ROGUESTATE, page 13
Parvez traveled from London to The Bahamas using his American passport aboardBritish Airways . He choseUnited for the final leg of his journey to Chicago. Based on the letters Eduard found in Grozny, Chicago was Parvez’s home territory.
Eduard checked into the Airport Hilton and collected a package sent to him in care of the hotel. UPS delivered his package to the hotel as a matter of course. The shipping manifest indicated the package’s contents were seminar materials. Everyone accepted the declaration at face value, especially in the context of the fast-paced world of business travel. Hotels were constantly addressing the needs of business travelers, and it was not unusual for someone to forget something.
Once locked behind the card-keyed, dead-bolted hotel room door, Eduard ripped into the cardboard and packing tape. Hisseminar materials consisted of a Makarov pistol, one hundred rounds of 9x18 mm ammunition, two magazines, and a new set of identity papers, including an Illinois Driver License, credit cards, and two thousand dollars. Why risk the vagaries of smuggling contraband through customs when Moscow sent a diplomatic pouch every morning?
Eduard pulled the heavy curtains across his windows and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob. He decided to catch up on his sleep. Tomorrow he would rent a car and begin hunting Parvez Hyder.
* * * *
Turks and Caicos
Mark Schaeffer discarded his third banana and strawberry yogurt container on the kitchen breakfast bar. A trail of empty Diet Coke cans stretched from the kitchen to the den. Beyond the den’s picture window, the Atlantic surf pounded impatiently as if the ocean expected Mark to come to a certain conclusion. Amidst the tropical island splendor, Mark maintained his everyday appearance of black socks, blue shirt, a rumpled suit, and loosened silk tie. This one even had oily stains from the BLT sandwich he made out of white bread and bacon—hold the lettuce and tomatoes.
Videotape and DVD boxes littered tables. A map of Panama City punctuated with red flags adorned one wall. Beneath the map were various briefs detailing the incidents associated with each flag. A back bedroom had been converted to a deposition suite complete with cassette tape recorders and a videotape machine. A back shelf held a handful of VHS tapes and audiocassettes documenting Conner Fadden’s depositions.
Mark and Harvey spent three days recording Conner Fadden’s story. Conner told them about Commander Zeto—a peasant turned drug lord, Damon Layne—the mastermind from Washington, theEl Cangrejo district bombing—the murder of a little girl, the assassination of Cuban diplomat—in the line of duty, and the near-assassination of another Russian.
His final taped testimony described his escape from Panama.
The fireball expanded behind them. The deep green foliage was painted with orange and red fingers stabbing the night and the deadly scent of unburned powder and diesel fuel wrestled against the muskier jungle air. Conner hefted Jim Harper’s terribly wounded body up a muddy slope into the cooler, safer darkness. His Sako sniper rifle was slung over his shoulder and the keys to the Ford Explorer dug into his leg. The Panama Ports Company facility at Balboa was being ripped apart by thunderous explosions and the concussive effects slapped at their heels.
Conner did his best to beat the fire pockets away from Harper’s still smoldering skin. They crab walked up the last thirty yards along a thorn patch that tore away at their BDUs. Conner slid Harper into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Blood and sweat splattered across the inside of the Explorer.
The world continued to explode behind them only to be joined by the supersonic roar of F-14 Tomcats streaking over the scene to make sure the killing was over. The blazing quay and dock facilities broke the night like a newborn star. TheTomcats did not need their twenty-first century avionics to find the target. The digital images flashed through the patchwork of relays and microwave channels to anxious leadership beneath the White House.
The threat was over—for now.
Conner gathered himself into the Explorer and drove north away from the Panama Canal Zone. He was heading towards Costa Rica and away from the hell unleashed on the morning of August 15, 2000. Harper barely remembered the men he had led a few short hours earlier.
Much closer to the towering flames shooting from the Chinese constructed ports facility, Sergeant Darby Hayes crouched, overlooking the battlefield. The skeletal remains of a black MH-53J Pave Low III helicopter lay broken in the light of the flickering flames. Darby had dismantled the hastily assembled triage, bound up his wounded men, and led them back into the jungle.
