Certain Jeopardy (5 page)

Shaq grunted. “You let a goat steal your rucksack. You’re stuck with the name.”

“That wasn’t my fault. How could I know the local wildlife would go after my chow?”

“Don’t feel bad, Billy,” Pete said, “I’m sure the other goats call
him
‘Caraway.’” The others laughed.

Enough. “Stow it.” Moyer snapped the words. “Do we or do we not have anything I need to know about?” No one answered. “Then I take it we’re good to go.”

“OORAH.”

“Good.”

Before Moyer could speak again the door opened and Col. MacGregor stepped in, followed by his master sergeant, Alan Kinkaid. Kinkaid carried several folders. Before the colonel took a second step, the men were on their feet, at attention.

“As you were, gentlemen.” He took Moyer’s spot at the front of the room. Moyer took a seat behind a desk. “We got some business that needs attending. In less than eight hours from now you will be on recon. We have intelligence with high confidence that al-Qaeda has set up, or is in the process of setting up, a new training facility. We have reasonable confidence that the training camp will be used to raise up terrorists for action in North America. In a nutshell, your mission is a low-vis recon to confirm or deny.”

Moyer said nothing. Training camps were nothing new, neither were missions to observe them. What Moyer wanted to hear was the
where
. Although he would go without complaint, he fervently hoped Afghanistan was not in his immediate future. The last time he had been there, he’d ordered bombs to be dropped on his location. That left a bad taste in his mouth.

“You will ship out in pairs, fly on different airlines, depart at separate times, and meet up for the mission once on scene.” Colonel Mac paused. “I hear Venezuela is warmer than the mountains of Afghanistan.”

THE BODY CAME DOWN
the jungle river floating face up. Didn’t bodies normally float face down? She always thought they did. That’s what they showed on television. The body that had captured her attention was one of six. The other five had already passed her position on the shoreline, each headed for the lip of a massive waterfall fifty yards to her right.

Stacy closed her eyes, but it didn’t help. The scene pressed through her closed lids and exploded like a bomb on her brain. She had recognized each and every body. She had recently attended a barbecue with these men just a few weeks before to celebrate a safe homecoming from a distant land none of them would discuss. She had watched them down seasoned T-bone steaks, corn on the cob, and mountains of potato salad.

J.J. had been the first body down the river, his youthful, always-smiling face twisted into the anguish he had felt moments before he breathed his last. Rich and Pete, the one they called Junior, came next. Both bled from holes in their chests. Jose came next, his lifeless eyes gazing at a cloudless sky. His throat had been cut. Martin followed a few moments later, his head twisted awkwardly to one side. Stacy knew little of such things, but she recognized a broken neck when she saw one.

She tried to step back from the river’s edge, to ease back into the jungle behind her. Danger might wait there, but it couldn’t be worse than what she knew was coming down the river. Her feet wouldn’t move.

She lifted her eyes and saw others standing on the shore around her. There was the statuesque ebony-skinned woman watching her husband, Rich, approach the waterfall’s edge. A few yards from her stood a pregnant woman with three children at her side, each wailing at the loss they were forced to witness. The sight of people tortured by indescribable grief forced Stacy to avert her eyes upriver, and her knees buckled beneath her.

Her husband’s body moved along the surface of the water like a tree limb—a battered, bloodied tree limb.

“Eric!”

Tears flooded her eyes. She stepped into the water, first to her ankles, then to her knees. She fought the powerful tug of the river, felt the muddy bottom pull at her feet. “ERIC!”

He was dead. He must be dead. All the others were, but he twitched then turned his head. One eye was missing, as was much of his scalp on the right side. The sight froze her heart and set her soul ablaze.

“I’m … sorry.” His words were weak, and she heard his lungs rattle with each shallow breath. Love conquered her repulsion and she reached for him, taking hold of his arm. The effort moved her deeper into the river until it was several inches above her waist.

Stacy pulled with all her strength, but her husband’s body would not move. The current turned her in place as she fought to maintain her grip.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Eric’s voice sounded distant and tinny, as if coming from an old radio.

