Chapter 3
CIA Training Facility
It had been an intense four weeks, but one that the team had enjoyed immensely. When they had time out of the classroom, they would head over to nearby colleges and play baseball against the college teams to keep improving and try and resemble a real baseball team. Their classroom time was spent trying out new gear and weapons. They used everything from miniature infrared sensors to monitor enemy movements to satellite uplink phones and computers for everything from navigating to communicating to spying on positions from deep space using laptops. The technology was amazing, and although some of what they saw they had used in the past, they had never seen such lightweight, miniature versions. Evidently, it was okay for soldiers to hump eighty-five pounds of gear, but CIA agents preferred something about two ounces that fit in a pocket.
They worked out as hard as ever, although the SEALs complained about the lack of swimming. They pushed their bodies and minds as far as they could, and then a little more. By the end of the fourth week, even the rangers and marines were chanting, “The only easy day was yesterday,” something they inherited from the SEALs. They would run, not jog, a minimum of five miles a day, some days farther, and for the first time since they’d been together actually had some inter-service rivalry. Vinny “Ripper” Colgan ended up winning the pushup contest. They didn’t even have the contest until they had finished their workout. By then, they were all totally whipped, but the SEALs insisted that you didn’t start counting your reps until they already hurt. The marines laughed and gave the standard line about “pain is weakness leaving the body” and then they all got down and went pushup for pushup. After seventy-five pushups, the group slowly began dropping out, one by one.
In the end, it was Raul Santos, proudly representing the USMC, and Ripper Colgan getting the encouragement of the SEALs. By the time they hit one hundred, the pushups were taking four seconds each. Their arms were shaking and the sweat dripped off their chins as they faced each other only two feet apart. By one hundred and fifteen, they were both screaming at the top of their lungs with each push off the floor, delighting the rest of the inspired bunch. On pushup one hundred twenty-two, Raul dropped on his face, completely physically exhausted. Ripper finished his and flopped, then rolled on his back as the SEALs pulled him to his feet cheering wildly. They were good-natured about the win, and joined Earl Jones and Eric Hodges in helping Santos off the floor, too.
Ripper gave Raul a hug, and the two of them just stood there, like two heavyweights at the end of a championship fight, leaning on each other and trying to breathe. Neither one could lift his arms.
“You’re a tough lil’ Sonofabitch,” said Ripper quietly.
“You, too,” grumbled Raul. It was all he could muster
After the workout and pushups were finished, the team showered and changed into black jumpsuits for night operations. They ate dinner and then attended a briefing on “stalking and destroying a target at night with no ambient light, using night vision goggles and GIS directional tracking equipment.” The workshop lasted three hours. When it was over, it was almost midnight, and they loaded buses and traveled dirt roads deep into the CIA owned property where they would be unceremoniously dropped off in the middle of nowhere.
They were given two map waypoints to find, each waypoint location having a small box sitting on the forest floor full of tasks to complete. The first box contained the location of the second waypoint. After the second waypoint, they were required to set infrared sensors and setup an ambush against unknown enemies who would be trying to sneak up on them. It was similar to courses they had all gone through in Special Forces training, but the equipment was smaller, lighter and better. They were given three hours to complete their task, which covered an area of approximately two square miles of thick forest. It was a new moon, and without goggles on, they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces.
Mackey was a smart guy, but even he was amazed at how good Cascaes was in the field. He and his SEAL team had obviously been through plenty together, and they operated quickly and silently. Cascaes had come up with the idea of splitting their team in two, so one could find the first waypoint while the other stayed fresh and moved slower covering their rear. As soon as the first group got the coordinates of the second spot, the second team would become lead, moving faster on fresh legs to the assigned place. Using this technique, they arrived at waypoint two almost forty-five minutes faster than the CIA trainers had anticipated. They quickly set up the sensors in a very wide perimeter and set up multiple ambush points, then guided the first team into a second ambush area.
Once the sensors were in the ground, it was just a matter of hunkering down and waiting. The small sensors picked up the tiniest vibrations, and showed the location of the movement on the tiny computer that Cascaes was watching from his position in the roots of a huge Oak. The “red team” of CIA agents that were assigned to ambush them arrived quietly, but couldn’t fool the sensors. Cascaes quickly directed his men into ambush positions and they were able to “take out” all six of the red team trainers in record time with complete silence.
Once the “bad guys” were “killed,” the mission wasn’t over. They were then given twenty minutes to get back to their bus, or have to walk back to their rooms almost eight miles away. They were having none of that. Cascaes quickly navigated their course to the bus, and knowing they had gotten all of the bad guys out of the way, they sprinted through the forest all the way back to the bus. Being used to carrying combat packs that often weighed over one hundred pounds with weapons and ammo, running an operation with only the lightest of gear was a breeze. They were standing at the bus with six minutes to spare, a course record. Mackey was the only one really winded, and he vomited as soon as they stopped running. The team knew better than to bust his chops. The guy was getting older, but he had proven himself a warrior enough times to be beyond harassment. Jones quietly gave him his canteen to wash his mouth out, and the silent nod was a humble thank you.