Their orders were simple and clear—win at all costs and leave no trace. Besides the ill-fated helicopter crew, Darby left nine men behind. There would be letters to write. Sergeant Darby Hayes, twenty years a Marine and much of that as part of Force Recon, brought home eleven men. He assumed Harper had been caught in the conflagration that had claimed nine other American soldiers.
In the modern Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell military, no one would ever know of the heroism displayed that night. It was a mission that never happened against a foe that did not exist. The politicians who gave the Go order remained safe behind their palace guard and cultured civility.
Darby turned one last time to the horrific fire, expecting Harper to come scrambling up the hill behind him. He sighed and whispered, Semper Fi! Harper was not coming home, and Darby knew the most difficult duty would be explaining this to Lynn Harper.
Conner rolled up the Interamerica Highway
. Harper’s head lolled from side to side as he desperately fought to remain lucid. The pungent scent of burnt flesh and the greasy nature of blood and pus slipping around on his back suggested his wounds were not trivial. He had no idea who the stranger was in the driver’s seat. Judging from the sidearm strapped to his leg and Conner’s innate military bearing, Harper guessed God was not finished with him yet.
He pulled from beneath his combat blouse a plastic coated cardboard card listing the extraction points for his combat team. Harper snapped the chain holding the card from around his neck and handed it to Conner. Blood pounded behind his eyes as he struggled to keep a grip on reality, but the darkness swallowed him again, and the next thing Harper remembered was awakening at Walter Reed.
Harper held the videotape describing his rescue. He had sat through the rest of the testimony and, while he was grateful to have been given another chance to see his girls and hold his green-eyed love, Harper wrestled between the conflicting emotions of gratitude and revulsion. He tapped the tape between his fingers and flipped it across the table before Mark Schaeffer.
“You can’t use the last deposition,” declared Harper.
Harper stood six feet tall and weighed two hundred ten pounds. He towered over the diminutive Schaeffer.
Mark had suffered the rants and raves of Congressmen and Senators. He hardly flinched as he said matter-of-factly, “It happened. It’s evidence.”
Harper shook his head. “Itnever happened.”
Mark sipped his Diet Coke and stepped around Harper. “Whatnever happened?”
“We were never at the Panama Ports Company. That was a black operation. It isn’t something we can talk about in a court room.”
Darby Hayes floated next to Harper and agreed solemnly. “It was a black op Mister Schaeffer. We don’t talk about such things.”
Mark shook his head and ran his hand down the front of his face. “Golly. You stand there in front of me with scarred hands and wounds that are still healing and you tell me nothing happened.” He stood up and paced the length of the room, when he turned he found Harvey and Conner had joined the conversation.
“That’s right,” replied Harper with deadly certainty.
“Nine American soldiers died and two helicopters got shot down. You carried out an act of war on foreign soil against the soldiers of yet another country,” exclaimed Mark incredulously. “Those are facts that can not be ignored.”
Harper dropped his eyes as he felt the sting of those soldiers who died under his command. He dug into his shirt pocket and produced a newspaper clipping. “That’s the official explanation,” he said, handing it to Mark.
Mark unfolded the grainy black and white photograph attached to a story detailing a massive fuel depot explosion at a pier on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal. Mark skimmed the story and looked back to Harper waiting blue gray eyes, “This is a lie. You told me yourself.”
Harper nodded.
“It is a lie that dishonors the bravery and heroism of the men you led into battle,” retorted Mark. He examined the warrior standing before him.
Battle heroism and a soldier’s honor were values Harper had lived with his entire adult life. As a serving officer, Harper took the same oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies. He was a veteran of the secret wars, and his attention riveted back to an unmarked grave in the waterless wastes between Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Jordan. He had left his partner—Jerry—buried beneath a cairn of stones. No one ever publicly admitted Jerry’s sacrifice.