“Don’t talk, sweetheart. I’ll get you to shore—”

“No. You must let go of me.”

“Never! I won’t do it.”

“Tell Rob I’m sorry I yelled at him. Tell him I love him. Tell Gina she’s my heart and soul—”

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.” She pulled again and again. Water splashed in her face and hair. Her feet dug into the mud as the water rose.

“Let go, baby. You must let me go.”

“No.”

The current increased its hold on Eric’s body, unwilling to let go of its prize.

“I shouldn’t have put you through all this. It wasn’t fair to you. Not fair to the kids.”

“I won’t let go of you. I’ll never let go. I promise. Not now; not ever.”

“Please … sweetheart. It’s all right. It’s—” A death rattle drowned out the last word. Eric’s remaining eye went blank.

“No … no … I won’t let go.”

The river ripped her husband from her hands, and she watched his corpse float toward the waterfall’s edge.

“ERIC!”

His body disappeared.

Stacy couldn’t cry, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. She had no sense of time. Her only awareness was that some invisible scorching tool had just hollowed all the life out of her.

She lowered her head.

She raised her feet.

The view of the river gave way to the cobalt sky. At the edge of her vision she could see the jungle scrolling by as she let the river carry her downstream.

A distant roar grew louder with each moment that lumbered past. The waterfall was near. She had no idea how far the drop would be, but it didn’t matter.

Mist filled the air. The roar grew in a steep crescendo.

A minute later, the river disappeared and Stacy began to fall.

* * *

STACY JERKED, GASPING FO
R
air. She sat on the sofa, pressed into the corner where arm met back and seat cushion. On the television a CNN reporter spoke of the damage caused by a freak tornado in Alabama.

Scooting to the edge of the sofa, Stacy raised a tremulous hand and drew it across her eyes. Tear-moistened mascara left dark marks on her skin. Her heart stuttered and her stomach roiled. She forced herself to inhale deeply and slowly.

“A dream.” She whispered the words. “Just a stupid dream. A nightmare.” She knew the cause of it.

At the bottom right of the CNN broadcast, in the news crawl, was the time: 2:12 p.m. Four hours after Eric called to say that he wouldn’t be home for supper. That was his code word. In their home the evening meal was called
dinner
. She received the news the way a Spec Ops wife should, calmly and with understanding. She expressed her love and said, “Come home soon.” He promised he would. She hung up the phone and, grateful that the kids were at school, went to the bedroom and cried for a half hour.

She wept for shorter periods of time every hour after.

Weeping was hard work. Draining. So were fear and worry. She’d settled on the sofa to watch the news, hoping to hear something that would reveal the possible destination of her husband. Sometime after, she fell asleep.

This wasn’t the first no-notice call she’d received from Eric, nor was it the first time she’d dissolved into tears after hearing the news, but it was the first time she’d experienced a daytime nightmare. Why?

Perhaps the answer lay in the fact that he always had time to stop by the house for a few minutes before leaving for the base. It wasn’t much time but enough for a physical touch and a proper parting. This time he was too far from the base. He never said where he’d been.

Stacy rose from the sofa, retrieved a dust rag, and began expunging dust from the furniture. She always dusted when Eric left suddenly.

ALL JOKING AND VERBAL
jabbing ended the moment Col. Mac stepped through the door and announced their mission. Moyer’s team was comprised of competitive, opinionated, confident men. They trusted each other implicitly but could, and often did, annoy one another to a point just shy of a fist fight. Once on task, that all changed. The occasional quips and jokes remained, but the business at hand took priority. The nature of their work required a level of trust few men experienced. No matter how irritating the guy next to you might be, he could be trusted to lay down his life in exchange for yours. They never talked about it; they all knew it.

“Do we know how large our AO is?” Moyer asked.

“Ground intel has identified two primary areas of al-Qaeda operations.” Mac pointed at a map digitally projected on a screen. “Here in the industrial area of Caracas are several concrete tilt-up complexes, two that are of special interest to us. Intel has identified these buildings and observed unusual activity associated with them.”

“Did they recon the buildings?” Shaq asked.

