by J E Higgins
Rios and her operatives had certainly earned their money. Now sitting back in Ian ‘Plūcker’ Ferry’s office, Dayan poured over the assortment of intelligence reports scattered across the table. Along with him were the three men he had tagged to be his team leaders: Darren Ripley, a former member of the Royal British Marines Special Boat Service (SBS) and the naval equivalent to the army’s better known Special Air Service (SAS); Klaas Vanderhook, a former sergeant with the Korps Mariners, the Dutch Marine Commandos; and finally Oskar Perez, a native of Paraguay who had cut his teeth in the French Foreign Legion as part of the elite 2nd R de Rep Parachute Battalion working in the urban warfare company.
Though not a marine by training, Perez was a seasoned para-commando with local connections in the region and a grounded understanding of both the customs and the language ─ greatly needed attributes for the locations they were going to operate in. With the number of South American mercenaries that had been recruited for this job, it would have caused dissension to have all the leadership comprised of Europeans and Middle Easterners.
Dayan took the time to give a briefing discussing the general overview of the mission and a more detailed explanation of his accepted team leaders.
One report taken by an operative disguising himself as a goat herder rounding up stray goats was close enough to walk along the fence line. He discovered that small video cameras were placed at intervals of fifty meters in areas that offered sparse shrubbery and a clear field of view. Further recces established that where foliage and other collections of debris and rocks were denser, the camera placement narrowed to fifteen meters. The report went on to point out that the cameras were older models ─ they had physical cable hard-wired from the camera leading to a command post that housed the monitors and recording devices.
The fence itself was a two-layer system: first, a basic chain link fence to keep out the annoying herdsmen or curious peasants. Directly behind it was a more complicated structure consisting of concertina wire spirals stacked on top of each other to the height of the chain-link fence. An array of little coin-like disks dangled from arbitrary strands that would provide loud continuous jingling. This would certainly alert any security presence in the area and cause more complications for an infiltration team that might attempt to slip through. The presence of the disks also alerted Dayan and his mercenaries that security patrols were most likely just out of sight, posing another serious problem. The agent’s report of a shadowed silhouette glimpsed lurking in the tree line of the property was another concern.
“Were your people able to obtain information regarding any armed security that might be patrolling the vicinity?” Darren Ripley asked in his rough Welsh accent.
“I asked about that, and our source made it clear that would go beyond her limits for this operation,” Dayan responded. His eyes were still fixed on a trio of enlarged pictures. “No, that is an intelligence gap we are going to have to fill ourselves.”
“Not a very cozy thought,” Ripley replied.
“True. That is significant information we need,” Klaas Vanderhook added in his heavy accent.
Dayan rubbed his jaw as he glanced at the photos. “We’ll have to do a recce to get a better look.”
“The trouble is how to look without raising the enemy’s awareness of our existence?” Perez spoke up. Ripley and Vanderhook both nodded in agreement. “I mean, if we go in blind, we may walk right into their trap.”
“It seems we have to consider some kind of probe recce that gives us what we need without too much risk.” Dayan was now walking slowly around the table as if expecting to find his answer within the collection of scattered documents. “The best answer, as I see it, is the river.”
“It looks possible,” Ripley responded checking the sizeable waterway on the map. “It would be the hardest to monitor, especially if we insert underwater.”
Perez spoke up. “The problem is, without knowing their security layout, we run a couple of risks: walking right into their operation and getting caught by a professional security team that can engage us; or making our presence and, by extension, our existence known to them. Either way, we risk that they will know someone is onto them.”
“It’s definitely a risk,” Dayan responded. “But one we need to take. Any other way not only seems questionable but, whatever intel we do obtain, it would still be uncertain if we consider the possible unseen security teams and other hidden features we can’t see from outside.”
“True,” Ripley again spoke up. “The only way to gain anything viable at this point is looking from the inside out. That means a waterborne insertion.”
All heads nodded, even the young Perez. The plan had been hatched.
Chapter 24
Elloy Mendoza’s head was swimming. It had been an exhausting day filled with affairs of both business and state. For business, he had skillfully negotiated the joint venture of an Argentine shipping company and a Chilean manufacturing company; for the state, he had a grueling go-around with his superiors in Havana dealing again with some wild and, he thought, idiotic scheme.
Resting in the back seat of his limousine, he rubbed his head as he leaned against the vehicle’s supple leather. His assistant, the Mortician, sat attentively in the passenger seat up front while the chauffeur traversed the narrow streets with precision skill.
Deciding the troubles of the world would not be solved in the backseat of a limousine, the Cuban reached for the rolled-up newspaper resting on the small worktop in front of him. It was the Spanish translated copy of some prominent business journal from Europe. Suddenly, the reported good news for South American business seemed to make the previous issues of the morning a distant memory.
CRRRRASH! The impact against the front of the car would have been powerful enough to send all the occupants flying if their seatbelts had not been fastened. The car was almost thrown off the road, but the driver’s mastery at the steering wheel prevented a disastrous accident. Mendoza quickly regained his faculties as he looked around and started to growl. Up front, both the driver and the Mortician were still caught in a daze from the shock of the sudden impact.
