by Tom Fugate
Chapter 29
Set up for justice
It had been about a month and a half since the shootout at the airport in West Palm Beach. I was recovered fully since my vest had taken most of the impact of the big bore revolver which had been fired at me and much too close to me. I had to suffer through some ribs that had been at least badly bruised and more likely cracked from the impact. Melvin Robertson had not been among the dead or arrested. Fred was still in the hospital. His leg was healing, but slowly and not well. The resources of several agencies were searching for Robertson. So far he had gone to ground. Sooner or later he would surface and we would be back on his trail. I was making my plans to bring him to justice one way or another. I had actually been back at work closing up some of those loose ends since about a week after the shooting
There were several duffel bags of the money that had been slated for transport out of the country when the operation ended in a sudden burst of gunfire. Some of that cash had ended up in several slush funds that allowed covert operators to have safe deposit boxes scattered around in case disappearing was prudent. More of the money was being pumped back into the fight. Money that you do not have to explain to a congressional committee could be very useful.
I had spent time being debriefed after a brief stay in the hospital. The time I had spent in the Miami area tying up loose ends and answering questions had been about a week and a half. I was back in the Miami area after returning home, taking some time off and working on some other ‘stuff’; mostly paperwork. The time off had only been a long weekend with my family right after I had left Miami. The other stuff consisted mostly of paperwork and depositions about the operation and its aftermath. Usually I managed to avoid answering questions under oath, but not this time. I almost got sent to testify before a congressional committee but experienced hands had prevailed and kept me away from grandstanding representatives and TV cameras. I almost had the feeling that my boss wanted me to have that experience. My face on the news would effectively end a large part of my career.
This trip I was not trying to avoid a tail, well no more so than was pure habit with me. There should be no one looking for me in Miami, in fact as far as we could tell the cover identity was still intact. Word had been spread that Lee Williams had gotten away scot free. That was a good thing considering what my next move was going to be. I drove to the small church that I had visited a few times during the operation. Padre Garcia greeted me as I walked up to the door with a duffel bag.
“Planning on moving in? You don’t seem the priestly type and I know you aren’t Catholic.” His smile was as contagious as usual. For someone seemingly as mellow and friendly as he was there was steel behind those brown eyes, once a combat veteran always a combat veteran.
“No, I can’t stay long. Work calls me for a sea cruise in a day or two. I need a favor,” I said as I sat the duffel bag at his feet. Opening the duffel I took out three smaller bags. Each of those bags had a label. I handed him the first bag whose label said Fred Jenkins.
“Padre I would like you to see that this goes into a fund to take care of this young police officer. He was shot while he was working with me. He may never be able to walk right again and I want his medical bills and other things paid.” He looked at me with a bit of suspicion and raised eyebrows. “The money is not mine. I am doing this because it is the right thing and not because of guilt. I will admit that the money is stolen. Stolen from the drug smuggler who had him shot.” I grinned almost evilly. “I did not take this money for personal reasons. I just figure that people with large amounts of illegally obtained cash owe it to society to use it for good works, even if they don’t know they are using it for good.”
Laughing he made the sign of the cross as he spoke, “I guess the Lord will forgive your sin of theft due to the spirit it was made in. What are the other bags?”
“This one is for you to use in the area as you see fit. Just report it as an anonymous donation if you have to. People will probably assume it is from some criminal trying to buy absolution and in a round about way it is. The third bag is for a payroll. I have some leads on the man I was after. It may be necessary to go black to bring him to justice. I may need help that I can count on but has no official connection to any agency.”
“Are we talking justice or vengeance? I will not help you become no better than your quarry. You are a good man and I want you to stay that way. Your line of work is hard enough on a man’s soul without the stain of murder.” He looked very concerned.
I looked down at the floor a moment before raising my eyes to look at his. My voice may have had a slight quiver to it as I spoke, “I considered just taking him out, but I am not made that way. I want to bring him in so that he can pay for his crimes. Death is too quick a punishment for him. I will not promise that he will not be killed. I can promise that I will do my best to bring him in alive.”
“Okay, what are you going to need?” He did not hesitate to offer help after he knew my intentions.
“I will probably need about six to eight people for a crew. The third bag is for expenses and to pay them. You know the skill set I will need. No novices no matter how bad they would like to help. I only want people who have ‘seen the elephant’. The time frame is still up in the air. I think the bastard will be spending a lot of time in places with no extradition treaty with the US. Once we find him I will get things together as quick as I can. Any operation should be a few days at most.”
“I know some people who would do that job for free because of what drugs and drug dealers have done to their friends, families and neighborhoods. If you don’t mind I won’t tell them about anything but expense money at first. Even good people might do something they don’t believe in for money. I will get you people who would do it for the right reasons. They can find out about pay later. I can guarantee that anyone I get to help you I would trust to cover my own ass.”
“I can’t ask for a better recommendation than that.”
“Son, folks like us have to stick together. If you ain’t been there, you don’t know what it is. I do need the answer to two questions before you leave.” His face wore a hard and yet friendly look as he spoke that last sentence. “How much money is here? And what the hell is your name?”
