"But if they're innocent, why don't they -"
"Talk very much? Oh, hell, that's the easy part. A foreign-flag warship pulls up alongside and puts an armed boarding party aboard. The boarding party points a bunch of guns at them, roughs them up a bit, and they're so scared that they didn't say anything - that's what the lawyer'll say. Bet on it. Oh, they prob'ly won't walk, but the prosecutor will be so afraid of losing the case that he'll look for an easy way out. Our friends will get a year or two in the can, then they get a free plane ticket home."
"But they're murderers."
"Sure as hell," Portagee agreed. "To get off, all they have to be is smart murderers. And there might even be some other things they can say. What my girl taught me, Red, is that it's never as simple as it looks. Like I said, you shoulda let Bob handle it. The kids would have backed you up, Captain. You oughta hear what they're saying about this thing."
Captain Wegener was quiet for a moment. That made sense, didn't it? Sailors didn't change much over the years, did they? On the beach they'd work mightily to get into every pair of female pants in sight, but on the question of murder and rape, the "kids" felt the same way the old-timers did. Times hadn't changed all that much after all. Men were still men. They knew what justice was, courts and lawyers to the contrary.
Red thought about that for a few seconds. Then he rose and walked to his bookshelf. Next to his current copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and The Manual of Courts Martial was a much older book better known by its informal title, "Rocks and Shoals." It was the old reference book of regulations whose ancestry went back to the 18th century, and which had been replaced by the UCMJ soon after World War II. Wegener's copy was an antique. He'd found it gathering dust in a cardboard box fifteen years before at an old boat station on the California coast. This one had been published in 1879, when the rules had been very different. It had been a safer world then, the captain told himself. It wasn't hard to understand why. All you had to do was read what the rules had once been...
"Thanks, Portagee. I've got a little work to do. I want you and Riley here at fifteen hundred."
Oreza stood. "Aye aye, sir." The quartermaster wondered for a moment what the captain had thanked him for. He was skilled at reading the skipper's mind, but it didn't work this time. He knew that something was going on in there. He just didn't know what it was. He also knew that he'd find out at fifteen hundred. He could wait.
Wegener had lunch with his officers a few minutes later. He sat quietly at the end of the table reading over some message traffic. His wardroom was young and informal. Table talk was as lively as usual. The talk today was on the obvious subject, and Wegener allowed it to go on as he flipped through the yellow sheets generated by the ship's printer. The thought that had come to him in his stateroom was taking shape. He weighed the pluses and minuses in silence. What could they really do to him? Not much, he judged. Would his people go along with him?
"I heard Oreza say that in the old days, they knew what to do about bastards like this," a lieutenant (j.g.) observed at the far end of the table. There were affirmative grunts all around the table.
"Ain't 'progress' a bitch?" another noted. The twenty-four-year-old officer didn't know that he had just made a decision for his commanding officer.
It would work, Wegener decided. He glanced up from his messages to look at the faces of his officers. He'd trained them well, the captain thought. He'd had them for ten months now, and their performance was as nearly perfect as any commander could ask. They'd been a sorry, dejected lot when he'd arrived at the shipyard, but now they sparkled with enthusiasm. Two had grown mustaches, the better to look like the seamen they'd become. All of them lounged in their hard-backed chairs, radiating competence. They were proud of their ship and proud of their captain. They'd back him up. Red joined the conversation, just to make sure, just to test the waters, just to decide who would play a part and who would not.
He finished his lunch and returned to his cabin. The paperwork was still there, and he raced through it as quickly as he could, then opened his "Rocks and Shoals." At fifteen hundred Oreza and Riley arrived, and he outlined his plan. The two master chiefs were surprised at first, but fell into line quickly.
"Riley, I want you to take this down to our guests. One of 'em dropped it on the bridge." Wegener fished the cigarette pack out of his pocket. "There's a vent in the brig, isn't there?"
"Sure is, skipper," the bosun answered in some surprise. He didn't know about the "Calverts."
"We start at twenty-one hundred," the captain said.
"About the time the weather gets here," Oreza observed. "Fair enough, Red. You know you wanna be real careful how you -"
"I know, Portagee. What's life without a few risks?" he asked with a smile.
Riley left first. He walked forward to a ladder, then down two levels and aft until he got to the brig. The two were there, inside the ten-foot-square cage. Each lay on a bunk. They might have been speaking before, but stopped when the door to the compartment opened. It seemed to the bosun that someone might have included a microphone in the brig, but the district legal officer had once explained that such an installation would be a violation of constitutional rights, or a violation of search-and-seizure, or some such legalistic bullshit, the chief thought.
"Hey, Gomer," he said. The one on the lower bunk - the one he'd cracked across the bridge rail - looked around to see who it was. He was rewarded with widening eyes. "You guys get lunch?" the bosun asked.
"Yes." There was an accent there, but a funny one, the master chief thought.
"You dropped your smokes on the bridge awhile back." Riley tossed the pack through the bars. They landed on the deck, and Pablo - the chief thought he looked like a Pablo - snatched them up with a surprised look on his face.
"Thank you," the man said.
"Uh- huh. Don't you boys go anywhere without letting me know, hear?" Riley chuckled and walked away. It was a real brig. The designers had gotten that part right, the master chief thought. Even had its own head. That offended Riley. A prison cell on a Coast Guard cutter. Hmph. But at least that meant you didn't have to detail a couple of men to guard the gomers. At least not yet, Riley smiled to himself. Are you boys in for a surprise .
Weather at sea is always impressive. Perhaps it looks that way sweeping across a uniform surface, or maybe the human mind simply knows that weather has a power at sea that it lacks on land. There was a three-quarter moon tonight, allowing Wegener to watch the line squalls approach at over twenty knots. There were sustained twenty-five-knot winds in there, and gusts almost double that. Experience told him that the gentle four-foot swells that Panache rode through would soon be whipped to a maniacal series of breaking waves and flying spray. Not all that much, really, but enough to give his cutter an active ride. Some of his younger crewmen would presently regret dinner. Well, that was something you had to learn about the sea. She didn't like people to overeat.
