to that nice spa up toward Litchfield. And on the flight down here you mentioned Saturday is Seth’s twelfth birthday. Do you have a present for him?”

  “You’re right, it is his birthday. And no, I don’t have a present for him. I need to talk to Sarah and ask her to run out to get him something.”

  “I recall what you received from your dad on your twelfth birthday. Do you?”

  “Uh huh,” James replied with a half grin. “A twenty-gauge shotgun, a compass, and a Bible.”

  “Do you remember what your dad said when he gave them to you?”

  “Oh yeah, because I was embarrassed in front of all the other boys at the birthday party. He said if I learned to use all three of those presents—the compass, the shotgun, and the Bible—I would never get lost, never go hungry, and never need to fear anything.”

  “He was right, you know.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “No, you don’t suppose. You know he was right. That kind of gift makes a pretty good tradition for a Newman boy turning twelve. You might want to think about it.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen for Seth’s twelfth birthday. Even if Sarah had a federal permit to purchase a firearm, we’re a little late on the six-month waiting period to buy a shotgun. Maybe next year.”

  “Well now, if it’s something you and Sarah think is a good idea, I just happen to have picked up a very nice little twenty-gauge from a friend in Charleston. It’s right now keeping a Capitol Police sergeant company over at the Sea View Inn. He also has the required paperwork to make the gift legal with the new federal firearms registration laws. And as for a compass and a Bible, I don’t think either of them require a six-month federal waiting period—at least not yet.”

  Newman smiled and said, “How do you keep all this straight in your head?”

  “Because it isn’t just in my head—it’s also in my heart. And that’s a good segue to the other topic we’re supposed to talk about this morning—the two lists you prepared for me.”

  Mack was reaching into the cargo pocket of his shorts for the two sheets of paper when he suddenly said, “What now?” and fished his PID out of another pocket. He touched the screen, held the card up to his ear, and said, “Caperton. Go ahead, William.”

  As the two men walked along the edge of the incoming tide, Caperton listened for a while, then asked, “When?” He listened some more and then said, “It will take me three hours to get from here to Washington. Tell the chairman I’ll be there before noon and not to start without me. I’m on the way.”

  Putting the PID back in his pocket, Mack said, “I’m sorry, James. That was the SSCI chief of staff. I must go straight to Washington. Something about a new presidential finding. We’re going to have to postpone our discussion of those lists.”

  Newman nodded and said, “I understand,” then the two men walked in silence for the last few hundred yards, enjoying the light breeze and the glow of the sunlight on the sea.

  As they reached Cair Paravel’s long wooden walkway over the dunes, James tapped the senator on the arm and pointed to an American osprey coasting into the wind twenty yards offshore. They watched in silence as the bird folded its wings and dove, feetfirst, into the shallow water. In seconds the raptor reappeared, extended its wings, shook the salt water off its feathers, and took off into the breeze, banking hard left over the island—a small fish firmly gripped in its talons.

  Pointing toward the bird, Caperton turned to James and said, “Mission accomplished. You know, ospreys are migratory—and that one will probably leave here soon. Do you know where many of them go for the winter?”

  “No.”

  Mack put his arm around James’s shoulder and said, “Mexico.”

  LA COSTA ESMERALDA

  55 MILES NE OF MERIDA, CAPITAL OF YUCATAN STATE, MEXICO

  THURSDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER 2032

  1210 HOURS, LOCAL

  No matter where on the globe he was, Marty Cohen always kept the ancient chronograph on his left wrist set to the Eastern U.S. time zone. It was a habit he began in the Navy decades before so he wouldn’t have to figure out whether he was going to awaken his wife and children with a call home.

 
According to the admiral’s battered old timepiece, they washed ashore just before 9 p.m. EDT on Wednesday, 15 September. Seconds before the lifeboat flipped over, he heard the ominous sound of crashing surf over the roar of the wind and rain and glanced at the watch. He was surprised they could be near any shore. The storm surge literally tossed the inflatable raft, upside down, onto the beach—spilling all four men hard into the sand.

