by T. S. O'Neil
Ramos passed the handset back to the on duty Battle Captain, Lieutenant Colonel Freeman. He looked at Ramos and then spoke into the microphone.
“I hope you both know what you’re doing. I got my ass kicked in Wisconsin once.”
Chapter Twenty–four - Lip Slip
Carabobo Launch Complex
It had been a busy morning. The ambush had failed to check in and when multiple attempts to contact it were met with negative results, Van Achtenberg and two other security guards mounted a couple of ATVs to investigate. The bikes were nimble enough to take them to the site, but so noisy they alerted everyone within miles of their approach. They arrived at the site a little before midday.
To say Peter Van Achtenberg was not happy would be a profound understatement. He had not witnessed such carnage since the raid on Gaborone when he was just a young trooper with the Defense Forces. The enemy had killed an equal number then, but they were Kefirs and not men he had served with for over twenty-five years. Carl Ferreira, a man he had known since at least that time, was also missing.
It was obvious that the bodies had been searched for intelligence as all the pockets were turned inside out. Most of the weapons and ammunition were gone. The few remaining AKMs were left in a slag heap of melted metal, the thin stamped steel of the weapons’ receivers and barrels melted into a blob. Someone had used a thermite grenade to render them useless.
Initially, he found no enemy dead, although he did find some evidence that his men had inflicted significant casualties on the Americans.
“Find me a body!” he ordered.
It was clear to Van Achtenberg that those who had countered the ambush were not desperate men who had luckily escaped with their lives, but well-honed professionals who, though initially surprised by the chain of claymore mines that should have destroyed them, had speedily rallied. Though the initial ambush had undoubtedly caused casualties, they reacted like a vicious, cornered animal, striking back with insane ferocity. He vowed not to underestimate them again.
That had been his morning. Van Achtenberg had called it in to Colonel Stal, who had asked him to stop by for an official briefing. He felt his sphincter tighten and his heart skip a beat―a week ago Stal had asked the same thing of a scientist who had trimmed too much shielding from the warhead in one small area. Rumor had it that he had shot the man dead in front of his maid and left him lying there in a pool of blood as he violently forced Gloria, the young girl, down on the desk and raped her. Thirty five minutes later, Van Achtenberg stood in front of Stal’s desk, a large piece of furniture made of polished tropical wood that had belonged to the original owner of the plantation. The icehouse had quickly and painstakingly been turned into an officious-looking inner sanctum.
Stal stood just out of sight in an antechamber behind the desk, busily engaged in replenishing his computerized insulin pump. He had recently purchased a new glucose meter from the United States. Insulin would be injected into the colonel’s body via a plunger-driven needle on a more continuous basis based on blood glucose levels read by the meter and transmitted wirelessly to the pump.
He administered a dose of glucose, and sat down behind the desk. He regarded the man with practiced nonchalance, “you have proven yourself to be a failure, Van Achtenberg!” He picked up a Russian Tokarev TT-33 Service Pistol and nonchalantly pointed it at the man’s chest.
“Tell me why I should not kill you for failing me.” “You still need me,” Van Achtenberg desperately replied.
“My men are loyal only to me.”
“Your men are a rapidly diminishing commodity. If I were you, I would base your irreplaceability on something more substantial, such as your willingness to die should you fail me again,” said Stal lackadaisically, as if he customarily threatened people with death in the normal course of business.
Stal looked at the pistol as if surprised to find it in his hand and disinterestedly placed it down on the desk.
“Now, who and where are they?” Van Achtenberg relaxed somewhat. Apparently, he wouldn’t be testing the bulletproof vest he had recently started wearing.
“We found one of the bodies they had hastily buried. According to a tattoo, they are Recon Marines―the same that you ambushed in Iraq.” Stal nodded slightly while adopting a smile, as if reliving the event.
“It’s possible that you’ve been tied to the helicopter downing and they are conducting some type of vendetta.”
“Yes, well, that was bound to happen. You don’t steal a nuclear ballistic missile and think that they won’t come looking for you. But they are simply too late to do anything other than watch.”
“There is one other thing, continued Van Achtenberg. I believe this is a new unit. The Marines recently set up a Tier II Special Operations unit—Marine Special Operations―a cut above Force Recon, but drawn primarily from their ranks.”
“That might explain how they escaped the ambush you set for them,” ventured Stal. He appeared bored with the conversation, glancing at the pistol as if noticing it for the first time, slowly reaching for it and then pointing it at the security chief.
“Your job, my dear Van Achtenberg, is to ensure that this installation is protected. Now contact the National Guard Commander and tell him I want this facility completely surrounded with a fully manned defensive perimeter, or the next call I make will be to Chavez. After that, go find these Marines and finish them off or I’ll do the same to you.”
Stal stood up from his desk and walked into the house to a locked bedroom. He removed a key from his pocket, opened the door, and peered at the young woman reclining on the bed. “Assume the position,” he said quietly. The young woman silently got to her feet, pulled the simple white cotton dress over her head, climbed onto the bed, and got on her knees and elbows.
