Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  Even before the vehicle leapt forward, Logan had erupted into a sprint, launching himself at it. The SUV had sped away, although Logan had no idea what lay at the end of the airfield. He assumed there was an exit of some kind, but what the general’s plans were after that, well, that was anyone’s guess. But there was nothing left for Logan to do but run. It had come to this, and he prayed that his friends would help him sooner rather than later. Just keep him in view, he thought, inhaling and exhaling, his breathing deep and measured, as he operated near his VO2 max, the maximum level of oxygen uptake his body could handle. He’d achieved the highest score in his entire Officer Candidate School class, and all these years later, his cardiovascular endurance was still that of a professional athlete. Relentless training always pays off, he thought as he ran like a college athlete at the NFL Combine, although the Range Rover was already more than two hundred feet away, and his run had brought him closer to the edge of the airfield.

  A loud brrpp-brrrppp-brrrppp reverberated from the front of the hangar, the telltale sign that the Hind had entered the battle for the hangar.

  Good, he thought, but less than a minute later, the world burst in a thunderous explosion, followed by a massive glowing fireball that illuminated the airfield and the drop-off behind it.

  But he still ran, parallel with the edge, and he saw the tops of trees two hundred feet below. Not a huge fall, but enough to kill you.

  The silhouette that had appeared in front of him with the explosion grew shorter as the fireball rose into the air and the warm rush of air surrounded him. Despair crept into his mind, and he wondered if his friends had survived the destruction behind him. But with nothing else to do but hope and pray, he kept running.

  The sound of tires squealing across the tarmac turned his head to the right as the large Globovision satellite box truck sped in his direction. With a sense of relief that spurred him on, he kept running, refusing to lose any ground, not even for a few seconds. The satellite truck swerved around and behind him and screeched to a halt, the passenger door already open.

  Logan leapt into the cab of the truck and landed on the bucket seat as Jack slammed the truck back into drive and floored the accelerator.

  “Everyone still alive?” Logan asked seriously.

  “All of our guys are,” Jack replied, as he focused on the pursuit.

  Logan glanced into the back of the truck and saw the rest of the team still in one piece as yellow firelight shone through the two back windows. “Glad everyone is still here” was all he said, and nodded at Cole and Marcos before turning back to follow the fleeing Range Rover more than three hundred feet away. It was closing in on another series of hangars and buildings.

  “What now?” Logan asked. “He’s got too much ground on us, and there’s no way we can catch him in this.”

  “You’re right, which is why we have that,” Jack said, and pointed past Logan out the passenger window.

  Logan turned his head as the Hind gunship raced across the tarmac less than fifty feet off the ground. “It’s about time one of those things is on our side,” Logan said, and watched as the Hind chased down the Range Rover, which never had a chance. Fate is coming for you, General, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

  CHAPTER 51

  General Victor Cordones was desperate, exhausted, and furious at the carnage that his plans at the airfield had become. The only thing that drove him forward was the thought of his son, Daniel, and Victor’s need to make his death a symbol that could change the future of Venezuela. As he drove away from the hangar, which glowed from the magnificent explosion seconds earlier, he glanced at President Pena, the source of his frustration and target of his wrath.

  It wasn’t just enough to kill the man. There was no question that he deserved it after the way his policies had plunged his country into chaos and despair. No. Victor needed to make an example of him, to show the world that the dictator’s actions had consequences, that even though President Pena was the leader of a nation, he was still accountable for his decisions. And to do that, Victor needed an audience. The repayment of the blood debt owed to him wouldn’t be complete until the citizens of Venezuela knew his son’s name. But before he could solve the problem of how to broadcast the president’s execution, he had to escape the assault force that had slaughtered his security detail.

  “This is madness, Victor,” President Pena said. “No matter how this ends, you have to see that this is madness.”

  Victor was acutely aware as his anger rose, and he troubled to control it. “You speak of madness? Look at what you’ve done to this once-great country. Your policies and inability to deal realistically with the collapsing economy brought us together on this night. It wasn’t my madness. It was your inability to do your job, and people are starving in the streets and fleeing the country because of it. You lecture me again, and I may cut short what time you have left,” Victor spat out.

  The president remained silent after the verbal lashing and watched as the building up ahead grew closer.

  As the Range Rover approached the next series of hangars, Victor spotted several hundred yards ahead the fence that jutted out from the edge of the abyss at the back of the airfield. The fence ran perpendicular to the edge to create the western perimeter. Once he reached the fence, he’d follow it north to the western gate and work his way through the city to the main Globovision studio. Since the studio could no longer come to him, he’d go to the studio and do what was needed to broadcast his message.

  Victor pressed the accelerator, which was when two projectiles streaking from the right impacted the tarmac thirty yards in front of him. The ground exploded upward and large chunks of concrete flew lazily in his direction, as if taunting him in slow motion. He reacted to the destruction by slamming on the brakes of the Range Rover.