  Though the life vest prevented serious injury to his upper body, the fall knocked the air out of the old admiral’s lungs and he struggled to crawl out of the waves and catch his breath. For nearly half an hour he simply lay there in the sand, barely above the surf, his arms wrapped around the trunk of a toppled tree as the howling wind shredded their inflatable lifeboat, scattering the survivors’ few possessions.

  Shivering in near-total darkness, Cohen took stock. He could feel a cut on his chin and scrapes on his knees and hands from being pounded into the sand by the surf. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since they went over the side of the sinking Ileana Rosario and he was feeling the effects of prolonged exposure to the elements.

  He still had his chem-light and the little compass from the lifeboat survival kit—both tethered to his life vest. But the plastic signal mirror, small folding knife, waterproof matches, and can of water he took from the kit were all gone. His only shoe was lost when the raft capsized. His warm-up shirt and jogging pants were both torn but still serviceable enough to afford some protection.

  Just a few yards away the admiral could see the dim glow of a chem-light and the outline of a dark form clinging to another fallen tree. He had no idea who it was or where they were, but he was glad to be alive and ashore—and knew that no matter how battered or fatigued he was, this was very likely his best opportunity for escape.

  Jamming the chem-light beneath his life vest to hide its glow, he pulled out the little compass, stuck its luminous dial in front of his face, and started crawling away from the roaring surf, heading due south, into the jungle.

  Less than fifty yards off the beach he found himself enmeshed in a tangle of saw grass, thick weeds, fat vines, and downed trees flattened and compacted by the driving wind and rain. His tattered shirt and pants caught on invisible, sharp snags with every movement. After thirty minutes of attempting to paw his way through the impenetrable thicket, he was completely exhausted.

  Desperate to evade his captors and survive the furious storm, Cohen burrowed deep as he could into the sodden mass, rolled onto his side, pulled his legs up into a fetal position to conserve body heat, and resolved to live until dawn.

  Though he could not remember dozing off, he awakened with a start as the first tendrils of gray light penetrated his hiding place. Rotating his wrist, he first confirmed the time—0610—and then checked the wind direction with the compass.

  He noted the gale was still driving sheets of rain almost horizontal, but the wind seemed to have dropped a few miles per hour. It was also somewhat warmer and gusting more from the east than the north. From long experience at sea, Cohen knew that unless it veered back to the south, the worst of the storm had passed.

  Pulling himself from the little burrow where he had taken shelter in the dead of night, the old admiral carefully peered around, looking for any signs of the other seven men who cast themselves over the side of the Ileana Rosario the night before. Seeing no one, he stood—then sat down abruptly to extract a sand burr from the sole of his bare left foot.

  In less than a half hour, Marty Cohen demonstrated his reputation for a rare combination of brilliance, resilience, and common sense. When he stood again he wore a pair of “shoes” he’d fashioned from palm fronds, fabric torn from the T-shirt beneath his jogging suit jacket, and aluminum foil and soggy duct tape from the boot his kidnappers applied aboard the Ileana Rosario to block his PERT signal.

  Arming himself with a sturdy stick pulled from the detritus washed up by the storm, he set out to get on higher ground, which he could see a mile to the south. It took him more than two hours to make his way through tangled, uprooted vegetation and a foot-sucking swamp deepened by the deluge. Along the way he saw a piece of the orange canopy from a life raft, flapping in the wind on a broken branch. It was too high to reach or tear down so he kept moving, hoping that somewhere nearby, the raft’s EPIRB was still transmitting and the orange panel would be spotted by a SAR flight after the storm passed.

  When the admiral topped the gentle rise, he stopped and looked to see if he was being pursued. To the north he could see low, scudding clouds—squall lines—over the Gulf of Mexico. While still gusting hard, the wind seemed to be hauling somewhat and he judged the eye of the hurricane had passed over them during the night. He estimated the storm was changing course toward the northwest.

  Through gaps in the rain bands he could see for a mile or so along the coast to the east and west. Though he was standing on what would have been prime, seafront property in the United States, there wasn’t a single dwelling, structure, or person in sight.

  He sat, his back to a fallen tree, picked up a large leaf, curled it into a gutter, placed one end between his lips, and let rainwater drain into his mouth. In a matter of minutes the downpour slaked his thirst. Refreshed, he rose, took out the compass, and headed due south again.