The driver began to regain his focus when he looked up and saw a sizable metal object falling onto the car smashing the hood and severely cracking the front windshield. He had little time to ponder the situation before he noticed several individuals wearing jumpsuits and masks approaching the vehicle. Looking sideways, he saw the Mortician barely regaining his own faculties. In the back, he could hear his employer snarling with demands to know what was going on.
The driver returned his gaze to his window just in time to see one of the suited figures coming toward the car with a gun held tightly in both hands. It still didn’t register with him when the figure raised the weapon to the driver’s side window and fired. The explosive blast of the handgun shattered the window, sounding like a cannon. The Mortician felt the shards of glass as they pelted him. Shielding himself, he turned and caught a glimpse of the driver slumped over with half of his head gone.
“Patron!” He screamed at his master in the backseat. “We are under attack!”
The Mortician, his faculties now working, reached into his coat and produced a .40 Caliber Para-ordinance automatic. Turning, he grabbed for his door. He barely had it open when two of the masked figures materialized and pushed the door back trying to bar the way. With one hand clutching his weapon, the Mortician was only able to use one arm to force his way out. On the other side of the car, he could hear two men arguing. “Shoot him!! Fucking shoot him!!” cried one of the attackers. Their bodies pushed against the door while one of them was fumbling for something in his front pocket.
The Mortician could only guess it was a weapon intended to kill him. Pressing his automatic against the inside of his car door, he fired repeatedly. The sounds were a collection of thunderous booms that echoed loudly inside the car. The bullets tore through the layers of wood paneling, plastic, and metal. Seconds later, the two aggressors were bellowing as
the bullets ripped through at them.
While neither attacker was hit, the shock caused both to fall back on each other. Seizing the opportunity, the Mortician pushed the door open and started to inch his way out of the car. His only thought was to rescue his employer. Halfway out the door, he heard another loud blast coming from behind him. The powerful feeling of something ripping through his body was instantaneous. He looked down and saw a large gaping hole in his stomach. He had no time to think before more bullets hit his body. He exited the car only to slump to his knees. His ability to breathe became labored and his energy left him quickly. He could only stare down at the concrete beneath him when he felt the barrel of a gun press against his head and heard the clicking of a hammer before the sound of the blast.
In the back seat, Mendoza had managed to free himself from his seatbelt. Scrambling to reach forward, he nearly fell out of his seat. He slipped onto his side as his feet smacked against the car door window. Fumbling under his small work table, he was able to feel around for a metal object. Grabbing hold, he produced a small 9 mm automatic pistol. Mendoza was not one to rely entirely on a protective detail. Sliding onto his back, he turned just in time to see several masked figures approaching the car.
There was a virtual chorus of adrenaline and testosterone filled shouts that infused the atmosphere around all the masked figures. The biggest member of the group approached the backseat with one hand gripping the car handle and the other tightly gripping his revolver. With a quick look across the car, the giant received an approving nod from a figure who could only be their leader. With the gun raised to waist level and a group of excited accomplices cheering him on, the giant drew open the door.
As the door swung open, a sound like a firecracker going off erupted. The crowd of assassins quickly changed their cheers of excitement to bellows of surprise when they saw the head of their large compatriot explode in a splatter of blood and brain matter. Before anyone could react, a wild collection of cracking sounds firing in rapid succession echoed. Soon members of the group were howling in pain as they felt the gunshots hitting them.
Mendoza scrambled out of the car firing his gun wildly wherever he saw anyone with a hood or a mask. He fell onto the street as he continued firing while trying to clamber to his feet. By now he realized the assassins were hardly professionals. They had fallen into complete disarray as they scrambled to avoid the Cuban’s unexpected return fire. Seizing the moment, Mendoza threw himself against the back of the car as he edged his way to a standing position.
He felt shards of glass behind him as the bullets, fired from across the car, burst through the side windows. He managed to turn in time to see a masked figure circling from the other side coming toward him. With no hesitation, the Cuban raised his weapon and fired his remaining two shots. The masked figure stopped in his tracks. He reached up with his free hand to feel his chest. Only moments later, streams of dark red poured down the front of his coat.
Mendoza took advantage of the brief pause; his assailants seemed to be in some kind of suspended animation. They were not prepared for the Cuban fighting back. After hitting several of their comrades and dodging past the remaining attackers, he darted down the street and ducked into the first side road he came to. Behind him, he could hear a deep voice trumpeting rallying calls to pursue their quarry. Mendoza realized they would soon be after him.
At the end of the road, he turned and headed left in the direction of what appeared to be an industrial laundry service. Several men and women wearing white uniforms and matching aprons went about their business. They were completely indifferent to the well-dressed man running swiftly toward them. Reaching the edge of the neighboring building, he ducked behind a wall. He took the time to catch his breath and recoup his faculties, and slow the adrenaline rushing through his entire body.
It took a few deep breaths before his mind returned to rational thought. Going over the events, he tried to think just who might have tried to kill him. Reviewing how they operated ─ clumsy, disorganized and unsure ─ they certainly weren’t professionals. Their weapons were an assortment of revolvers and a few old cold-war-era automatic pistols ─ Soviet Makarovs and NATO type Berettas.