Chapter Twenty-five - Southbound
Caribbean Sea; heading southwest
Char hadn’t left the bridge since he had clandestinely boarded a day previous and quietly powered out of the harbor. He was now steaming toward Colombian waters and was cautiously optimistic, that he had slipped through the legal clutches of the two deputies. The sun was directly overhead―noon, regardless of what time zone he was in. The sea was kicking up whitecaps and he was bucking a moderate headwind, but the weather was otherwise fair.
He stood at the console of the Hatteras, feeling that if he sat down in one of the captain’s chairs he would pass out and, like the Robert Frost poem, he had miles to go before he slept. He had fueled himself on strong black coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich from the fridge, but was otherwise operating on adrenaline. Being a felon on the run from the law should have felt more normal by now.
All that remained was picking up Michael and heading further south than they had originally planned. He liked Brazil, and had heard it was difficult to extradite someone from there. Ramos had given him a business card when they had first met and Char fished it out of his wallet―you never knew when knowing a Colombian senator’s son might come in handy.
Ramos’ name and contact information were elegantly detailed in raised gold lettering on thick letter stock.
There was spotty cell phone coverage on the Isla de Bartolomé. There was a cell tower there primarily for military use, but it was obsolete and not very powerful. He called the number, left a message on Ramos’ voicemail, and waited for a return phone call. Two hours and forty-seven minutes later, his sat phone buzzed.
“Hello?” said Ramos tentatively
“Where’s Michael?” asked Char.
“He’s in a world of shit, Mr. Blackfox,” replied Ramos grimly.
“Okay son, but that’s a situation, not a place. Run it down for me and we’ll see if we can help him.”
Ramos spent a few minutes detailing Michael’s return to active duty to be pressed into service as a computer hacker. “The team was ambushed while moving from the drop zone to the objective. They suffered multiple KIAs and WIAs,” said Ramos.
“How is Michael?” asked Char, suddenly conce
rned that Ramos was trying to break bad news to him gently.
“As far as I know, he’s fine. He fought through the ambush and is now coordinating the medevac of the wounded.”
“That’s my boy,” said Char.
“They let you call from jail?” asked Ramos, curious how Char had been able to call him.
“Not exactly,” replied Char, hoping to avoid a difficult discussion.
Ramos noticed the throaty hum of the Hatteras’ twin Cummins marine diesels and it abruptly occurred to him.
“You escaped?”
“Yeah, I gave the feds the slip.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Char didn’t hesitate, as he had given the question a lot of thought.
“Find Michael and head to a yet-to-be-determined location as far from the long arm of the government as possible,” answered Char cryptically, thinking the less Ramos knew the better for all involved.
“Michael wants to complete the mission, and you should let him,” replied Ramos.
Char was surprised by Ramos attitude, but was intent on letting his son know that there was no longer any reason to cooperate with these bastards and get himself killed in the bargain.
“What the hell were they going after?” asked Char.
“I wish I could tell you, but it’s classified,” replied Ramos.
“Listen, I need to know what I’m up against. You better give me enough information to get to my son, otherwise you and I are going to find ourselves crosswise, understand?” said Char.
“The target is a Soviet era ICBM owned by the Iranians. It’s set to launch on April 1st, the target is the U.S. Michael’s team was going to take it down. I can’t tell you anything else.”
Char inadvertently swallowed and the release of adrenalin caused him to shiver.
“Listen, Ramos, it’s important that you give me his location. I’ll pick him up and we’ll just disappear; everyone goes away happy,” said Char, purposely omitting the two deputies handcuffed to a bed in Santo Domingo, who may have been a lot of things, but happy wasn’t one of them.
“I can’t do that, Char. Michael is involved in something bigger and more important than all of us.”
Char thought for a minute and considered his options―he had none.
“OK, Ramos, how about this―tell me where he is and I’ll see if I can help him?”
Ramos thought for a minute. The team had lost a lot of firepower. He was betting on Villegas to evacuate the wounded, but apparently, Colonel Hearth’s career management was trumping the need to exfiltrate the team, whether or not they accomplished the mission.
The Bird, as Ramos liked to call Hearth, occupied a specially constructed plywood office that a couple of loggies had built for him two days ago. He had added an outside satellite antenna so he could sit at his field table and chat instead of traipsing outside to get a signal. To Ramos, that meant he would be having conversations that were worth listening to. Luckily, the coffee maker was right outside his door. About the same time the walls went up, Ramos had developed a near insatiable appetite for java while attempting to glean some of the strategic thinking behind this ill-begotten mission.
Immediately after the ambush, Hearth had begun spending a considerable amount of time discussing the need for air support with the general, who was currently back at MacDill. At first, Ramos thought this was appropriate―they were going to bring in an Osprey and pull the team out—but then he heard Hearth refer to “boomers” a couple of times. The Bird struck him as being as sincere as a Bogota street prostitute―he would do or say anything to advance a self-serving agenda. In the case of the Bogota hooker, it would be to connive a few extra pesos out of you. The Bird’s motivation was to pin on the silver star of general.
The cell went silent for a moment, and Char thought he had lost the signal. Finally, Ramos spoke.
“He’s near Puerto Ayachuco in Venezuela, on the Orinoco River. The objective is about one hundred klicks south of there.