  After another half hour of “breaking brush” he came to a muddy, deeply rutted dirt track about seven feet wide, running generally east–west. Before venturing forth, he looked carefully left and right for any signs of recent vehicle or foot traffic. Whatever clues there might have been before the storm, none could be seen now.

  Cohen thought for a moment, then decided to go right—west—since it was slightly uphill. He reasoned the high ground was the most likely place to find human habitation, shelter from the storm, and protection from any of the terrorists who survived their shipwreck.

  Just before noon his spirits were further buoyed when he came upon a small clearing—about twice the size of a football field. Near the center of the open space were four single-story structures of varying size. Several rows of corn and a small vegetable garden—all flattened by the storm—could be seen on the south side of the clearing.

  Resisting the impulse to race across the clearing to the buildings, he stepped back into the wind-whipped foliage and hunkered down next to a tree, where he could scan the area for any signs of life. From his vantage point Cohen could see that three of the buildings were constructed of wood and one—apparently a house—was built of concrete block.

  He could see no power lines, vehicles, or machinery. No dogs or livestock were visible. The largest of the buildings, apparently a barn, had lost part of its metal roof—whether from the storm or prior to it, he could not tell. What looked to be the house had no glass in the windows he could see, but it appeared otherwise undamaged and, more importantly, unoccupied.

  He watched the place for nearly an hour, weighing whether it would be best to approach the dwelling during daylight or wait until after dark. Finally, the absence of any visible human activity—and hunger pangs gnawing in his stomach—won over patience. He stepped out of the vegetation and walked straight toward the doorway on the small porch.

  It took Cohen less than two minutes to cross the wind- and rain-swept clearing and step onto the weather-beaten boards of the porch. The front door was open and banging with each gust. From the doorway he took it in: a rough wooden floor, not dirt, soaked by storm-driven rain; an upturned wooden table; two crude wooden chairs; three small benches along the wall; and a short corridor leading to a kitchen—with two interior doors to his right. He shouted “¡Hola!” twice. Receiving no response, he entered.

  The blow to the back of the admiral’s head knocked him to his knees. For an instant, just before he was struck again, the thought Fatal error flashed through his mind.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OPERATION COYOTE

  CAIR PARAVEL

  ATLANTIC AVENUE

  PAWLEYS ISLAND, SC

  THURSDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER 2
032

  1815 HOURS, LOCAL

  Well, we finally have some good news,” Peter Newman said with a smile, tossing James and Sarah an armload of towels as they came up to the porch from a swim with their boys.

  “Thanks,” said James as they wrapped the twins in terry cloth and Seth and Josh raced for the shower. They had been out of the house fishing, tossing Frisbees, searching for loggerhead turtle nests along the dunes, and generally playing on the edge of the ocean since Senator Caperton’s hurried departure with James’s sister, Elizabeth, that morning.

  Their late-day swim was the result of a dare by Josh. Since the afternoon air was considerably cooler than the Atlantic water, everyone arrived on the porch with a serious case of goose bumps. As he rubbed the towel through his hair, James asked, “So what’s the good news?”

  “Two positive reports while you guys were getting some time together. First, our Ops Center sent out a Sit-Rep that the CSG Humanitarian/Med Support Team is on the ground in Mexico City. Second, Mack was right about the Independence Day holiday. Nobody at the airport even noticed our HRU add-ons to the Humanitarian/Med package.”

  As Sarah nudged the twins up the stairs and into the house, James looked at his father, suddenly concerned. “The Ops Center didn’t put the stuff about our HRU in the Sit-Rep for the whole government to see, did they?”

  “No. Our report simply provided a head count and informed the usual list of agencies that ‘need to know’ about the team’s arrival with nine containers of medical gear, humanitarian relief supplies, and essential life-support, communications, and mobility equipment. It’s all in the proper format—and it has the additional merit of being the truth. We just added Dan Doan and his operators to the Med Team list.”

  The two men moved into the house and Sarah, now wrapped in a robe, rejoined them as James asked, “So how do we know the Mexican authorities didn’t take notice of Doan and his HRU shooters?”