“A soldier’s duty is to place his life at risk for the benefit of the country,” Harper replied slowly. “We did what we had to do. It was a secret mission, and it will remain that way.”
Mark shook his head and duck-walked across the back bedroom. He looked at the box of videotapes numbered1 to8 . “I’ve got over twenty hours of tape here. I’ve got evidence of felonies committed at the behest of somebody in the American Government. There is evidence of bribery on a massive scale, murder, terrorist acts, and what appears to me the almost start of a war! You want me to ignore all that?”
Harper shook his head. “Only my part.”
Mark shook his head vehemently. “I can’t ignore that. Conner saved your life and that’s the only redeeming feature of this whole mess.”
Harper scowled. “Do you think it’s a tally sheet?” he asked angrily. “Where all the bad things can be balanced by one good thing? Saving my life does not take back the bombing atEl Cangrejo . My life was forfeit anyway. My job was to make sure those missiles did not launch—whether I lived or died made no difference. I was a soldier defending my country.” The room swam in Harper’s eyes. Somehow he remained rock-hard still—never betraying his body’s frailty. The expected health improvements were not happening.
Conner hung his head and shuddered. The blond haired girl flashed across the terrible theater called guilt, and the white-hot flame mercilessly consumed her a moment later.
Mark picked up the videotape. He hefted it playfully before saying, “All right, we won’t use it. We still have to find Damon Layne.”
Harper nodded, “We’ll find him.”
“I need him alive,” added Mark quickly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
New York,AP,October 18, 2000 –A new poll shows that African Americans do not believe a Bush Presidency will address issues important to them. While experts predict the lowest black turnout in decades, they do predict black Americans will overwhelming support Al Gore.
Dolan Springs, Arizona
Wednesday, October 18, 2000
10:00 P.M. PDT
Isaac Timmerman observed the darkened trailer from amongst the Joshua trees. The singlewide trailer home was cold and dark in the Arizona night. Besides the stray dogs and rattler snakes, nothing joined Isaac in the night. He sipped water from the CamelBak canteen strapped inside his Blackhawk pack, and flipped up the ITT Industries Night Enforcer Model 222 night vision goggles. Isaac concluded the trailer was empty.
Empty did not mean a lack of surprises.
Isaac Timmerman specialized in nasty jobs, generally in third world countries where the local law enforcement agencies did not have access to modern forensics and computerized databases. He made his living by destroying the lives of other people. Kidnapping, murder, blackmail, and extortion were crimes Isaac committed as a matter of course.
Popular fiction is peopled with professional contract killers who traffic in exotic locales and beautiful women. It makes for great reading, but Isaac spent the majority of his days in crummy hotels dining on crummy food, and paging through year-old editions ofPlayboy.
Adrian Bridger had hired Isaac to silence Damon Layne. Bridger suggested it would be best if no one ever found Damon’s body after Isaac finished. It was a simple contract based on ten thousand up front and another ten thousand after the job was completed. Isaac understood the rules—don’t even think about collecting the second ten thousand without finishing the job.
The other item Bridger supplied was a heavily edited document called a Q file. Q files were the secret documentation describing the missions and outcomes of America’s secret warriors. According to Pentagon and CIA regulations, Q files were never permitted beyond the carefully guarded vaults. It was a rule circumvented all too often by scornful men in search of easy solutions.
It was ironic that Bridger had first used Damon Layne to handle security for a clandestine operation run out of Mena, Arkansas. Layne was a merciless killer who showed no remorse as he eliminated security problems. Bridger was convinced Layne was the closest thing to a thrill killer he had ever met. Those were the days when money ran like water and the United States Government turned a blind eye to a rogue CIA operation running completely off the rails. Now it was Damon’s turn to die.
Isaac slid down the bluff, coming to a stop outside the rusted chainlink fence. Isaac climbed over the fence and crossed the rock-strewn yard. The night vision green and white world rippled past. He arrived at the trailer’s side door, producing a crowbar and a five-pound sledgehammer. The lock and doorknob broke away from the door and tumbled down the concrete blocks Layne used for steps. Isaac pulled the concrete blocks away from below the door and kicked the knob underneath the trailer.