Where are you?”
Char checked the map display. “I’m about 150 klicks due south of the southwest tip of the D.R., headed for your location.”
“Suggest you change course and head for the mouth of the Orinoco. You come here and Hearth will just have you arrested, and this time you might end up in a Colombian jail,” advised Ramos.
Char thought for a minute and replied, “Yeah, sounds right, but I’m going to need assistance piloting this yacht up the river.”
“Just stop somewhere and hire a crew, replied Ramos. I recommend Port of Spain in Trinidad. They have lots of guys that hire on as crewmen for transatlantic crossings and passage to the
Pacific.”
He knew Ramos was an experienced sea hand primarily because he was the son of a wealthy man who also owned a sailing ketch. “Roger that. I will have to refuel there as well,” replied Char.
“It’s gonna take you a few days to reach Puerto Ayacucho. Stay in touch and I’ll see if we can’t guide you to Michael,” said Ramos.
Chapter Twenty-six - Blue Submarine
Riverine and Marine Infantry Post
Poyare, Colombia
Back at the height of the guerilla war, Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez gave sanctuary and sought diplomatic recognition for FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia—a terrorist organization with a good publicity department. FARC, a leftist organization, offered protection for profit to the multibillion dollar cocaine industry. They provided security for drug labs and allowed free passage for their shipments.
The druggistas were an innovative lot, and they began using couriers aboard airline flights to ship their product. When that could not keep up with demand, they used private planes and boats. When the Coast Guards and Navies of affected nations increased anti-drug patrols to a point that seriously limited shipments, the criminals turned to the manufacture of drug submarines to clandestinely infiltrate hostile waters and deliver their illegal cargo.
In recent years, the manufacture of fast submersible and semi-submersible boats had become a cottage industry in several rural areas along the borders. Many of the boats were of high quality construction―usually made of fiberglass, as it generated less of a radar or sonar signature than ferrous metal and the boats were lighter and hence, easier to propel. The crafts had ranges of up to three thousand miles, which allowed the stealthy delivery of thousands of kilos of cocaine to numerous ports along the eastern seaboard and the gulf coast of the United States.
Villegas’ company had recently captured such a boat before it could be pressed into service and was preparing it for transit to the main Pacific naval base at Malaga Bay. The cigar-shaped vessel was sixty feet long and painted a tranquil light blue color in the hope that it would better blend with the surrounding sea.
Villegas’ naval mechanic, Sergeant First Class Gustavo Menendez, a true artist with any maritime engine, had put the boat through its paces on the river. He found it capable of travel at ten knots when submerged a few feet below the surface with a range of over a thousand miles. Most important for the cocaine smugglers were that it’s cargo hold could carry ten tons of cocaine, worth an estimated two hundred million dollars.
Ramos again borrowed the colonel’s sat phone. This time he called his old friend Villegas to ask for a favor.
“Hombre, we used to do that shit, but we haven’t since a National Guard unit engaged our patrol boats last year. Two of my boats got shot up and I spent three weeks tied up in an investigation. I could have been relieved,” said Villegas with a tone of exasperation.
“How can you ask me such a thing?”
Villegas desperately wanted to leave command on his terms. He was so close and yet Marco Ramos―the seemingly bulletproof, consummate insider—would drag him into one of his crazy schemes, just when he was so close to safely moving on to other things.
The Venezuelans had a main naval base at Puerto Ayacucho, where at least one fast patrol boat and numerous small twenty two foot riverine patro
l crafts were stationed. Villegas figured that while it might be possible to make a high-speed run with a couple of his patrol boats and reach the wounded Marines, it would be impossible to imagine that the Venezuelans would allow them to return without engaging them in a firefight. Still, what is life without risk—or friends, for that matter?
Sergeant Menendez, dressed in his customary attire of grease spotted overalls, knocked on Villegas’ opened office door and waited to be summoned inside. Villegas looked up, “Yes?”
“Sir, you haven’t signed my leave paperwork, and I’m scheduled to sail within the hour,” replied the Sergeant.
Gustavo Menendez and another Marine were scheduled to sail the captured submarine down the river to the port of San Jose del Guariare, were it would be lifted out of the water and placed on a flatbed for road transport to the Pacific coast. Menendez’s home was in San Jose del Guariare and he intended on spending a much deserved weeks’ vacation with his wife and children, after which, he would hop a bus for the long journey back to his base.
Captain Villegas muted the call and spoke. “I’ll be off this call in a moment. Meet me down at the dock and we’ll talk about
your leave.”
Chapter Twenty-seven - Valle Verde
Valle Verde
They had done a hasty burial of their Team Chief and the two Marines who had been at the head of the column. Michael silently vowed to personally return and recover them in less exigent circumstances. The bodies of the South Africans were left to rot in the open. They could feed the vultures as far as he was concerned. The Marines had done a quick search of the bodies, gathered some additional weapons, including the claymores, and beat feet down the trail as best they could while carrying the wounded.
It was close to sunrise and the false dawn had already made the use of NVGs unnecessary. Staying on the trail to the river was not a safe option, so Michael did a quick map recon to determine whether there would be a safe hiding site until they could medevac the wounded.