“I remember him. He was a good one with, uh… Sergeant Bascomb?”
“Yes, Major?” A head appeared at the office door.
“Staff Sergeant Chavez – who was he with?”
“Bravo Company, sir. Lieutenant Jackson’s platoon… second squad, I think. Yeah, Corporal Ozkanian took it over. Chavez transferred out to Fort Benning, he’s a basic-training instructor now,” Sergeant Bascomb remembered.
“You sure about that?” the new S-3 asked.
“Yes, sir. The paperwork got a little ruffled. He’s one of the guys who had to check out in a hurry. Remember, Major?”
“Oh, yeah. That was a cluster-fuck, wasn’t it?”
“Roge-o, Major,” the NCO agreed.
“What the hell was he doing running an FTX in the Canal Zone?” the operations officer wondered.
“Lieutenant Jackson might know, sir,” Bascomb offered.
“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” the S-l told the new S-3.
“Any good?”
“For a new kid fresh from the Hudson, yeah, he’s doing just fine. Good family. Preacher’s kid, got a brother flies fighter planes for the Navy – squadron commander, I think. Bumped into him at Monterey awhile back. Anyway, Tim’s got a good platoon sergeant to teach him the ropes.”
“Well, that was one pretty good sergeant, that Chavez kid. I’m not used to having people sneak up on me!” The S-3 fingered the scab on his face. “Damn if he didn’t, though.”
“We got a bunch of good ones, Ed. You’re gonna like it here. How ’bout lunch?”
“Sounds good to me. When do we start PT in the morning?”
“Zero-six-fifteen. The boss likes to run.”
The new S-3 grunted on his way out the door. Welcome back to the real Army.
“Looks like our friends down there are a little pissed,” Admiral Cutter observed. He held a telex form that had emanated from the CAPER side of the overall operation. “Who was it came up with the idea of tapping into their communications?”
“Mr. Clark,” the DDO replied.
“The same one who -”
“The same.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Ex-Navy SEAL, served nineteen months in Southeast Asia in one of those special operations groups that never officially existed. Got shot up a few times,” Ritter explained. “Left the service as a chief bosun’s mate, age twenty-eight. He was one of the best they ever had. He’s the guy who went in and saved Dutch Maxwell’s boy.”
Cutter’s eyes went active at that. “I knew Dutch Maxwell, spent some time on his staff when I was a j.g. So, he’s the guy who saved Sonny’s ass? I never did hear the whole story on that.”
“Admiral Maxwell made him a chief on the spot. That’s when he was COMAIRPAC. Anyway, he left the service and got married, went into the commercial diving business – the demolitions side; he’s an expert with explosives, too. But his wife got killed in a car accident down in Mississippi. That’s when things started going bad for him. Met a new girl, but she was kidnapped and murdered by a local drug ring – seems she was a mule for them before they met. Our former SEAL decided to go big-game hunting on his own hook. Did pretty well, but the police got a line on him. Anyway, Admiral Maxwell was OP-03 by then. He caught a rumble, too. He knew James Greer from the old days, and one thing led to another. We decided that Mr. Clark had some talents we needed. So the Agency helped stage his ‘death’ in a boating accident. We changed his name – new identity, the whole thing, and now he works for us.”
“How -”
“It’s not hard. His service records are just gone. Same thing we did with the SHOWBOAT people. His fingerprints in the FBI file were changed – that was back when Hoover still ran things and, well, there were ways. He died and got himself reborn as John Clark.”
“What’s he done since?” Cutter asked, enjoying the conspiratorial aspects of this.
“Mainly he’s an instructor down at The Farm. Every so often we have a special job that requires his special talents,” Ritter explained. “He’s the guy who went on the beach to get Gerasimov’s wife and daughter, for example.”
“Oh. And this all started because of a drug thing?”
“That’s right. He has a special, dark place in his heart for druggies. Hates the bastards. It’s about the only thing he’s not professional about.”
“Not pro -”
“I don’t mean it that way. He’ll enjoy doing this job. It won’t affect how he does it, but he will enjoy it. I don’t want you to misunderstand me. Clark is a very capable field officer. He’s got great instincts, and he’s got brains. He knows how to plan it, and he knows how to run it.”
“So what’s his plan?”
“You’ll love it.” Ritter opened his portfolio and started taking papers out. Most of them, Cutter saw, were “overhead imagery” – satellite photographs.
“Lieutenant Jackson?”
“Good morning, sir,” Tim said to the new battalion operations officer after cracking off a book-perfect salute. The S-3 was walking the battalion area, getting himself introduced.
“I’ve heard some pretty good things about you.” That was always something that a new second lieutenant wanted to hear. “And I met one of your squad leaders.”
“Which one, sir?”
“Chavez, I think.”
“Oh, you just in from Fort Benning, Major?”
“No, I was an instructor at the Jungle Warfare School, down in Panama.”
“What was Chavez doing down there?” Lieutenant Jackson wondered.
“Killing me,” the major replied with a grin. “All your people that good?”
“He was my best squad leader. That’s funny, they were supposed to send him off to be a drill sergeant.”
“That’s the Army for you. I’m going out with Bravo Company tomorrow night for the exercise down at Hunter-Liggett. Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Glad to have you along, sir,” Tim Jackson told the Major. It wasn’t strictly true, of course. He was still learning how to be a leader of men, and oversight made him uncomfortable, though he knew that it was something he’d have to learn to live with. He was also puzzled by the news on Chavez, and made a mental note to have Sergeant Mitchell check that out. After all, Ding was still one of “his” men.
“Clark.” That was how he answered the phone. And this one came in on his “business” line.
“It’s a Go. Be here at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Right.” Clark replaced the phone.
“When?” Sandy asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“How long?”
“A couple of weeks. Not as long as a month.” Probably, he didn’t add.
“Is it -”
“Dangerous?” John Clark smiled at his wife. “Honey, if I do my job right, no, it’s not dangerous.”
“Why is it,” Sandra Burns Clark wondered, “that I’m the one with gray hair?”
“That’s because I can’t go into the hair parlor and have it fixed. You can.”
“It’s about the drug people, isn’t it?”
“You know I can’t talk about that. It would just get you worried anyway, and there’s no real reason to worry,” he lied to his wife. Clark did a lot of that. She knew it, of course, and for the most part she wanted to be lied to. But not this time.
Clark returned his attention to the television. Inwardly he smiled. He hadn’t gone after druggies for a long, long time, and he’d never tried to go this far up the ladder – back then he hadn’t known how, hadn’t had the right information. Now he had everything he needed for the job. Including presidential authorization. There were advantages to working for the Agency.
Cortez surveyed the airfield – what was left of it – with a mixture of satisfaction and anger. Neither the police nor the army had come to visit yet, though eventually they would. Whoever had been here, he saw, had done a thorough, professional job.
So what am I supposed to think? he asked himself. Did the Americans send some of their Green Berets in? This was the last of five airstrips that he’d examined today, moved about by a helicopter. Though not a forensic detective by training, he had been thoroughly schooled in booby traps and knew exactly what to look for. Exactly what he would have done.
The two guards who’d been here, as at the other sites, were simply gone. That surely meant that they were dead, of course, but the only real knowledge he had was that they were gone. Perhaps he was supposed to think that they had set the explosives, but they were simple peasants in the pay of the Cartel, untrained ruffians who probably hadn’t even patrolled around the area to make certain that…
“Follow me.” He left the helicopter with one of his assistants in trail. This one was a former police officer who did have some rudimentary intelligence; at least he knew how to follow simple orders.
If I wanted to keep watch of a place like this… I’d think about cover, and I’d think about the wind, and I’d think about a quick escape…