Wegener welcomed the storm. In addition to giving him the atmosphere he wanted, it also gave him an excuse to fiddle with his watch bill. Ensign O'Neil had not yet conned the ship through heavy weather and tonight would be his chance.
"Any problems, Mister?" the skipper asked the junior officer.
"No, sir."
"Okay, just remember that if anything comes up, I'll be in the wardroom." One of Wegener's standing orders read: No watch officer will ever be reprimanded for calling the captain to the bridge. Even if you only want to check the correct time: CALL ME! It was a common hyperbole. You had to say such things, lest your junior officers be so afraid to bother the skipper that they rammed a tanker by way of protecting his sleep - and ending his career. The mark of a good officer, Wegener repeatedly told his youngsters, was willingness to admit he had something yet to learn.
O'Neil nodded. Both men knew that there was nothing to worry about. It was just that the kid had never learned first-hand that a ship handles a little differently with sea and wind on the beam. Besides, Chief Owens was standing by. Wegener walked aft, and the boatswain's mate of the watch announced, "Captain off the bridge."
In the crew's mess the enlisted men were settling down to watch a movie. It was a new tape, with a "Hard R" notation on the plastic box. Riley had seen to that. Lots of TA to keep their attention. The same movie was available to the wardroom TV; young officers had the same hormonal drives, but they wouldn't be exercised tonight.
The onrushing storm would serve to keep people off the weather decks, and the noise wouldn't hurt either. Wegener smiled to himself as he pulled open the door to the wardroom. He couldn't have planned it any better.
"Are we ready?" the captain asked.
The initial enthusiasm for the plan was gone. The reality of things had sunk in a little. That was to be expected, Wegener thought. The youngsters were sober, but they weren't backing away either. They needed someone to say something, and they got it.
"Ready here, sir," Oreza said from his seat at the far end of the table. The officers all nodded agreement. Red walked to his seat in the center of the mess table. He looked at Riley.
"Bring 'em up here."
"Aye aye, sir."
The bosun left the room and proceeded down to the brig. On opening the door again, he caught the acrid stink that made him think at first that there was a fire in the rope locker - but an instant later the truth sprang on him.
"Shit," he growled disgustedly. On my ship ! "Stand up, Gomer!" his voice boomed, adding, "Both of ya'!"
The one on the lower bunk flipped his butt into the toilet and stood slowly, an arrogant smile on his face. Riley answered it, and produced a key. That changed Pablo's smile, but didn't erase it.
"We're taking a little walk, children." The bosun also produced a pair of handcuffs. He figured that he could handle both of them easily enough, especially stoned, but the skipper had been clear on his instructions. Riley reached through the bars to yank one toward him. On a rough order to turn around, the man complied, and allowed himself to be cuffed. So did the other. The lack of resistance surprised the master chief. Next Riley unlocked the brig door and waved them out. As "Pablo" passed, Riley removed the pack from his pocket and for want of something better, tossed it back on the lower bunk.
"Come on." Riley grabbed each by the arm and led them forward. They walked unevenly - the increased rolling of the ship didn't help, but there was more to it than that. It took three or four minutes to reach the wardroom.
"The prisoners will be seated," Wegener announced when they arrived. "The court is called to order."
Both of them stopped cold on hearing that, which told everybody something. Riley steered them to their seats at the defense table after a moment. It is hard for a person to endure the stares of his fellowman in silence, particularly when one knows that something is going on, but not quite what it is. The big one broke the silence after a minute or so.
"What's happening?"
"Sir," Wegener replied evenly, "we are holding a summary court-martial." That only earned him a curious look, and he went on, "The trial judge advocate will read the charges."
"Mr. President, the defendants are charged under the Eleventh Article of War with piracy, rape, and murder. Each of these is a capital offense. Specifications: that on or about the fourteenth of this month, the defendants did board the motor yacht Empire Builder ; that while aboard they did murder the four people aboard the vessel, that is, the owner and master, his wife, and their two minor children; further, that in the course of these events the defendants did rape the wife and daughter of the owner and master; further that the defendants did dismember and dispose of the bodies of the victims prior to our boarding the vessel on the morning of the fifteenth. The prosecution will show that these actions took place in the course of drug-running operations. Murder in the course of drug-related activities is a capital offense under United States Code, Annotated. Further, murder in the course of piracy, and rape in the course of piracy, are capital crimes under the Articles of War. As the court is aware, piracy is a crime under the doctrine of jus gentium , and falls under the jurisdiction of any interested warship. Further, murder attending piracy is, as I have stated, a capital crime. Although as a ship of the United States Coast Guard we have de jure rights to board and seize any American-flag vessel, that authority is not strictly necessary in a case of this kind. Therefore, this court has full jurisdiction to try and, if necessary, execute the prisoners. The prosecution announces herewith its intention to request the death penalty in this case."
"Thank you," Wegener said, turning to the defense table. "Do you understand the charges?"
"Huh?"
"What the trial judge advocate just said was that you are being tried for piracy, rape, and murder. If you are found guilty, the court will then decide whether or not to execute you. You have the right to legal counsel. Lieutenant Alison, sitting there at the table with you, is your defending officer. Do you understand?" It took a few more seconds for things to sink in, but he understood all right. "Does the defense waive full reading of charges and specifications?"
"Yes, Mr. President. Sir, the defense moves that the cases be tried individually, and begs the indulgence of the court to confer with his clients."
"Sir, the prosecution objects to splitting the cases."
"Argument?" the captain asked. "Defense first."
"Sir, since, as the trial judge advocate has told us, this is to be a capital case, I beg the court's indulgence to allow me to defend my clients as best I can under the circumstances, and -"
Wegener stopped him with a wave of the hand. "The defense correctly points out that, since this is a capital case, it is customary to grant the utmost leeway to the defense. The court finds this a persuasive argument and grants the motion. The court also grants the defense five minutes to confer with his clients. The court suggests that the defense might instruct his clients to identify themselves properly to the court."
The lieutenant took them to a corner of the room, still in handcuffs, and started talking to them quietly.
"Look, I'm Lieutenant Alison, and I'm stuck with the job of keeping you two characters alive. For starters, you'd better damned sight tell me who the hell you are!"
"What is this bullshit?" the tall one asked.