“My name is Lee Thomas and the bags have a total of around two million in them all in real US currency.” He smiled as I spoke my name and gasped audibly when I mentioned the amount of money. “I have been around DC for a few years. I guess some of the politics have rubbed off on me. I figure if you are going to steal, steal big.”
He put out his hand and I shook it. Then he gave me a hug. “Watch your ass, Lee. I figure you are one of the good ones. Let me know when you need that help and they will be ready.”
I turned to leave and as I walked away he spoke again, “What agency do you work for?” I owed him at least that.
“The GIA.” I said as I stopped and turned back to him.
“You work for John Fleming? You must be good. I know some things about him that I might be willing to tell you someday. Rumor is that he has the old Hoover files and has added to them. Before you ask how I know him just remember that your line of work is inhabited by a small, select group of people and I used to be Force Recon. Sometime when you are around here call me, bring some good whiskey and we will swap tales.”
“I can do better than that. I have access to a supply of fine Cuban rum and cigars. In fact I may have even more in a day or two. I will bring some when I come back to visit.” I grinned. “I will bring some whisky too. Scotch or Bourbon?”
“Either is fine as long as it is the good stuff,” he paused for a dramatic moment, “Do I want to know where you got that Cuban contraband? Should I take you into the confessional for that discussion? Nah, you special ops guys might lie about it even to a priest. I would have. Watch your six soldier.” He gave a wave that was not quite a salute and yet more than a wave. He was smiling broadly as I turned and walked out.
Now it wa
s time to have Jacob fuel up the “Wild Turkey” for another trip of about 200 or so miles. Cuba was calling but the accent was Russian and not Spanish.
Chapter 30
Cuba calling
Jacob had the boat ready; in fact he had been expecting me at any time during the past few days. The Wild Turkey was fueled, provisioned and ready to go when I got to the marina in Key Largo. Along with a few other friends, Jacob and I were taking the “Turkey” on a trip about ninety miles south to a spot we had been to before. The friends were the kind of friends who are very good at breaking things. You might not want your sister to date them but if she did no one was going to bother her. A lot of old hands in the spec ops area of expertise were interested in stopping things like slave labor and communists. We had four friends with us. I won’t say new friends since either Jacob or I knew them all. They were veterans of one sort or another, what service did not matter. What did matter was that they all hated communists and could speak Spanish. Whether or not they were on active duty I am not at liberty to say. The fact that they could speak Spanish was a good thing since I did not, except to order beer or find a bathroom. Jacob’s Spanish was a lot like mine and consisted mostly of food or drink ordering and requesting other types of entertainment. A duffel bag supposedly full of money was the ostensible reason for the trip. The contents were not money but were almost as useful.
We all met at a restaurant not far from the marina. We ate a lot and also drank much less than we appeared to. Our whole image was to seem like a bunch of friends just having a good time. After about an hour we all walked out of the establishment a bit unsteadily. The unsteadiness vanished when we were out of sight down the street. Together we headed to the marina and onto that big maroon boat. Blackout shades were over the portholes in the cabin so no light escaped as we held our final briefing. The mission was official but totally deniable. There would be no cavalry coming to our rescue if we screwed the pooch, but everyone knew that going in; SOP (standard operating procedure) for a lot of special operations missions.
“Gentlemen, our target,” I put a picture of Yuri Andropov Leonid on the table. “This is a black bag operation, but then you already knew that.” Everyone chuckled, they had been given the basics before they got anywhere near this boat. “We want him alive, but the man may be interested in selling nuclear weapons to drug cartels. He does not stay in Cuba and he never gets the chance to sell nukes. There are signed orders allowing the use of extreme measures. If we can’t make it out neither does he. If we can’t get him out we leave a body. Are we clear on that?” I looked at the faces around the table. There was no surprise on any face at these orders. Those two words, Nuclear Weapons, bring a certain and rapid mental clarity. “Intelligence does not think that he has any nukes currently in this hemisphere. We have to make sure of that and prevent it from occurring.”
“Sir after we bag him do we get him to Gitmo? That would be the closest place.”
“Negative, we either get him back to Florida or rendezvous with Navy or Coast Guard in international waters. The base at Guantanamo is in the dark totally about this operation. We get in and out without the Marines there ever knowing.” All of the heads around the table nodded in understanding. “As far as we can tell Robertson has not been in touch with anyone in his network from outside the United States since the firefight at the airport. My cover seems intact so we should have no problem going in. Coming out might be another story. We should know if there is a problem going in before we get to land.” Yes, it was a dangerous assumption that our victim had not been warned that I was not on his side, but there was no other way to get near him that made sense in any sort of quick reaction timeframe.
“Time to get this show on the road.” Jacob and I exited the cabin and began the process of leaving the marina. Our passengers stayed inside and got their gear together. We were hoping to be onshore by 10 PM which was around the time we had done business in Cuba before. Routines are wonderful things for making people think that nothing is happening.