  The SUV had reached eighty miles per hour, and by the time Victor slammed on the brakes, it was too late. He yanked the vehicle to the left as a several-foot-long section of concrete tumbled toward the Range Rover. The SUV swerved left and missed the huge chunk of tarmac, but Victor felt the vehicle threaten to control its own destiny. As the Range Rover skidded and swerved toward the edge of the airfield, no more than thirty feet away, he tried to course-correct it back to the right and released the brakes to regain a little traction. It was pointless, as a smaller, boulder-shaped section of tarmac with a flat top landed in front of the SUV. The Range Rover’s right two tires struck the piece of tarmac and shot up the flat surface of the improvised launch ramp. The SUV tilted to the left, and as it flew off the surface of the improvised ramp, it was briefly suspended in midair. Victor wondered how bad the impact would be.

  The SUV slammed down on its left two tires and struck a smaller piece of concrete, which violently decelerated the vehicle. The SUV was jerked to the left by the loss of speed, and the Range Rover toppled over onto its left side. The driver’s-side windows exploded on contact with the tarmac, and the Range Rover skidded across the surface toward the drop-off.

  Please let it be quick, God, Victor thought as the blackness rushed toward him.

  * * *

  Logan watched in amazement as the Hind fired two missiles and struck the airfield with destructive precision. No matter how many times he witnessed close air support, the firepower always sent an adrenaline rush and surge of confidence through him. Damn. It’s good to have air power.

  The Range Rover tried to avoid the chunks of tarmac that exploded in multiple directions, but it failed, and Logan enjoyed every second as the crash unfolded. The only occupant he almost felt sympathetic toward as the vehicle slid on its side toward the back of the airfield and the drop-off was President Pena. Then he remembered what the Venezuelan leader had done to the innocent people in the country, and his sympathy cooled. But you still need him alive, no matter what.

  The Range Rover stopped short of the drop-off, and the satellite truck closed the distance to the crash, which the Hind gunship illuminated with a bright white floodlight a
s it hovered fifty yards away. There was no movement from the SUV, but Logan only saw the bottom of the wrecked vehicle.

  Ten seconds later, Jack slid the satellite truck to a halt, and like a clown car of professional warriors, Logan and Jack emerged from the front, and the two assassins and Marcos—with the wounded vice president in tow—emerged from the back.

  Logan left the AK-103 in the front seat, unholstered the Glock, and met Jack and the rest of the small team at the front of the truck. The faint sound of the scraping of glass floated toward them.

  “Jack, you and the tag team go left. Marcos, stay behind me and maintain positive control of Baker. No matter what, President Pena has to live. Are we clear on that? I do the talking, and no one does anything until I tell you. You understand, Jack?”

  “It’s your show. Pena lives. I got it,” Jack acknowledged.

  “Good. Now let’s go,” Logan said, raised the Glock 17 in front of him, and crept along the bottom of the Range Rover toward the front.

  In a seamless pincer movement, Logan and Jack, who’d circled around to the left, emerged at the roof of the Range Rover to find Lieutenant General Victor Cordones standing behind President Pena less than three feet from the edge of the drop-off. The general held a Browning Hi-Power pistol to the right temple of the president, whose face bled from several scrapes and cuts. The general had sustained a long gash down the left side of his face, and blood poured down his cheek near the back of his jaw. I can relate to that, Logan thought, reflecting on his own scar from a wound sustained in a knife fight more than two and a half years ago.

  So this is how it’s all going to go down. Okay. We can do this the hard way, Logan thought, and began to talk.

  CHAPTER 52

  “You’re doing this for your son, aren’t you?” Logan said. The CIA had provided a dossier on General Cordones once they’d identified him as the mastermind behind the events in Caracas, and Logan had studied it before the attack at the tunnels to understand the man responsible for orchestrating the chaos over the past few days. “Daniel, wasn’t it? By all accounts, a good young man who wanted to serve and protect the people, a boy who grew up to be like his father, even if he served in a different capacity.”

  Victor crouched behind the president in order to minimize his silhouette. Logan had the sights of the Glock trained on the portion of Victor’s face that he could see, but he hoped Jack had a better line of sight.

  “Don’t you dare speak about my son,” Victor shot back, his voice tinged with a mixture of rage and sadness. “I know who you are. That man behind you, your vice president, told me all about you and your little task force, about whom you work for. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to change my mind. Nothing.”

  Logan nodded. He’s committed. There’s no talking him down. “In that case, you should also know I will stop at nothing to accomplish my mission, what I was sent here to do.”

  For the first time, Victor looked confused. “But you have him? He’s right there, behind you. So why come after me? Leave this monster to me.”

  “We’re not after you,” Logan said, and pointed at President Pena with his left hand. “But we are after him, and we need him alive.”

  “Why? He’s the one who’s created this desperation in Venezuela. You know that, don’t you? He deserves to die. Don’t you understand?” Victor pleaded, the muzzle of the Browning lifting away momentarily from the president’s head.

  There you go. It’s working. Keep talking. “I empathize with your frustration, your anger, your grief, but I need you to hear me out. Just give me one minute. I’m begging you. For your son’s sake.” Logan paused. “I’m reaching into my vest for a phone. I’m not going to try anything. I swear to God,” Logan said, and reached into a magazine pouch where he’d stored his Iridium. He pulled it out and held it up for Victor to see. While he held the Glock steady with his right hand, he called up the screen where the number he needed was preprogrammed and hit the green button. He pressed the speaker button, and digital chirping once again erupted from the speaker in the phone, audible over the sound of the rotors of the Hind, which had backed away to a standoff distance of more than one hundred yards.