"This bullshit is a court-martial. You're at sea, mister, and in case nobody ever told you, the captain of an American warship can do any goddamned thing he wants. You shouldn't have pissed him off."
"So?"
"So, this is a trial , you asshole! You know, a judge, a jury. They can sentence you to death and they can do it right here aboard the ship."
"Bullshit!"
"What's your name, for God's sake?"
"Yo' mama," the tall one said contemptuously. The other one looked somewhat less sure of himself. The lieutenant scratched the top of his head. Eighteen feet away, Captain Wegener took note of it.
"What the hell did you do aboard that yacht?"
"Get me a real lawyer!"
"Mister, I'm all the lawyer you're gonna get," the lieutenant said. "Haven't you figured that out yet?"
The man didn't believe him, which was precisely what everyone had expected. The defending officer led his clients back to their table.
"The court is back in session," Wegener announced. "Do we have a statement for the defense?"
"May it please the court, neither defendant chooses to identify himself."
"That does not please the court, but we must take that fact at face value. For the purposes of the trial, we will identify your clients as John Doe and James Doe." Wegener pointed to designate which was which. "The court chooses to try John Doe first. Is there any objection? Very well, the trial judge advocate will begin presenting his case."
Which he did over the next twenty minutes, calling only one witness, Master Chief Riley, who recounted the boarding and gave a color commentary to the videotape record of the boarding.
"Did the defendant say anything?"
"No, sir."
"Could you describe the contents of this evidence bag?" the prosecutor asked next.
"Sir, I think that's called a tampon. It appears to be used, sir," Riley said with some embarrassment. "I found that under the coffee table in the yacht's main salon, close to a bloodstain - actually these two on the photograph, sir. I don't use the things myself, you understand, sir, but in my experience women don't leave them around on the floor. On the other hand, if someone was about to rape a lady, this thing would be in the way, sort of, and he might just remove it and toss it out of the way so's he could get on with it, like. If you see where I picked it up, and where the bloodstains are, well, it's pretty obvious what happened there, sir."
"No further questions. The prosecution rests."
"Very well. Before the defense begins its case, the court wishes to ask if the defense intends to call any witnesses other than the defendant."
"No, Mr. President."
"Very well. At this point the court will speak directly to the defendant." Wegener shifted his gaze and leaned forward slightly in his chair. "In your own defense, sir, you have the right to do one of three things. First, you can choose not to make any statement at all, in which case the court will draw no inferences from your action. Second, you are allowed to make a statement not under oath and not subject to cross-examination. Third, you may make a statement under oath and subject to cross-examination by the trial judge advocate. Do you understand these rights, sir?"
"John Doe," who had watched the preceding hour or so in amused silence, came awkwardly to his feet. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he leaned slightly forward, and since the cutter was now rolling like a log in a flume, he had quite a bit of trouble keeping his feet.
"What is all this shit?" he demanded, again making people wonder about his accent. "I want to go back to my room and be left alone till I can get my own fucking lawyer."
"Mr. Doe," Wegener replied, "in case you haven't figured it out yet, you are on trial for piracy, rape, and murder. This book" - the captain lifted his "Rocks and Shoals" - "says I can try you here and now, and this book says that if we find you guilty, we can decide to hang you from the yardarm. Now, the Coast Guard hasn't done this in over fifty years, but you better believe that I can damned well do it if I want to! They haven't bothered changing the law. So now things are different from what you expected, aren't they? You want a lawyer - you have Mr. Alison right there. You want to defend yourself? Here's your chance. But, Mr. Doe, there is no appeal from this court, and you'd better think about that real hard and real fast."
"I think this is all bullshit. Go fuck yourself!"
"The court will disregard the defendant's statement," Wegener said, struggling to keep his face straight and sober, as befitting the presiding officer in a capital case.
Counsel for the defense spoke for fifteen minutes, making a valiant but futile attempt to counter the weight of evidence already presented by the trial judge advocate. Case summaries took five minutes each. Then it was time for Captain Wegener to speak again.
"Having heard the evidence, the members of the court will now vote on the verdict. This will be by secret written ballot. The trial judge advocate will pass out the voting papers, and collect them."
This took less than one minute. The prosecutor handed each of the five members a slip of note paper. The members of the court all looked at the defendant before and after marking their votes. The prosecutor then collected the ballots, and after shuffling them in his hand about as adroitly as a five-year-old with his Old Maid cards, handed them to the captain. Wegener unfolded the ballots and set them on the table in front of him. He made a note in his yellow pad before speaking.
"Defendant will stand and face the court. Mr. Doe, do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?"
He didn't, an amused, disbelieving smirk on his face.
"Very well. The court having voted, two-thirds of the members concurring, finds the defendant guilty, and sentences him to death by hanging. Sentence to be carried out within the hour. May God have mercy on your soul. Court is adjourned."
"Sorry, sir," the defense counsel said to his client. "You didn't give me much to work with."
"Now get me a lawyer!" Mr. Doe snarled.
"Sir, you don't need a lawyer just now. You need a priest." As if to emphasize that fact, Chief Riley took him by the arm.
"Come on, sweetheart. You got a date with a rope." The master chief led him out of the room.
The other prisoner, known as James Doe, had watched the entire proceeding in fascinated disbelief. The disbelief was still there, everyone saw, but it was more the sort of disbelief that you'd expect to see on the face of a man stuck in front of an onrushing train.
"Do you understand what's going on here?" the lieutenant asked.
"This ain't real, man," the prisoner said, his voice lacking much of the conviction it might have held an hour or so earlier.
"Hey, man, aren't you paying attention? Didn't they tell you guys that some of your kind just sort of disappear out here? We've been doing this for almost six months. The prisons are all full up, and the judges just don't want to be bothered. If we bag somebody and we have the evidence we need, they let us handle things at sea. Didn't anybody tell you that the rules have changed some?"
"You can't do this!" he almost screamed in reply.
"Think so? Tell you what. In about ten minutes I'll take you topside, and you can watch. I'm telling you, if you don't cooperate, we are not going to fuck around with you, pal. We're tired of that. Why don't you just sit quiet and think it over, and when the time comes, I'll let you see how serious we are." The lieutenant helped himself to a cup of coffee to pass the time, not speaking at all to his client. About the time he finished, the door opened again.