There was going to be some moonlight but it was only about a quarter moon. We crept out of the channel and headed for open water. When we turned south we began to let the big dog eat as we turned south and opened the throttles. The weather was as close to perfect for the crossing as you could get. Our IFF unit was turned on and transmitting, the signal lights were blinking out an invisible recognition code in Morse so the right people knew who we were. Add to that the fact that the Coast Guard and Navy were ordered to give us unfettered passage meant that the trip to Cuban waters should be a piece of cake.
This job had been planned and laid on before the fiasco at the West Palm Beach airport. Our destination was a small village along Cayo Romano. It was a village that I had visited several times before during this operation. I had always been delivering and never picking up anything more than cigars and maybe some rum. Basically our navigation consisted of going south till we found Cuba and turning left for a run along the coast till we found our destination. This was the area that Robertson’s drug running boats were using as their ‘mother ship’ for drug pickup. Actually the navigation was easier than that. We had stored the location in the nav unit on the boat. We could go directly to the site and not worry about the left turn. The direct route was better since it would expose us to Cuban patrol craft for a shorter period both on entry and exit. We expected to be challenged by at least one Cuban boat, but we knew him. If he had not been warned we were okay.
We ran south and slightly east at a good speed that was not quite enough to cause serious bumping and jarring. No reason in the world to not enjoy the ride. As we neared Cuban waters we shut down our radar. A cigarette style boat is low in the water and mostly nonmetallic. Our radar cross section when not sending out our own signal was small. In the right kind of sea swells we would be only an intermittent contact at best for any radar trying to track us unless they were very close. If the radar was airborne that was a different story. As we crossed the imaginary line in the water that put us out of international waters and into Cuban waters we turned off the upward blinking signal lamps just in case anyone above had night vision goggles and knew Morse code. Our speed lowered and we turned on running lights. I plugged a green light similar to the ones used in unmarked police cars into a cigarette light jack on the dash. It had a bracket that let it fasten over the top edge of the wind shield. There was a metal shield inside the blinking, spinning light so not to blind us. This was the procedure for us to follow to keep from being shot out of the water, a procedure we had used a few times before.
We dropped speed again as we drew near the small harbor, little more than a marina actually, of the village. A patrol boat was waiting for us. Word had been passed that we were making a run that evening. Now we would find out if our cover was still good. If the answer to that question was no then we would use some of the gadgets built into my boat and run like hell. Unless the other craft had help he could not have hoped to run with us. Hell, his boat could not have kept up with us when it was new much less since being relegated to the backside of the Cuban nowhere. Everyone on the other boat seemed relaxed and no one was obviously near any weapons. We pulled alongside on their starboard where some fenders hung down. Our bow headed to Cuba and his to open water. Hernando, the boat captain, was waiting along the rail. Our engines stayed at an idle with the props disengaged.
“Ola, my friend,” he said as Jacob tossed a line to a crewman at their stern. “I see you were expecting us.”
“Si, the Russian told us that you were making a run. How are things? It has been a while.” He had a rather deep voice for a small man and a very good command of English.
“This may be the last run for a while. Our mutual friend is on the run. The DEA tried to capture him and he got away. We were also in hiding after police tried to capture our friend. We are only here to drop off and not pickup.” I handed him a box that was about four inches high and a foot square. The box was full of money. “With the heat that is around it
may be a while before you see us again so I have an extra present for you.” I handed him a second box the same size as the first. That box was also full of money. “This is for the time and trouble for you and your men,” I said as he took hold of that box. “This one is for you to share with your crew and for your kind understanding of our business.” I doubted that his crew would see much of the money. He would give them something, but they would probably never know about the contents of the second box.
“Such is the nature of business. I hope to see you again. You treat me well.” He smiled and shook the first money box slightly. Somehow he had made the second box disappear. “The Russian is expecting you. Have a safe journey.”
“Thank you my friend. I too hope to see you again. We will be on our way.” His crewman tossed the line back to Jacob and I reengaged the propellers connect to the big diesel engines. Slowly I moved away and then headed into the village. We were still not out of the woods. It was possible that an ambush was waiting on land. If they had found out my true part in the shoot out then there was probably an 80% chance that an ambush was ahead of us. All we could do was be pessimistic, expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised when the worst did not happen.
Creeping on into the small harbor we pulled to a dock alongside a very rickety looking building. I knew from past visits that the building was camouflaged to look bad; the water under the beat up looking dock was deeper than it looked and the dock was not really beat up. This building and its associated structures were made to look really bad on satellite or aerial reconnaissance. Two or three boats the size of mine could tie up along side this dock at one time. Arrivals were timed to be in satellite reconnaissance dead spots if possible. I killed the engines and we drifted the final few feet to the dock. Jacob tossed a line to a young man with an AK-47. The poor kid was about to take an unscheduled nap. I opened a compartment on the dash area and took out a remote control and dropped it into my left front pocket. Jacob went into the cabin and brought out a duffle bag that appeared to be full of drug money. It wasn’t.