  “You have thirty seconds, and then I’m pulling the trigger for my son and for the people of Venezuela,” Victor said, the barrel once again against President Pena’s head.

  “Logan . . .” Jack said quietly, inching slightly to his left to try and obtain a clearer sight picture.

  I know. I know. I know. “Just wait for it, Victor, please,” Logan said.

  There was an audible click, followed by “Yes.”

  “Sir,” Logan said. “I’m with him right now.”

  A brief moment of silence ensued, followed by “Very well.” Another pause. “Mr. President, General Cordones, this is President Preston Scott. I have a proposal for you.”

  CHAPTER 53

  For the first time in his entire career, General Victor Cordones was dumbstruck at the telephonic presence of the most powerful leader in the free world. At least the world that most people understood, not the shadow one where the real power brokers linger in the dark, he thought.

  No one spoke, which was the only signal the president needed to fill the vacuum. “I don’t know what’s going on down there, but I have an idea.”

  “Sir, the general has the president with a gun to his head and is threatening to kill him momentarily,” Logan advised. “I thought you might be able to dissuade him.”

  The president didn’t even miss a beat. He was a veteran and A-10 pilot who’d seen combat, and the war with the Organization had dulled his sense of surprise. “Very well. General, you know why we’ve been hunting my own vice president. You know how he’s betrayed my country, and by the presence of my people there, right now, you should also understand how determined I am to see him brought to justice.”

  “Then take him and leave the president to me,” Victor replied. “I don’t care about him. I’m no fool, Mr. President. I know I’m not leaving Venezuela alive, but neither is this man.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly, Victor,” President Scott said. “What if I told you there was a way to help the people of Venezuela, that out of all this chaos and destruction and death, not just from the Organization, but from the earthquake, we could truly help the people, the very same ones your son sympathized with. It would be a way to make his death and all the rest matter. What would you say to that?”

  Victor’s expression didn’t change, but curiosity sparked in his eyes. The Browning once again moved away from President Pena’s head, but Victor also shuffled backward slightly, moving inches closer to the edge of the drop-off.

  “Logan . . .” Jack said again questioningly, his desire to pull the trigger on the Glock 17 he held trained on the general apparent in his voice.

  “Wait,” Logan ordered.

  “How?” Victor asked. “How can you make such a promise?”

  “Quite simply: it’s all about the money,” President Scott replied.

  Of course, Victor thought, the simple brilliance of it gallingly apparent to him.

  “You let President Pena live, and we use that thirty billion dollars of my vice president’s to rebuild Caracas and try to restore some economic sanity to the quagmire Venezuela has become. It will take time, it will be painful, and there will be problems. But I believe it can be done. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even be making this offer, and you’d already be dead. But for your son, I’m begging you to make the right choice,” President Scott finished, and waited for a response.

  At that moment, Victor was a man torn apart as a rift formed deep inside him, and the emotional pain that was his grief poured out into every cell of his being. His son’s death was on the head of the man he held at gunpoint, a man who deserved a violent end for what he had wrought. Victor’s thirst for vengeance consumed him, but he hesitated and lowered the gun several inches, resting the barrel on President Pena’s right shoulder. My son deserves justice. But a voice counter
ed in his head, What about all the aid that money can bring to the people? If it was an honest offer, he knew the money, if handled appropriately, would relieve the suffering of hundreds of thousands. But the pain was suffocating, a reminder of all he’d lost. There was one thing he had to know.

  “What about Pena? What happens to him?” Victor said, the Browning dropping slightly from the president’s shoulder to his upper back.

  “Nothing,” President Scott replied. “And here’s why: your country has been through literal hell, and the last thing Venezuela needs is more instability. President Pena is the duly elected leader of your country, and I have no doubt that if you spare him, he’ll do the right thing. Isn’t that so, Mr. President?”

  A moment of silence passed before President Pena answered, “Of course. If this is the best chance for the people, then I’ll do it.”

  It was the briefest hesitation, but in that moment, it validated the suspicion, hatred, and rage that Victor felt. He’ll never follow through. He’s not capable of change. He’s a selfish, evil monster. My son deserves more than this, he thought, and made his decision.

  Jack had the only clear shot, and he saw Victor’s posture change, his body stiffen, resolute in a decision only Victor knew. But Jack suspected what it was, and he readied himself.

  “No. He won’t” were the last words that Lieutenant General Victor Cordones, father, commanding general, and once patriot to the people of Venezuela, uttered. He quickly raised the pistol. The barrel had cleared President Pena’s shoulder when Jack Longstreet, retired commandant of the Marine Corps, pulled the trigger on his Glock 17 and let loose one shot.

  Jack’s aim was true, and the 9mm round struck Victor in the right side of the temple. Blood sprayed across the back of President Pena’s head and his right cheek, and he flinched at the wet warmth.