"Hands topside to witness punishment," Chief Oreza announced.
"Come on, Mr. Doe. You'd better see this." The lieutenant took him by the arm and led him forward. Just outside the wardroom door was a ladder that led upward. At the top of it was a narrow passageway, and both men headed aft toward the cutter's vacant helicopter deck.
The lieutenant's name was Rick Alison. A black kid from Albany, New York, and the ship's navigator, Alison thanked God every night for serving under Red Wegener, who was far and away the best commander he'd ever met. He'd thought about leaving the service more than once, but now planned on staying in as long as he could. He led Mr. Doe aft, about thirty feet from the festivities.
The seas were really rough now, Alison noted. He gauged the wind at over thirty knots, and the seas at twelve or fourteen feet. Panache was taking twenty-five-degree rolls left and right of the vertical, snapping back and forth like a kids' seesaw. Alison remembered that O'Neil had the conn, and hoped that Chief Owens was keeping an eye on the boy. The new ensign was a good enough kid, but he still had a lot to learn about ship handling, thought the navigator, who was a bare six years older himself. Lightning flashed occasionally to starboard, flash-lighting the sea. Rain was falling in solid sheets, the drops flying across the deck at a sharp angle and driven hard enough by the wind to sting the cheeks. All in all it was the sort of night to make Edgar Allan Poe salivate at its possibilities. There were no lights visible, though the cutter's white paint gave them a sort of ghostly outline as a visual reference. Alison wondered if Wegener had decided to do this because of the weather, or was it just a fortunate coincidence?
Captain, you've pulled some crazy shit since you came aboard, but this one really takes it .
There was the rope. Someone had snaked it over the end of the cutter's radio/radar mast. That must have been fun, Alison thought. Had to have been Chief Riley. Who else would be crazy enough to try?
Then the prisoner appeared. His hands were still behind his back. The captain and XO were there, too. Wegener was saying something official, but they couldn't hear it. The wind whistled across the deck, and through the mast structure with its many signal halyards - oh, that's what Riley did, Alison realized. He'd used a halyard as a messenger line to run the one-inch hemp through the block. Even Riley wasn't crazy enough to crawl the mast top in this weather.
Then some lights came on. They were the deck floods, used to help guide a helo in. They had the main effect of illuminating the rain, but did give a slightly clearer picture of what was happening. Wegener said one more thing to the prisoner, whose face was still set in an arrogant cast. He still didn't believe it, Alison thought, wondering if that would change. The captain shook his head and stepped back. Riley then placed the noose around his neck.
John Doe's expression changed at that. He still didn't believe it, but all of a sudden things were slightly more serious. Five people assembled on the running end of the line. Alison almost laughed. He'd known that was how it was done, but hadn't quite expected the skipper to go that far...
The final touch was the black hood. Riley turned the prisoner to face aft toward Alison and his friend - there was another reason, as well - before surprising him with it. And finally it got through to Mr. Doe.
' Noooooo! " The scream was perfect, a ghostly sort of cry that matched the weather and the wind better than anyone might have hoped. His knees buckled as expected, and the men on the running end of the line took the strain and ran aft. The prisoner's feet rose clear of the black no-skid deck as the body jerked skyward. The legs kicked a few times, then were still before the line was tied off on a stanchion.
"Well, that's that," Alison said. He took the other Mr. Doe by the arm and led him forward. "Now it's your turn, sport."
Lightning flashed close aboard just as they reached the door leading back into the superstructure. The prisoner stopped cold, looking up one last time. There was his companion, body limp, swinging like a pendulum below the yard, hanging there dead in the rain.
"You believe me now?" the navigator asked as he pulled him inside. Mr. Doe's trousers were already soaked from the falling rain, but they were wet for another reason as well.
The first order of business was to get dried off. When the court reconvened, everyone had changed to fresh clothing. James Doe was now in a set of blue Coast Guard coveralls. His handcuffs had been taken off and left off, and he found a hot cup of coffee waiting for him on the defense table. He failed to note that Chief Oreza was no longer at the head table, nor was Chief Riley in the wardroom at the moment. The entire atmosphere was more relaxed than it had been, but the prisoner scarcely noticed that. James Doe was anything but calm.
"Mr. Alison," the captain intoned, "I would suggest that you confer with your client."
"This, one's real simple, sport," Alison said. "You can talk or you can swing. The skipper doesn't give a shit one way or the other. For starters, what's your name?"
Jes s started talking. One of the officers of the court picked up a portable TV camera - the same one used in the boarding, in fact - and they asked him to start again.
"Okay - do you understand that you are not required to say anything?" someone asked. The prisoner scarcely noticed, and the question was repeated.
"Yeah, right, I understand, okay?" he responded without turning his head. "Look, what do you want to know?"
The questions were already written down, of course. Alison, who was also the cutter's legal officer, ran down the list as slowly as he could, in front of the video camera. His main problem was in slowing the answers down enough to be intelligible. The questioning lasted forty minutes. The prisoner spoke rapidly, but matter-of-factly, and didn't notice the looks he was getting from the members of the court.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Wegener said when things were concluded. "We'll try to see that things go a little easier for you because of your cooperation. We won't be able to do much for your colleague, of course. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Too bad for him, I guess," the man answered, and everyone in the room breathed a little easier.
"We'll talk to the U.S. Attorney," the captain promised. "Lieutenant, you can return the prisoner to the brig."
"Aye aye, sir." Alison took the prisoner out of the room as the camera followed. On reaching the ladder to go below, however, the prisoner tripped. He didn't see the hand that caused it, and didn't have time to look, as another unseen hand crashed down on the back of his neck. Next Chief Riley broke the unconscious man's forearm, while Chief Oreza clamped a patch of ether-soaked gauze over his mouth. The two chiefs carried him to sick bay, where the cutter's medical corpsman splinted the arm. It was a simple green-stick fracture and required no special assistance. His undamaged arm was secured to the bunk in sick bay, and he was allowed to sleep there.