Chapter 4
Jungles near Ciudad del Este, Paraguay
Enrique Vega walked into the small cabin to find three men drinking hot tea on the woven mat that was the floor.
“Don’t get up,” he said as he entered.
Their accents were thick, and they spoke English since they didn’t speak any Spanish. Vega spoke English fluently, better than the Arabs in fact, so they were able to communicate without a problem.
“How was your trip?” he asked as he sat.
“Long. I am not used to the humidity. It saps your strength. I have been here a dozen times, and every time it is the same thing. Mosquitoes, diarrhea, and this damned humidity. I don’t know how you live out here in this Hell,” said Raman Qasim, the local contact for Hezbollah in the tri-border region between Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay.
Ali Aziz, an Al Qaeda operative and huge weapons smuggler, spoke in a quieter voice. He was an older man, perhaps sixty, with his beard now almost fully gray. “The shipments you requested are getting more expensive to transport here. Shipping is tracked closer in the ports. The roads to the interior are terrible. And the local police are getting more expensive each trip.”
Enrique nodded. “Yes, the police are becoming quite a thorn. The Americans have been in the city. Every time they come, they stir up a hornet’s nest. Then they go, and it costs me twice as much to get the same things done. But you were able to bring the C4 and RPGs?”
Ali smiled. “Of course, my brother. But we have a favor to ask—to be ‘negotiated,’ rather.”
“Oh?” asked Enrique. He was not one for surprises.
“A few years ago, you were able to carry out an operation for us against the Israeli Embassy in Argentina. It was most successful,” said Ali.
“Yes, and it also had this entire area crawling with commandos from all over the world for six months. It was most inconvenient. We were forced to m
ove another ten kilometers deeper into this Godforsaken jungle and we lost weeks of production.”
“But you rebuilt, and now your operation is even larger,” said Ali, smiling. “You have quite a little army of workers here, don’t you?” he asked, referring to the large Guarani tribe.
“True. We’re so deep in the jungle now that we don’t have much to worry about. The planes don’t patrol here, and even if they did, the canopy is too thick for them to be able to see anything. If anyone tried to find us on foot, my Guaranis would know immediately and alert me. I have more than enough men and firepower here, thanks to you.”
“Yes, back to the firepower. It has been a very good partnership, yes? Your cash has helped us to support our brothers who fight the government that interferes with your business, and the weapons we provide to you allow you to take care of your own priorities.” Ali stroked his gray beard and smiled.
Hakim Bin-Salaam, a fit young Arab in jungle fatigues and a green beret, spoke up for the first time. “Our weapons have also helped you ‘corner the market,’ so to speak, no? The Ortiz organization, the Montoya family, the Cortez Cartel…they have all simply disappeared, yes? If the rumors are true, some of them were even cannibalized. Now who could have done such a thing?”
“The tri-border area is a dangerous place, no doubt,” said Enrique with an evil smile slowly spreading across his face. “So what is this favor?”
Ali pulled a leather folder from inside his blouse. He unzipped it and removed photographs of people and buildings. Ali carefully laid all of the photos flat on the mat facing Enrique. He pointed to a man in a suit and tie in the first picture.
“That is the American Ambassador to Paraguay, James McKnight. He and his staff will be in the city for a conference on ‘The Americas Trading Partnership.’ We would very much like to see his motorcade destroyed in a most visible, violent and terrifying fashion. Television crews will be filming their arrival in front of the Paraguayan Center for International Trade. The entire world could get an opportunity to see that Al Qaeda is alive and well in the western hemisphere.” Ali sat back, twirling his beard around his fingers.
“A media event,” said Enrique quietly. He frowned. “Killing an American will start a war here, Ali. They will fill the jungle with soldiers again. I don’t want to have to start up all over again somewhere else. The trip to Brazil is already two days.”
Hakim clucked his tongue. “No, Señor Vega. The attack will clearly be the work of Al Qaeda, not local factions. In fact, our brothers in Iraq will take full credit for the attack. The Americans and local police will not bother you.”
Enrique scanned the eyes of the three men in front of him. It was an alliance of convenience only. Vega didn’t really care about killing Americans, his best customers in the drug trade. He was more concerned with killing local authorities and government meddlers, as well as his competition. After what the Guaranis had done to the Cortez Cartel, no one would dare start up a competitive cocaine business within a thousand miles. Even Enrique had been slightly horrified when his warriors ate his competition. The skulls still stood on wooden stakes around the village. He lit another cigar and sat back against the wall.
“And you will supply the logistics and weapons, I simply have my men carry out the attack?” asked Enrique quietly. He was very concerned about starting up with the Americans. Their president had proved to be quite willing to use American troops whenever and wherever he felt like it.
“The information is all in that packet,” said Ali.