It seemed too easy, and Layne’s Q file suggested Isaac should expect something more challenging. He rolled under the trailer and eased the crowbar inside the doorjamb. A quick jerk of the crowbar snapped the restraining hook and the back door swung open. The dullthunk of a crossbow bolt whispered from across the yard. Isaac’s eyes followed the arrow’s path to a wooden stand housing the garbage cans.
Isaac lifted himself to his knees and peered into the gloomy trailer. The cramped confines of the trailer home suggested that the next booby trap would not be as obvious or as easily avoided. The crossbow had been positioned to take out the average person’s chest at over ninety miles per hour.
He slithered over the floor and nearly tripped a wire strung four inches above the linoleum. Isaac inched back from the trip wire and cranked his neck around to follow the line to a grenade’s pull ring. Isaac almost jerked backwards into a second trip wire strung close to his feet.
The night vision goggles detected another silver line running 12 inches above the floor. Behind the second tripwire taped to the metal pedestal holding the kitchen table in place was the half-moon shape of a M181A Claymore mine. Sandwiched between a grenade and a Claymore, Isaac retreated back out the trailer door.
Isaac moved around the outside of the trailer until he came to the bedroom window. He swung the five-pound sledge and smashed the window. He cleared the jagged glass along the bottom of the windowsill and clambered into the darkened room.
The bedroom was as unremarkable as the rest of the trailer. It consisted of a bed, a chest of drawers, a small desk housing Damon’s PC, and a couple of chairs. Based on the kitchen surprises, Isaac took his time surveying the bedroom from behind the night vision goggles’ flat gray-green prism.
Isaac found Damon Layne’s next surprise suspended above the bed. Poised to smash anyone clever and foolish enough to circumvent the grenade and Claymore was a four-foot-long spiked railroad tie. A steel grommet was screwed into the roof and the rope was looped through the eyelet. The effect was to place the fulcrum just inside the bedroom. Isaac traced the thin wire holding the glistening death trap above the bed to another trip wire on the floor. Isaac swallowed hard as he attempted to discern the swing arc for the weapon. The cut railroad tie probably weighed between thirty and forty pounds—more than enough to kill a grown man.
He dropped slowly to his knees and withdrew an extending baton from his belt. He checked the floor beneath him for anything else Layne might have secreted for the curious and then settled to his chest. He folded his legs up and behind his back as he extended the baton towards the trip wire. He stole a glance to the suspended spike-ridden railroad tie above his head, before snagging the trip wire and pulling it upwards. The result was sudden and sure as the railroad tie swung down and smashed through the bedroom door, ripping it off its hinges. The door and railroad tie remained pinned together. Anyone caught between the tie and the door would have several eight-inch spikes drilling holes through their chest.
He moved around the taunt rope still connected to the railroad tie. Isaac came to the corner desk. He knew enough not to touch anything. The PC case was resting on its side under the desk. He traced the cables for the mouse, keyboard, monitor, and power. Everything appeared ordinary. Gingerly he reached his hand forward and plucked the cables from the back plane. He set his other hand on the top of the case.
Click!
Isaac froze. His eyes expanded to the size of Morgan dollars. Frantically he searched the area surrounding the computer case. A high-pitched whine joined the night sounds, and Isaac made a fateful decision. He grabbed the case and hurtled the bed, throwing the case through the broken window ahead of his own diving frame.
Snap!
Damon had fashioned his version of a Bouncing Betty—the land mine that claimed so many American soldiers in Vietnam. A shrapnel canister launched into the middle of the room from behind the monitor. A mist streamed from a finely meshed screen filling the air about and along the trail of the canister with jet fuel vapor.
Crack!
The room erupted into flame, sucking the air from inside the room and throughout the entire trailer home. The fireball roiled and belched violently, punching through the roof and tearing the trailer apart.