The prisoner slept late. Breakfast was brought in to him from the wardroom, and he was allowed to clean himself up before the helicopter arrived. Oreza came to collect him, leading him topside again, and aft to the helo deck, where he found Chief Riley, who was delivering the other prisoner to the helicopter. What James Doe - his real name had turned out to be Jes s Castillo - found remarkable was the fact that John Doe - Ram n Jos Capati - was alive. A pair of DEA agents seated them as far apart as possible, and had instructions to keep the prisoners separate. One had confessed, the captain explained, and the other might not be overly pleased with that. Castillo couldn't take his eyes off Capati, and the amazement in his eyes looked enough like fear that the agents - who liked the idea of a confession in a capital case - resolved to keep the prisoners as far apart as circumstances allowed. Along with them went all the physical evidence and several videotape cassettes. Wegener watched the Coast Guard Dolphin helo power up, wondering how the people on the beach would react. The sober pause that always follows a slightly mad act had set in, but Wegener had anticipated that also. In fact, he figured that he'd anticipated everything. Only eight members of the crew knew what had taken place, and they knew what they were supposed to say. The executive officer appeared at Wegener's side.
"Nothing's ever quite what it seems, is it?"
"I suppose not, but three innocent people died. Instead of four." Sure as hell the owner wasn't any angel , the captain reflected. But did they have to kill his wife and kids, too? Wegener stared out at the changeless sea, unaware of what he had started or how many people would die because of it.
4. Preliminaries
CHAVEZ'S FIRST INDICATION of how unusual this job really was came at San Jos airport. Driven there in an unmarked rental van, they ended up in the general-aviation part of the facility and found a private jet waiting for them. Now, that was really something. "Colonel Smith" didn't board. He shook every man's hand, told them that they'd be met, and got back into the van. The sergeants all boarded the aircraft which, they saw, was less an executive jet than a mini-airliner. It even had a stewardess who served drinks. Each man stowed his gear and availed himself of a drink except Chavez, who was too tired even to look at the young lady. He barely noted the plane's takeoff, and was asleep before the climb-out was finished. Something told him that he ought to sleep while he had the time. It was a common instinct for soldiers, and usually a correct one.
Lieutenant Jackson had never been at the Monterey facility, but his older brother had given him the necessary instructions, and he found the O-Club without difficulty. He felt suddenly lonely. As he locked his Honda he realized that his was the only Army uniform in view. At least it wasn't hard to figure out whom to salute. As a second lieutenant, he had to salute damned near everybody.
"Yo, Timmy!" his brother called, just inside the door.
"Hiya, Rob." The two men embraced. Theirs was a close family, but Timmy hadn't seen his big brother, Commander Robert Jefferson Jackson, USN, in almost a year. Robby's mother had died years before. Only thirty-nine, she'd complained of a headache, decided to lie down for a few minutes, and never stirred again, the victim of a massive stroke. It had later been determined that she was an undiagnosed hypertensive, one of many American blacks cursed by the symptomless malady. Her husband, the Reverend Hosiah Jackson, mourned her loss along with the community in which both had raised their family. But pious man that Reverend Jackson was, he was also a father whose children needed a mother. Four years later he'd remarried, to a twenty-three-year-old parishioner, and started afresh. Timothy was the first child of his second union. His fourth son had followed a path similar to the first's. An Annapolis graduate, Robby Jackson flew fighter aircraft for the Navy. Timmy had won an appointment at West Point, and looked forward to a career in the infantry. Another brother was a physician, and the fourth was a lawyer with political ambitions. Times had changed in Mississippi.
It would have been hard for an observer to determine which brother was prouder of the other. Robby, with three gold stripes on his shoulder boards, bore on his breast pocket the gold star that denoted a former command at sea - in his case, VF-41, a squadron of F-14 Tomcat fighters. Now working in the Pentagon, Robby was on his way to command of a Carrier Air Wing, and after that perhaps his own carrier. Timothy, on the other hand, had been the family runt for quite a few years, but West Point had changed that with a vengeance. He had two solid inches on his older brother, and at least fifteen more pounds of muscle. There was a Ranger flash on his shoulder above the hourglass insignia of his division. Another boy had been turned into a man, the old-fashioned way.
"Lookin' good, boy," Robby observed. "How 'bout a drink?"
"Not too many, I've been up for a while."
"Long day?"
"Long week, as a matter of fact," Tim replied, "but I did get a nap yesterday."
"Nice of 'em," the elder Jackson observed with some fraternal concern.
"Hey, if I wanted an easy life, I woulda joined the Navy." The brothers had a good laugh on the way to the bar. Robby ordered John Jameson, a taste introduced to him by a friend. Tim settled for a beer. Conversation over dinner, of course, began with catching up on family matters, then turned to shop talk.
"Not real different from what you do," Timmy explained. "You try to get in close and smoke a guy with a missile before he knows you're there. We try to get in close and shoot him in the head before he knows where we are. You know about that, don't you, big brother?" Timmy asked with a smile that was touched with envy. Robby had been there once.
"Once was enough," Robby answered soberly. "I leave that close-quarter crap to idiots like you."
"Yeah, well, last night we were the forward element for the battalion. My lead squad went in beautiful. The OPFOR - excuse me, Opposing Force - was a bunch from the California Guard, mainly tanks. They got careless about how they set up, and Sergeant Chavez was inside the laager before they knew about it. You oughta see this guy operate. I swear, Rob, he's nearly invisible when he wants to be. It's going to be a bitch to replace him."
"Huh?"
"Just transferred out this afternoon. I was going to lose him in a couple weeks anyway, but they lifted him early to go to Fort Benning. Whole bunch of good sergeants moved out today." Tim paused for a moment. "All Spanish ones. Coincidence." Another pause. "That's funny, wasn't Le n supposed to go to Fort Benning, too?"
"Who's Le n?"
"Sergeant E-6. He was in Ben Tucker's platoon - Ben and I played ball together at the Point. Yeah, he was supposed to be going to Ranger School as an instructor in a couple of weeks. I wonder why him and Chavez left together? Ah, well, that's the Army for you. So how do you like the Pentagon?"
"Could be worse," Robby allowed. "Twenty-five more months, and thank God Almighty, I'll be free at last. I'm in the running for a CAG slot," the elder brother explained. He was at the career stage where things got really sticky. There were more good men than jobs to be filled. As with combat operations, one of the determining factors now was pure luck. Timmy, he saw, didn't know about that yet.