Raman leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with hate. He was the only one that Enrique ever worried about. “We will give you more than enough explosives and detonators to do the job. What is left over is yours. But understand, I want an explosion that will be felt in Washington. The entire staff—McKnight and all of his people. And anyone else that would sit down with that crusader dog. Hundreds of casualties, Señor Vega, not dozens.” The venom of his hate made his voice come out like a serpent’s hiss. Enrique’s skin crawled. Not because he abhorred violence—quite the contrary, he killed everyone that stood in his way—but this man Raman, he was scary crazy.
Enrique sat for a moment looking at the photos, buying a few seconds to think about his options. There were very few. He needed their weapons to maintain his private army. He hesitated only because he clearly understood what Raman wanted—a total massacre.
“When exactly will this take place?” asked Enrique.
“The first of June. You have several weeks to make your plans. We have supplied the maps, their travel plans, and the personnel that will be attending the event—everything you need. We want maximum damage. There will be enough explosives to take out a city block. And that is precisely what we would like you to do.”
Chapter 5
CIA HQ
Darren Davis was at a high-level meeting with CIA Director Wallace Holstrum and the Chief of the Latin Desk, Leah Pereira. She was to Central and South America what Darren Davis was to the Middle East. Leah was forty-four years old, and one of the youngest women to ever hold such a high-level office inside the Agency. She had grown up in Brazil, the daughter of an American diplomat, and spoke English, Spanish, and Portuguese all equally well. By the age of thirty-one, she had been a CIA secret agent posing as the Assistant Director of the Latin American Employment and Economic Development Office in Panama. After three years there, she returned to the States to work “inside,” and had been there ever since, steadily proving herself as an intelligent and capable woman as she worked her way up the chain of command.
She sat across from Darren in her navy blue suit with her chestnut hair pulled in a bun. Her mother had been Brazilian, her father American, and she was a very attractive woman. Darren was used to sitting across from men at most meetings, and considered her a pleasant change. If you had to work, you might as well have something to look at.
Director Holstrum began the meeting. After quick pleasantries, he pulled up a map showing the tri-border region.
“The reason I asked you both to meet with me again about the tri-border region is because of overlapping intelligence coming out of your respective offices. Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, and Hamas are working in this area side by side with the local drug lords. They make quite a cozy little team. Just about everything illegal, insidious, and evil that can be done by a human being is being perpetrated by these people with absolute impunity. Their pockets are deep, and their influence in the region has no bounds. Our people in the field find more people ‘on the take’ down there than off of it. We can trust no one.”
The director pressed a button and changed slides, showing pictures of a dozen Arab looking men. “These are only a handful of the men working in the area. They fly in and out of Venezuela, Argentina and Paraguay like they own the place. Those governments, while cooperating to some degree, with the exception of Venezuela, claim they don’t have ‘just cause’ to pick them up. This is after we handed them dozens of case files on these dirt-bags proving their drug connections and weapons smuggling. I‘m not sure who’s paying whom, but it’s the Wild West down there.”
The director changed slides again. It was a grainy black and white photo of Enrique Antonio Vega. As soon as his face appeared, Leah quietly said his name.
“That’s right, Leah. Our old friend Vega.” He looked at Davis, who was unfamiliar with the man. “Enrique Antonio Vega is the single largest cocaine producer and supplier in the tri-border region. Because he is so deep in the jungle, Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentine all point the finger at each other as to whom is supposed to do something about him. In the meantime, he pays officials from all three countries to make sure that they leave him alone. The few officials that did try and do something in Brazil have all ended up dead. The same for his competitors.”
He changed slides and showed a Guarani Native. The man was standing in a loincloth only, his black hair in a neat bowl cut around his head. He had a
piercing through his lower lip and a few long green feathers tied in the back of his head. Tattoos on both arms added to his fierce appearance as he stood holding a wooden club and blow-gun.
Davis sat back, surprised at the slide, and looked back at the director waiting for an explanation.
“This is a Guarani Native. They are descendants of the original people of South America. The Portuguese and Spaniards did to them what we did to our own Native Americans. Maybe worse.”
Leah interrupted. “Worse. We only killed ours. The Portuguese took hundreds of thousands as slaves and wiped out another couple of million with the Spanish.
“They are still there, however, Darren. A few hundred years later, these people still live in the jungle like our little friend here. With their land disappearing, they have few good choices available, and now it would appear that Señor Vega has a small army of not only his regular goons, but now a couple of hundred Guaranis. Add weapons from Al Qaeda, Hamas, and Hezbollah to the mix, and you have quite an interesting part of the world, don’t you?”
“Jesus,” was all he could come up with.
Leah spoke up. “Vega has used his Guaranis to wipe out every other drug lord in the area. Many Guaranis live as farmers and cheap laborers on the borders of the jungles, but not his tribe. He has a group of Pampidos Guaranis living and working with him that has reverted to their ancient ways. While the women and children are used to process cocaine side by side with poor people from the Paraguayan countryside, the Guarani men have gone back to hunting, killing and even cannibalism. Vega has pretty much started his own little country out there. One with a GDP that rivals some real countries.”
Into the Jungle Page 2