His thoughts were soon interrupted by the shouting of his attackers as they started into the side road he had used to escape. He peeked out just far enough to see a small group of masked figures gathering in the mouth of the road. Their behavior revealed confusion as to what to do next. Clearly, nothing was going according to plan for them. Eventually, one of the figures, who Mendoza presumed to be the leader, began dispersing his group into pairs, as he sent them in various directions. The two-man units moved swiftly to give chase.
One of the teams proceeded in his direction. Mendoza thought of running into the laundry facility. He quickly discarded the notion, believing the workers would most likely point out his direction to the assassins. Running aimlessly only heightened the possibility that he, with less ability to respond, would inadvertently come upon another team. He considered trying to grab an apron and cap to blend in with the hope they would pass by. But it would be hard not to notice him in the ostentatious clothes he wore. His last option rested with neutralizing his enemies.
Picking up a large rock he found, he readied himself as he lifted it to head level. The assassins were so amateurish he was given ample warning as they conversed with each other while approaching. Two figures barely passed by the corner of the building when the one closest to him felt a powerful blow from a hard, jagged object smash against the side of his head. The Cuban attacked like a savage animal as he again raised his arm and quickly delivered another blow.
The other assassin, taken off guard, stood frozen, unsure of what to do next. Mendoza took further advantage by pushing his disoriented victim into the other assassin knocking them both off balance. Meanwhile, he continued delivering blows to the first man who could only raise his hand weakly in defense.
Falling to the ground in a stack of human bodies, Mendoza continued to bash the rock into the back of the first assailant’s head. By now, a river of blood poured from the man’s head as he limply tried to defend himself. At that point, Mendoza changed his focus to the second man. There was a wild look in the eyes of the masked figure as he struggled to free himself from under his immobile partner. He was far from defeated and determined to carry out his mission.
Without hesitation, Mendoza thrust the rock directly into the face of the second assailant. The first hit produced the sound a rock hitting bone and a man screaming in agony. Within seconds, the second man’s face was streaming blood as it poured profusely from his nose and gums. Two more good hits and he was sure the second assailant was finished.
Mendoza wanted to leave but his instincts pressed him to confirm the identity of his attackers, to be able to guard against another attempt on his life. Ripping off the masks of the two groaning figures, Mendoza found himself looking at two young men no more than maybe twenty years of age. Neither looked like a professional soldier or operative. However, what caught the Cuban’s attention was the small black, disk-like cap that fell out of one of the masks. Examining it, he was puzzled before he saw a small star-like emblem on a chain around the neck of one of the men. He realized it was the Star of David. The small disk cap in his hand suddenly became recognizable ─ a Jewish yarmulke!
Mendoza’s mind was awash with confusion, anger, and wondering why Jews were attacking him, but finding an answer was for later. Not wanting to wait for more attackers to show up, he leaped to his feet and started racing to the main road where he vanished into a sea of pedestrians.
It was an unusual detour from his normal political strategy. As a rule, Oskar Vlak Straudner preferred soft flattery followed by a strong incentive to sweeten the deal as the initial tactic for bringing allies to his banner. However, due to the time limits and the high stakes involved, an entirely different tact would need to be employed.
For several moments neither he nor the small pear-shaped figure sitt
ing across from him said anything. Nothing needed to be said. At that moment, Straudner leaned back in his seat rolling an Alec Bradley cigar between his fingers, watching the contorted facial expressions of his guest. He had learned long ago that distressing news tended to be more powerful the longer it was allowed to ferment. In this case, the distressing news came in the form of a file presented by a mysterious German to his guest, Felix Guzman Uraba, a few days before this meeting.
A guarded figure approached him and produced a small file while he was enjoying lunch at a small delicatessen he frequented. The file pushed before him was an old police record Urbana had thought had been destroyed. The man had chosen his location well. He obviously knew it was one of the few places where the union official kept his own company ─ they would not have any prying eyes to worry about.
Felix Uraba had, for nearly forty years, been a loud and heroic champion of Uruguay labor. He had risen steadily through the ranks of power in the PIT-CNT, Uruguay’s labor union federation. He had started out in the seventies as an organizer working his way into the local leadership ranks of the Plenario Intersindical de Trabajadores (PIT) and very quickly became a power at the national level. Eventually, he worked into a quiet but powerful position within the federation where he had promoted himself as a tireless champion for the workers of his country. The real story was entirely different.
Uraba read the first page. He didn’t need to read more to know the horribly damaging information that rested within the rest of the pages. Waiting to hear the amount of money he would have to pay or the strike he would have to call off, he was shocked when the mysterious figure gave him a date, time, and location and proceeded to walk away leaving Uraba with the file and the realization that it was a copy.
Now sitting across a table in the darkened room of an obscure hotel, Uraba found himself in the presence of the politico, Oskar Vlak Straudner. Straudner was a man he had fought against before and loathed deeply. The now humbled labor official waited in silence. It was all in the politician’s hands to determine where his future was destined to go.