The jet landed after a flight of just under three hours. Once on the ground it taxied to the cargo terminal at the small airport. Chavez didn't know which one. He awoke still short of the sleep he needed when the plane's door was wrenched open. His first impression was that there wasn't much air here. It seemed an odd observation to make, and he wrote it off to the usual confusion following a nap.
"Where the hell are we?" another sergeant asked.
"They'll tell you outside," the attendant replied. "Y'all have a nice time here." The smile that accompanied the answer was too charming to merit a further challenge.
The sergeants collected their bags and shuffled out of the aircraft, finding yet another van waiting for them. Chavez got his question answered before he boarded it. The air was very thin here, all right, and in the west he saw why. The last glow of sunset illuminated the jagged outline of mountains to the west. Easterly course, three hours' flight time, and mountains: he knew at once they were somewhere in the Rockies, even though he'd never really been there. His last view of the aircraft as the van rolled off showed a fueling truck moving toward it. Chavez didn't quite put it together. The aircraft would be leaving in less than thirty minutes. Few people would have noticed that it had even been there, much less trouble themselves to wonder why.
Clark's hotel room was a nice one, befitting his cover. There was an ache at the back of his head to remind him that he was still not fully adjusted to the altitude, but a couple of Tylenol caplets went to work on that, and he knew that his job didn't involve much in the way of physical activity. He ordered breakfast sent up and went through some setting-up exercises to work the kinks out of his muscles. The morning jog was definitely out, however. Finished, he showered and shaved. Service was good here. Just as he got his clothes on, breakfast arrived, and by nine o'clock he was ready for work. Clark took the elevator down to the lobby, then went outside. The car was waiting. He got in the front.
" Buenos di s ," the driver said. "There may be rain this afternoon."
"If so, I have my coat."
"A cold rain, perhaps."
"The coat has a liner," Clark said, finishing the code sequence.
"Whoever thought that one up was bright enough," the man said. "There is rain in the forecast. The name's Larson."
"Clark." They didn't shake hands. It just wasn't done. Larson, which probably wasn't his real name either, Clark thought, was about thirty, with dark hair that belied his vaguely Nordic surname. Locally, Carlos Larson was thought to be the son of a Danish father and a Venezuelan mother, and he ran a flying school, a service much in demand. He was a skilled pilot who taught what he knew and didn't ask many questions, which appealed to his clientele. He didn't really need to ask questions - pilots, especially student pilots, talk a good deal - and he had a good memory for every sort of detail, plus the sort of professional expertise that invited lots of requests for advice. It was also widely believed that he'd financed his business by making a few highly illegal flights, then semiretired to a life of luxury. This legend created bona fides for the people in whom he had interest, but did so without making him any sort of adversary. He was a man who'd done what was needed to get what he wanted, and now lived the sort of life that he'd wanted to live. That explained the car, which was the most powerful BMW made, and the expensive apartment, and the mistress, a stewardess for Avianca whose real job was as a courier for CIA. Larson thought it all a dream assignment, the more so because the stewardess really was his lover, a fringe benefit that might not have amused the Agency's personnel directorate. The only thing that bothered him was that his placement in Colombia was also unknown to the station chief. A relatively inexperienced agent, Larson - Clark would have been surprised to learn that that was his real name - knew enough about how the Agency worked to realize that separate command loops generally denoted some sort of special operation. His cover had been established over a period of eighteen months, during which he'd been required to do not very much in return. Clark's arrival was probably the signal that all of that was about to change. Time to earn his pay.
"What's the plan of the day?" Clark asked.
"Do a little flying. We'll be down before the weather goes bad," Larson added.
"I know you have an instrument rating."
"I will take that as a vote of confidence," the pilot said with a smile as he drove toward the airport. "You've been over the photos, of course."
"Yeah, about three days' worth. I'm just old-fashioned enough that I like to eyeball things myself. Maps and photos don't tell you everything."
"They told me the mission profile is just to fly around straight and level, no buzzing or circling to get people mad." The nice thing about having a flying school was that its aircraft were expected to be all over the place, but if one showed specific interest in specific people, they might take note of your registration number, and they might come down to the airport to ask why. The people who lived in Medell n were not known to ask such questions politely. Larson was not afraid of them. So long as he maintained his cover, he knew that he had little to worry about. At the same time, he was a pro, and pros are careful, especially if they want to last.
"Sounds okay to me." Clark knew the same things. He'd gotten old in a dangerous business by taking only the necessary risks. Those were bad enough. It wasn't very different from playing the lottery. Even though the odds were against one's hitting the number, if you played the game long enough, the right - or wrong - number would appear, no matter how careful you were. Except in this lottery the prize wasn't money. It was an unmarked, shallow grave, and you got that only if the opposition remembered something about religion.
He couldn't decide if he liked the mission or not. On the one hand, the objective was worthy enough. On the other... But Clark wasn't paid to make that sort of evaluation. He was paid to do, not to think very much about it. That was the main problem with covert operations. You had to risk your life on the judgment of others. It was nice to know why, but the decision-makers said knowing why often had the effect of making the job all the more dangerous. The field operators didn't always believe that. Clark had that problem right now.
The Twin- Beech was parked in the general-aviation section of El Dorado International Airport. It didn't require too much in the way of intelligence to make an accurate assessment of what the aircraft were used for. There were too many expensive cars, and far too many expensive aircraft to be explained by the Colombian gentry. These were toys for the newly rich. Clark's eyes swept over them, his face showing neutral interest.
"Wages of sin ain't bad, are they?" Larson chuckled.
"What about the poor bastards who're paying the wages?"
"I know about that, too. I'm just saying that they're nice airplanes. Those Gulfstreams - I'm checked out on 'em - that's one sweet-handlin' bird."
"What do they cost?" Clark asked.
"A wise man once said, if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it."
"Yeah." Clark's mouth twisted into a smile. But some things carry a price that's not measured in dollars . He was already getting into the proper frame of mind for the mission.
