For Edwin Davidoff, it was harder. It wasn’t just a criminal case, was it? The same electric chair that would deliver those two pirates to hell would deliver him to a suite in the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Since he had read Advise and Consent as a freshman in high school, Davidoff had lusted for a place in the United States Senate. And he’d worked very hard to earn it: top of his class at Duke Law School, long hours for which he was grossly underpaid by the Department of Justice, speaking engagements all over the state that had nearly wrecked his family life. He had sacrificed his own life on the altar of justice… and ambition, he admitted to himself. And now when it was all within his grasp, when he could rightfully take the lives of two criminals who had forfeited their rights to them… this could blow it all, couldn’t it? If he wimped out on the prosecution, plea-bargaining down to a trifling twenty years, all his work, all his speeches about Justice would be forgotten. Just like that.
On the other hand, what if he disregarded what Stuart had just told him and took the case to trial – and risked being remembered as the man who lost the case entirely. He might blame the Coast Guardsmen for what they had done – but then he would be sacrificing their careers and possibly their freedom on what altar? Justice? Ambition? How about revenge? he asked himself. Whether he won or lost the Pirates Case, those men would suffer even though what they had done had also given the government its strongest blow yet against the Cartel.
Drugs. It all came down to that. Their capacity to corrupt was like nothing he’d ever known. Drugs corrupted people, clouded their thoughts at the individual level, and ultimately ended their lives. Drugs generated the kinds of money to corrupt those who didn’t partake. Drugs corrupted institutions at every level and in every way imaginable. Drugs corrupted whole governments. So what was the answer? Davidoff didn’t have that answer, though he knew that if he ever ran for that Senate seat he’d prance about in front of the TV cameras and announce that he did – or at least part of it, if only the people of Alabama would trust him to represent them…
Christ, he thought. So now what do I do?
Those two pirates deserve to die for what they have done. What about my duty to the victims? It wasn’t all a lie – in fact none of it was. Davidoff did believe in Justice, did believe that law was what men had built to protect themselves from the predators, did believe that his mission in life was to be an instrument of that justice. Why else had he worked so hard for so little? It wasn’t entirely ambition, after all, was it?
No.
One of the victims had been dirty, but what of the other three? What did the military call that? “Collateral damage.” That was the term when an act against an individual target incidentally destroyed the other things that happened to be close by. Collateral damage. It was one thing when the State did it in time of war. In this case it was simply murder.
No, it wasn’t simple murder, was it? Those bastards took their time. They enjoyed themselves. Is eight years of time enough to pay for them?
But what if you lose the case entirely? Even if you win, can you sacrifice those Coasties to get justice? Is that “collateral damage,” too?
There had to be a way out. There usually was, anyway, and he had a couple of days to figure that one out.
They’d slept well, and the thin mountain air didn’t affect them as badly as they’d expected. By sundown the squad was up and eager. Chavez drank his instant coffee as he went over the map, wondering which of the marked targets they’d stake out tonight. Throughout the day, squad members had kept a close eye on the road below, knowing more or less what they were looking for. A truck with containers of acid. Some cheap local labor would offload the jars and head into the hills, followed by people with backpacks of coca leaves and some other light equipment. Around sundown a truck stopped. Light failed before they could see all of what happened, and their low-light goggles had no telescopic features, but the truck moved off rather soon, and it was within three kilometers of HOTEL, one of the locations on the target list, four miles away.
Show time. Each man sprayed a goodly bit of insect repellent onto his hands, then rubbed it on face, neck, and ears. In addition to keeping the bugs off, it also softened the camouflage paint that went on next like some ghastly form of lipstick. The members of each pair assisted one another in putting it on. The darker shades went on forehead, nose, and cheekbones, while the lighter ones went to the normal shadow areas under the eyes and in the hollow of cheeks. It wasn’t war paint, as one might think from watching movie representations of soldiers. The purpose was invisibility, not intimidation. With the naturally bright spots dulled, and the normally dark ones brightened, their faces no longer looked like faces at all.
It was time to earn their pay for real. Approach routes and rally points were preselected and made known to every member of the squad. Questions were asked and answered, contingencies examined, alternate plans made, and Ramirez had them up and moving while there was still light on the eastern wall of the valley, heading downhill toward their objective.
17. Execution
THE STANDARD ARMY field order for a combat mission follows an acronym known as SMESSCS: Situation; Mission; Execution; Service and Support; Command and Signal.
Situation is the background information for the mission, what is going on that the soldiers need to know about.
Mission is a one-sentence description of the task at hand.
Execution is the methodology for how the mission is to be accomplished.
Service and Support covers the support functions that might aid the men in the performance of their job.
Command defines who gives the orders through every step of the chain, theoretically all the way back up to the Pentagon, and all the way down to the most junior member of the unit who in the final exigency would be commanding himself alone.
Signal is the general term for communications procedures to be followed.
The soldiers had already been briefed on the overall situation, which had hardly been necessary. Both that and their current mission had changed somewhat, but they already knew that, too. Captain Ramirez had briefed them on the execution of their current mission, also giving his men the other information they needed for this evening. There was no outside support; they were on their own. Ramirez was in tactical command, with subordinate leaders identified in case of his disablement, and he’d already issued radio codes. His last act before leading his men down from their perch was to radio his intentions to VARIABLE, whose location he didn’t know, but whose approval he receipted.
As always Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez had the point, now one hundred meters ahead of Julio Vega, again “walking slack” fifty meters ahead of the main body, whose men were spread out at ten-meter intervals for the approach. Going downhill made it tougher on the legs, but the men hardly noticed. They were too pumped up. Every few hundred meters Chavez angled for a clear spot from which they could look down at the objective – the place they were going to hit – and through his binoculars he could see the vague glow of gasoline lanterns. With the sun behind him he didn’t have to worry about a reflection off the glasses. The spot was right where the map said it was – he wondered how that information had been developed – and they were following exactly the procedure that he’d been briefed about. Somebody, he thought, had really done his homework on this job. They expected ten to fifteen people at HOTEL. He hoped they had that right, too.
The going wasn’t so bad. The cover was not as dense as it had been in the lowlands, and there were fewer bugs. Maybe, he thought, the air was too thin for them, too. There were birds calling to one another, the usual forest chatter to mask the sounds of his unit’s approach – but there was damned little of that. Chavez had heard one guy slip and fall a hundred meters back, but only a Ninja would have noticed. He was able to cover half the distance in under an hour, stopping at a preplanned rally point for the rest of the squad to catch up.
“So far, so good, jefe,” he told Ramirez. “I ain’t seen nothing, not even a llama,” he added to show that he was at ease. “Little over three thousand more meters to go.”