“Anything else I need to know about the house?” Clark asked.
“Pretty massive construction, as you can see. I’d worry about that. This is earthquake country, you know. Personally, I’d prefer something lighter, wood-post and beam, but they like concrete construction to stop bullets and mortar rounds, I suppose.”
“Better and better,” Clark observed. He reached into his backpack. First he removed the heavy tripod, setting it up quickly and expertly on solid ground. Then came the GLD, which he attached and sighted in. Finally, he removed a Varo Noctron-V night-sighting device. The GLD had the same capability, of course, but once it was set up he didn’t want to fool with it. The Noctron had only five-power magnification – Clark preferred the binocular lens arrangement – but was small, light, and handy. It also amplified ambient light about fifty thousand times. This technology had come a long way since his time in Southeast Asia, but it still struck him as a black art. He remembered being out in the boonies with nothing better than a Mark-1 eyeball. Larson would handle the radio traffic, and had his unit all set up. Then there was nothing left to do but wait. Larson produced some junk food and both men settled down.
“Well, now you know what ‘Great Feet’ means,” Clark chuckled an hour later. The cryppies should have known. He handed the Noctron over.
“Gawd! Only difference between a man and a boy…”
It was a Ford three-quarter-ton pickup with optional four-wheel drive. Or at least that was how it had left the factory. Since then it had visited a custom-car shop where four-foot-diameter tires had been attached. It wasn’t quite grotesque enough to be called “Big Foot,” after the monster trucks so popular at auto shows, but it had the same effect. It was also quite practical, and that was the really strange part. The road up to the casa did need some serious help, but this truck didn’t notice – though the chieftain’s security pukes did, struggling to keep up with their boss’s new and wonderful toy.
“I bet the mileage sucks,” Larson observed as it came through the gate. He handed the night-sight back.
“He can afford it.” Clark watched it maneuver around the house. It was too much to hope for, but it happened. The dick-head parked the truck right next to the house, right next to the windows to the conference room. Perhaps he didn’t want to take his eyes off his new toy.
Two men alighted from the vehicle. They were greeted at the veranda – Clark couldn’t remember the Spanish name for that – by their host with handshakes and hugs while armed men stood about as nervously as the President’s Secret Service detail. He could see them relax when their charges went inside, spreading out, mixing with their counterparts – after all, the Cartel was one big, happy family, wasn’t it?
For now, anyway, Clark told himself. He shook his head in amazement at the placement of the truck.
“Here comes the last one.” Larson pointed to headlights struggling up the gravel road.
This car was a Mercedes, a stretch job, doubtless armored like a tank – Just like the ambassador’s car, Clark thought. How poetic. This VIP was also met with pomp and circumstance. There were now at least fifty guards visible. The wall perimeter was fully manned, with other teams constantly patrolling the grounds. The odd thing, he thought, was that there were no guards outside the wall. There had to be a few, but he couldn’t spot them. It didn’t matter. Lights went on in the room behind the truck. That did matter.
“Looks like you guessed right, boy.”
“That’s what they pay me for,” Larson pointed out. “How close do you think that truck -”
Clark had already checked, keying the laser in on both the house and the truck. “Three meters from the wall. Close enough.”
Commander Jensen finished tanking his aircraft, disconnecting from the K.A-6 as soon as his fuel gauges pegged. He recovered the refueling probe and maneuvered downward to allow the tanker to clear the area. The mission profile could hardly have been easier. He eased the stick to the right, taking a heading of one-one-five and leveling off at thirty thousand feet. His IFF transponder was switched off at the moment, and he was able to relax and enjoy the ride, something he almost always did. The pilot’s seat in the Intruder is set rather high for good visibility during a bomb run – it did make you feel a little exposed when you were being shot at, he remembered. Jensen had done a few missions before the end of the Vietnam War, and he could vividly recall the 100mm flak over Haiphong, like black cotton balls with evil red hearts. But not tonight. The seat placement now was like a throne in the sky. The stars were bright. The waning moon would soon rise. And all was right with the world. Added to that was his mission. It didn’t get any better than this. With only starlight to see by they could pick out the coast from over two hundred miles away. The Intruder was cruising along at just under five hundred knots. Jensen brought the stick to the right as soon as he was beyond the radar coverage from the E-2C, taking a more southerly heading toward Ecuador. On crossing the coast he turned left to trace along the spine of the Andes. At this point he flipped on his IFF transponder. Neither Ecuador nor Colombia had an air-defense radar network. It was an extravagance that neither country needed. As a result, the only radars that were now showing up on the Intruder’s ESM monitors were the usual air-traffic-control type. They were quite modern. A little-known paradox of radar technology was that these new, modern radars didn’t really detect aircraft at all. Instead they detected radar transponders. Every commercial aircraft in the world carried a small “black box” – as aircraft electronic equipment is invariably known – that noted receipt of a radar signal and replied with its own signal, giving aircraft identification and other relevant information which was then “painted” on the control scopes at the radar station – most often an airport down here – for the controllers to use. It was cheaper and more reliable than the older radars that did “skin-paints,” detecting the aircraft merely as nameless blips whose identity, course, and speed then had to be established by the chronically overworked people on the ground. It was an odd footnote in the history of technology that the new scheme was a step both forward and backward.
The Intruder soon entered the air-control zone belonging to El Dorado International Airport outside Bogotá. A radar controller there called the Intruder as soon as its alphanumeric code appeared on his scope.
“Roger, El Dorado,” Commander Jensen replied at once. “This is Four-Three Kilo. We are Inter-America Cargo Flight Six out of Quito, bound for LAX. Altitude three-zero-zero, course three-five-zero, speed four-nine-five. Over.”
The controller verified, the track with his radar data and replied in English, which is the language of international air travel. “Four-Three Kilo, roger, copy. Be advised no traffic in your area. Weather CAVU. Maintain course and altitude. Over.”
“Roger, thank you, and good night, sir.” Jensen killed the radio and spoke over his intercom to his bombardier-navigator. “That was easy enough, wasn’t it? Let’s get to work.”
In the right seat, set slightly below and behind the pilot’s, the naval flight officer got on his own radio after he activated the TRAM pod that hung on the Intruder’s center-line hardpoint.
At T minus fifteen minutes, Larson lifted his cellular phone and dialed the proper number. “Señor Wagner, por favor.”
“Momento,” the voice replied. Larson wondered who it was.
“Wagner,” another voice replied a moment later. “Who is this?”
Larson took the cellophane from off a pack of cigarettes and crumpled it over the receiver while he spoke garbled fragments of words, then finally: “I can’t hear you, Carlos. I will call back in a few minutes.” Larson pressed the kill button on the phone. This location was at the far edge of the cellular system anyway.
“Nice touch,” Clark said approvingly. “Wagner?”
“His dad was a sergeant in the Allgemeine-SS – worked at Sobibor – came over in forty-six, married a local girl and went into the smuggling business, died before anyone caught up with him. Breeding tells,” Larson said. “Carlos is a real prick, likes his women with bruises on them. His colleagues aren’t all that wild about him, but he’s good at what he does.”
“Christmas,” Mr. Clark observed. The radio made the next sound, five minutes later.
“Bravo Whiskey, this is Zulu X-Ray, over.”
“Zulu X-Ray, this is Bravo Whiskey. I read you five-by-five. Over,” Larson answered at once. His radio was the sort used by forward air controllers, encrypted UHF.
“Status report, over.”
“We are in place. Mission is go. Say again, mission is go.”