Larson preflighted the Beech in about fifteen minutes. He'd just flown in ninety minutes earlier, and few private pilots would have bothered to run through the whole checklist, but Larson was a good pilot, which meant he was before all things a careful one. Clark took the right-side cockpit seat, strapping in as though he were a student pilot on his first hop. Commercial traffic was light at this hour, and it was easy to taxi into the takeoff pattern. About the only surprise was the long takeoff roll.
"It's the altitude," Larson explained over the intercom headset as he rotated off the runway. "It makes the controls a little mushy at low speed, too. No problem. Like driving in the snow - you just have to pay attention." He moved the lever to bring the gear up, leaving the aircraft at full power to claw up to altitude as quickly as possible. Clark scanned the instruments and saw nothing obviously awry, though it did seem odd to show nine thousand feet of altitude when you could still pick out individual people on the ground.
The aircraft banked to the left, taking a northwesterly heading. Larson backed off on the throttles, commenting that you also had to pay close attention to engine temperatures here, though the cooling systems on the twin Continental engines were beefed up to allow for it. They were heading toward the country's mountainous spine. The sky was clear and the sun was bright.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"It is that," Clark agreed. The mountains were covered with emerald-green trees whose leaves shimmered with moisture from the night's rain. But Clark's trained eyes saw something else. Walking these hills would be a cast-iron bitch. About the only good thing to be said was that there was good cover under which people could conceal themselves. The combination of steep hills and thin air would make this place an arduous one. He hadn't been briefed on what exactly was going to happen, but he knew enough to be glad that the hard part of the job would not be his.
The mountain ranges in Colombia run on a southwest-to-northeast vector. Larson picked a convenient pass to fly over, but the winds off the nearby Pacific Ocean made the crossing bumpy.
"Get used to it. Winds are picking up today because of the weather front that's moving in. They really boil around these hills. You ought to see what real bad weather is like."
"Thanks, but no thanks! Not much in the way of places to land in case things -"
"Go bad?" Larson asked. "That's why I pay attention to the checklist. Besides, there are more little strips down there than you might imagine. Of course, you don't always get a welcome when you decide to use one. Don't sweat it. I just put new engines on this bird a month ago. Sold the old ones to one of my students for his old King Air. It belongs to the Bureau of Customs now," Larson explained.
"Did you have any part in that?"
"Negative! Look, they expect me to know why all these kids are taking lessons. I'm not supposed to be dumb, right? So I also teach them standard evasion tactics. You can read them in any decent book, and they expect me to be able to do that. Pablo wasn't real big on reading. Hell of a natural pilot, though. Too bad, really, he was a nice enough kid. They bagged him with fifty keys. I understand he didn't talk much. No surprise there. Gutsy little bastard."
"How well motivated are these folks?" Clark had seen lots of combat once, and he knew that the measure of an enemy is not to be found by counting his weapons.
Larson frowned at the sky. "Depends on what you mean. If you change the word from 'motivated' to 'macho,' that about covers it. You know, the cult of manliness, that sort of thing. Part of it's kinda admirable. These people have a funny sense of honor. For example, the ones I know socially treat me just fine. Their hospitality is impressive, especially if you show a little deference, which everyone does. Besides, I'm not a business rival. What I mean is, I know these people. I've taught a bunch of them to fly. If I had a money problem, I could probably go to them for help and get it. I'm talking like half a million in cash on a handshake - and I'd walk out of the hacienda with the cash in a briefcase. I'd have to make some courier flights to square things, of course. And I'd never have to pay the money back. On the other hand, if I screwed them, well, they'd make damned sure that I paid for that, too. They have rules. If you live by them, you're fairly safe. If not, you'd better have your bags packed."
"I know about the ruthlessness. What about the brains?"
"They're as smart as they have to be. What smarts they don't have, they buy. They can buy anything, anybody. Don't underestimate them. Their security systems are state-of-the-art, like what we put on ICBM silos - shit, maybe better than that. They're protected as tightly as we protect the President, except their shooters are less restrained by rules of engagement. I suppose the best indicator on how smart they are is the fact that they've banded together to form the cartel. They're smart enough to know that gang wars cost everybody, so they formed a loose alliance. It ain't perfect, but it works. People who try to break into the business mostly end up dead. Medell n is an easy town to die in."
"Cops? Courts?"
"The locals have tried. Lots of dead cops, lots of dead judges to prove it," Larson said with a shake of the head. "Takes a lot for people to keep plugging away when they can't see any results. Then toss in the money angle. How often can a man walk away from a suitcase full of tax-free hundred-dollar bills? Especially when the alternative is certain death for himself and his family. The cartel is smart, my friend, and it's patient, and it has all the resources it needs, and it's ruthless enough to scare a veteran Nazi. All in all, that's some enemy." Larson pointed to a gray smudge in the distance. "There's Medell n. Drugs 'R'Us, all in that one little city in the valley. One nuke could settle things, say about two megatons, air-burst four thousand feet AGL. I wonder if the rest of the country would really mind...?"
That earned Larson a glance from his passenger. Larson lived here, knew a lot of these people, and even liked some, as he'd just said. But his hatred for them occasionally peeked through his professional detachment. The best sort of duplicity. This kid had a real future in the Agency, Clark decided. Brains and passion both. If he knew how to maintain a proper balance of the two, he could go places. Clark reached into his bag for a camera and a pair of binoculars. His interest wasn't in the city itself.
"Nice places, aren't they?"
The drug chieftains were growing increasingly security-conscious. The hilltops around the city were all being cleared of trees. Clark counted over a dozen new homes already. Homes, he thought with a snort. Castles was more like it. Walled fortresses. Enormous dwelling structures surrounded by low walls, surrounded in turn by hundreds of yards of clear, steep slopes. What people found picturesque about Italian villages and Bavarian castles was always the elegant setting. Always on the top of a hill or mountain. You could easily imagine the work that went into such a beautiful place - clearing the trees, hauling the stone blocks up the slopes, and ending up with a commanding view of the countryside that extended for miles. But the castles and villages hadn't been built in such places for fun, and neither had these houses. The heights meant that no one could approach them unobserved. The cleared ground around those houses was known in terse military nomenclature as a killing zone, a clear field of fire for automatic weapons. Each house had a single road up to a single gate. Each house had a helipad for a fast evacuation. The wall around each was made of stone that would stop any bullet up to fifty caliber. His binoculars showed that immediately inside each wall was a gravel or concrete path for guards to walk. A company of trained infantrymen would have no easy time assaulting one of these haciendas. Maybe a helicopter assault, supported by mortars and gunships... Christ , Clark thought to himself, what am I thinking about ?
