“Tell you what, Admiral. If you don’t tell the newsies, neither will I. Here’s the intercept. Cortez says it was a car bomb. Clark must have rigged it just the way we hoped.”
“But what if the local police do an investigation?”
“First of all, we don’t know if the local cops will even be allowed there. Second, what makes you think they have the resources to figure it out? I worked pretty hard setting this up to look like a car-bombing, and it looks like Cortez got faked out. Third, what makes you think that the local cops’ll give a flying fuck one way or another?”
“But the media!”
“You’ve got media on the brain. You’re the one who’s been arguing for turning us loose on these characters. So now you’re changing your mind? It’s a little late for that,” Ritter said disgustedly. This was the best op his Directorate had run in years, and the guy whose idea it had been was now wetting his pants.
Admiral Cutter wasn’t paying enough attention to Ritter’s invective to be angry. He’d promised the President a surgical removal of the people who had killed Jacobs and the rest. He hadn’t bargained for the deaths of “innocent” people. More importantly, neither had WRANGLER.
Chavez was too far south to have heard the explosion. The squad was staked out on another processing site. Evidently the sites were set up in relays. As he watched, two men were erecting the portable bathtub under the supervision of several armed men, and he could hear the grunts and gripes of others who were climbing up the mountainside. Four peasants appeared, their backpacks containing jars of acid. They were accompanied by two more riflemen.
Probably the word hadn’t gotten out yet, Ding thought. He’d been certain that what the squad had done the other night would discourage people from supplementing their income this way. The sergeant didn’t consider the possibility that they had to run such risks to feed their families.
Ten minutes later the third relay of six brought the coca leaves, and five more armed men. The laborers all had collapsible canvas buckets. They went off to a nearby stream for water. The boss guard ordered two of his people to walk into the woods to stand sentry, and that’s where things went wrong. One of them walked straight toward the assault element, fifty meters away.
“Uh-oh,” Vega observed quietly.
Chavez tapped four dashes on his radio button, the danger signal.
I see it, the captain replied with two dashes. Then three dashes. Get ready.
Oso got his machine gun up and flipped off the safety.
Maybe they’ll drop him quietly, Chavez hoped.
The guys with the buckets were just coming back when Chavez heard a scream over to his left. The riflemen below him reacted at once. Vega started firing then.
The sudden shooting from another direction confused the guards, but they reacted as people with automatic weapons invariably reacted to surprise – they started shooting in all directions.
“Shit!” Ingeles snarled, and fired his grenade into the objective. It landed among the jars and exploded, showering everyone in the area with sulfuric acid. Tracers flew everywhere, and people dropped, but it was too confused, too unplanned for the soldiers to keep track of what was happening. The shooting stopped in a few seconds. Everyone in view was down. The assault group appeared soon thereafter, and Chavez ran down to join them. He counted bodies and came up three short.
“Guerra, Chavez, find ’em!” Captain Ramirez ordered. He didn’t have to say Kill ’em!
But they didn’t. Guerra stumbled across one and killed him on the spot. Chavez came up dry, neither seeing nor hearing anything. He found the stream and one bucket, three hundred meters from the objective. If they’d been right there when the shooting started, that meant they had four or five minutes head start in the country they’d grown up in. Both soldiers spent half an hour rushing and stopping, looking and listening, but two men were away clean.
When they got back to the objective they learned that this was the good news. One of their men was dead. Rocha, one of their riflemen, had taken a burst full in the chest from one of the guards and died instantly. The squad was very quiet.
Jackson was also in an angry mood. The aggressor force had beaten him. Ranger’s fighters hadn’t gotten it right. His tactical scheme had come apart when one of the squadrons turned the wrong way, and what should have been a masterful trap had turned into a clear avenue for the “Russians” to blaze in and get close enough to the carrier to launch missiles. That was embarrassing, if not completely unexpected. New ideas took time to work out, and maybe he had to rethink some of his arrangements. Just because it had all worked on the computer simulation didn’t mean that the plan was perfect, Jackson reminded himself. He continued to stare at the radar screen, trying to remember the patterns and how they had moved. While he watched, a single blip reappeared on the screen, heading southwest toward the carrier. He wondered who that was as the Hawkeye prepared for landing.
The E-2C made a perfect trap, catching the number-three wire and rolling forward to clear the deck for the next aircraft. Robby dismounted in time to see the next one land. It was an Intruder, the same one he’d noticed before boarding the Hawk-eye a few hours earlier. The squadron commander’s personal bird, he noticed. The one that had flown toward the beach. But that wasn’t important. Commander Jackson immediately headed for the CAG’s office to start the debrief.
Commander Jensen also taxied clear of the landing area. The Intruder’s wings folded up to minimize its deck space as it took its parking place forward. By the time he and his B/N dismounted, his plane captain was there waiting for them. He’d already pulled the videotape from its compartment in the nose instrument bay. This he handed to the skipper – squadron commanders are given that title – before leading them into the island and safety. The “tech-rep” was there to meet them, and Jensen handed the tape over to him.
“Four-oh, the man said,” the pilot reported. Jensen just kept walking.
The “tech-rep” carried the tape cassette to his cabin, where he put it in a metal container with a lock. He sealed it further with multicolored tape and affixed a Top Secret label to both sides. It was then placed in yet another shipping box, which the man carried to a compartment on the O-3 level. There was a COD flight scheduled out in thirty minutes. The box would go on it in a courier’s pocket and get flown to Panama, where an Agency field officer would take custody of it and fly to Andrews Air Force Base for final delivery to Langley.
19. Fallout
INTELLIGENCE SERVICES PRIDE themselves on getting information from Point A to Points B, C, D, and so forth with great speed. In the case of highly sensitive information, or data that can be gathered only by covert means, they are highly effective. But for data that is open for all the world to see, they generally fall well short of the commercial news media, hence the fascination of the American intelligence community – and probably many others – with Ted Turner’s Cable News Network.
As a result, Ryan was not overly surprised to see that his first notice of the explosion south of Medellín was captioned as having been copied from CNN and other news services. It was breakfast time in Mons. His quarters were in the American VIP section of the NATO complex and had access to CNN’s satellite service. He switched the set on halfway through his first cup of coffee to see a TV shot obviously taken from a helicopter with a low-light rig. The caption underneath said, MEDELLÍN, COLOMBIA.
“Lord,” Jack breathed, setting his cup down. The chopper didn’t get very close, probably worried about being shot at by the people milling about on the ground, but it didn’t need to be all that clear. What had been a massive house was now a disordered array of rubble set next to a hole in the ground. The ground signature was unmistakable. Ryan had said car bomb to himself even before the voice-over of the reporter gave the same evaluation. That meant the Agency wasn’t involved, Jack was sure. Car bombs were not the American way. Americans believed in single aimed bullets. Precision firepower was an American invention.
His feelings changed on reflection, however. First, the Agency had to have the Cartel leadership under some sort of surveillance by now, and surveillance was something that CIA was exceedingly good at. Second, if a surveillance operation was underway, he ought to have heard of the explosion through Agency channels, not as a copy of a news report. Something did not compute.