"What about house plans?"
"No problem. Three architectural firms have designed these places. Security isn't all that good there. Besides, I've been in that one for a party - just two weeks ago, as a matter of fact. I guess that's one area they're not too smart in. They like to show their places off. I can get you floor plans. The satellite overheads will show guard strength, vehicle garaging, all that sort of thing."
"They do." Clark smiled.
"Can you tell me exactly what you're here for?"
"Well, they want an evaluation of the physical characteristics of the terrain."
"I can see that. Hell, I could do that easy enough from memory." Larson's question was not so much curiosity as his slight offense at not being asked to do this job himself.
"You know how it is at Langley," was the statement Clark used to dismiss the observation.
You're a pilot , Clark didn't say. You've never humped afield pack in the boonies. I have . If Larson had known his background, he could have made an intelligent guess, but what Clark did for the Agency, and what he'd done before joining, were not widely known. In fact, they were hardly known at all.
"Need- to-know, Mr. Larson," Clark said after another moment.
"Roger that," the pilot agreed over the intercom.
"Let's do a photo pass."
"I'll do a touch-and-go at the airport first. We want to make it look good."
"Fair enough," Clark agreed.
"What about the refining sites?" Clark asked after they headed back to El Dorado.
"Mainly southwest of here," Larson answered, turning the Beech away from the valley. "I've never seen one myself - I'm not in that part of the business, and they know it. If you want to scout them out, you go around at night with imaging IR equipment, but they're hard to track in on. Hell, they're portable, easy to set up, and easy to move. You can load the whole assembly on a medium truck and set it up ten miles away the next day."
"Not that many roads..."
"What you gonna do, search every truck that comes along?" Larson asked. "Besides, you can man-pack it if you want. Labor's cheap down here. The opposition is smart, and adaptable."
"How much does the local army get involved?" Clark had been fully briefed, of course, but he also knew that a local perspective might not agree with Washington's - and might be correct.
"They've tried. Biggest problem they have is sustaining their forces - their helicopters don't spend twenty percent of their time in the air. That means they don't do many ops. It means that if anyone gets hit he might not get medical attention very fast - and that hurts performance when they do run ops. Even then - you can guess what the government pays a captain, say. Now imagine that somebody meets that captain at a local bar, buys him a drink, and talks to him. He tells the captain that he might want to be in the southwestern corner of his sector tomorrow night - well, anywhere but the northeastern sector, okay? If he decides to patrol one part of his area, but not another, he gets a hundred thousand dollars. Okay, the other side has enough money that they can pay him up front just to see if he'll cooperate. Seed money, kind of. Once he shows he can be bought, they settle down to a smaller but regular payment. Also, the other side has enough product that they can let him do some real seizures once in a while, once they know he's theirs, to make him look good. Someday that captain grows up and becomes a colonel who controls a lot more territory... It's not because they're bad people, it's just that things are so fucking hopeless. Legal institutions are fragile down here and - hell, look at the way things are at home, for Christ's sake. I -"
"I'm not criticizing anybody, Larson," Clark said. "Not everybody can take on a hopeless mission and keep at it." He turned to look out the side window and smiled to himself. "You have to be a little crazy to do that."
5. Beginnings
CHAVEZ AWOKE WITH the headache that accompanies initial exposure to a thin atmosphere, the sort that begins just behind the eyes and radiates around the circumference of one's head. For all that, he was grateful. Throughout his career in the Army, he'd never failed to awaken a few minutes before reveille. It allowed him an orderly transition from sleep to wakefulness and made the waking-up process easier to tolerate. He turned his head left and right, inspecting his environment in the orange twilight that came through the uncurtained windows.
The building would be called a barracks by anyone who did not regularly live in one. To Chavez it seemed more of a hunting camp, a guess that was wholly accurate. Perhaps two thousand square feet in the bunk room, he judged, and he counted a total of forty single metal-frame bunks, each with a thin GI mattress and brown GI blanket. The sheets, however, were fitted, with elastic at the corners; so he decided that there wouldn't be any of the bouncing-quarter bullshit, which was fine with him. The floor was bare, waxed pine, and the vaulted ceiling was supported by smoothed-down pine trunks in lieu of finished beams. It struck the sergeant that in hunting season people - rich people - actually paid to live like this: proof positive that money didn't automatically confer brains on anyone. Chavez didn't like barracks life all that much, and the only reason he'd not opted for a private apartment in or near Fort Ord was his desire to save up for that Corvette. To complete the illusion, at the foot of each bed was a genuine Army-surplus footlocker.
He thought about getting up on his elbows to look out the windows, but knew that the time for that would come soon enough. It had been a two-hour drive from the airport, and on arrival each man had been assigned a bunk in the building. The rest of the bunks had already been filled with sleeping, snoring men. Soldiers, of course. Only soldiers snored like that. It had struck him at the time as ominous. The only reason why young men would be asleep and snoring just after ten at night was fatigue. This was no vacation spot. Well, that was no surprise either.
Reveille came in the form of an electric buzzer, the kind associated with a cheap alarm clock. That was good news. No bugle - he hated bugles in the morning. Like most professional soldiers, Chavez knew the value of sleep, and waking up was not a cause for celebration. Bodies stirred around him at once, to the accompaniment of the usual wake-up grumbles and profanity. He tossed off the blanket and was surprised to learn how cold the floor was.
"Who're you?" the man in the next bunk said while staring at the floor.
"Chavez, Staff Sergeant. Bravo, 3rd of the 17th."
"Vega. Me, too. Headquarters Company, lst/22nd. Get in last night?"
"Yep. What gives here?"
"Well, I don't really know, but they sure did run us ragged yesterday," Staff Sergeant Vega said. He stuck his hand out. "Julio."
"Domingo. Call me Ding."
"Where you from?"