Mac shook his head. “The spooks have their hands full with other matters in Venezuela. As you know, Chavez hasn’t been playing nice of late. The intel has limited eyes in the area. They do have one resource who says he has seen Middle Easterners going in and out of the buildings. That’s why you’re going in. We want a deeper understanding of what they’re doing.”

“Can we trust the spy guys?” Caraway was looking at Moyer when he asked the question. “Their reputation has been pretty spotty of late—nonexistent WMDs and all that.”

“The colonel said the intel came with high confidence.” Moyer didn’t take his eyes from the map. He was memorizing everything.

Mac added, “We have corroborating intel from DIA and NSA sources.”

“You said there were two locations of concern,” Moyer said. “What’s the other, Colonel?”

He grinned. “You gotta love this, gentlemen.” He motioned to Kinkaid and the digital image changed from a satellite photo of industrial Caracas to a mansion in the jungle. The satellite photo was detailed enough for Moyer to make out individual tiles on the roof and several cars on the ground.

“Is that Chavez’s crib?” J.J. spoke for the first time.

“He should be so lucky. This little ten-thousand-square-foot shack belongs to Andriano Santi, Chavez’s foreign minister and attack dog.”

“Must be the best-paid civil servant in the world,” Shaq said.

“The mansion and grounds have been in the family for generations, built with and maintained by oil money and, we believe, drug money. It’s located in the Cordillera de la Costa Mountains.”

Moyer studied the photo. “The man has his own jungle retreat. I assume it has heavy security.”

The image on the screen cycled to a close-up of one quadrant of the property. Mac said, “Satellite surveillance shows a fence perimeter. Our image techs think the fence is a fairly recent addition, replacing an older chain-link one. We have photos from one and two years ago, and they differ from this one taken four days ago.”

“So the foreign minister has become more security conscious.” Shaq ran a hand over his bald pate.

“Maybe he has a new art collection,” Caraway ventured.

“We can only hope. Native sources tell our people that helo traffic to the compound has increased over the last few weeks. We also have a witness who can put him in the area of the industrial buildings. Another thing: The Caracas papers carried a story about a boy killed outside his father’s restaurant. Intel had a man and woman tail Santi to the restaurant, where they saw him in the company of several men with Middle Eastern features. To preserve their cover, they left before the meeting broke up. The kid, just a teenager, bought it that night. Three shots: head, torso, gut.”

“An assassination.” Moyer looked at the file folder he had been given and found a copy of the article. His limited Spanish was insufficient to read the document, but it contained a photo of a dark-haired youth that made him think of his own son. Regret over last night’s argument percolated once more to the top.

Mac’s voice cut through his thoughts. “It has all the hallmarks of a hit. Santi has the kind of influence to make that happen.”

“Nice guy,” J.J. said.

“It’s common knowledge that there’s no love lost between Chavez and the U.S. Compared to Santi’s hatred of Americans, our strained relationship with Chavez is a love fest. We don’t know why, but the guy has a real big ax to grind against anything with
USA
stamped on it. Chavez doesn’t need help keeping his hatred simmering, but Santi certainly stirs his pot.”

Moyer decided it was time to get to the bottom line. “What are our orders, sir?”

“You and your team are to recon and gather on-the-ground intel on the industrial park where we suspect al-Qaeda activity and training. Second, you are to conduct surveillance on Santi’s compound and the industrial buildings in question. If the field agents and desk jockeys are right, then Santi has been snuggling up to al-Qaeda, and that isn’t good. An AQ recruitment-and-training facility in Venezuela is not something we want. You will fly to Caracas from Atlanta, arriving on different flights. You will travel under new U.S. passports, which will be given to you following the meeting. You will be traveling as businessmen: two as oil execs, two as real estate investors, and two as World Health Organization scientists.”

“Scientists?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, Caraway. You’re a real estate developer. Tickets and flight times are in your folders. You will also receive business cards, laptops, and other material to support the cover.”

“Weapons and equipment, sir?”

“Once you select the equipment for your mission, it will be flown to a private airfield in a neighboring country and trucked in by operatives and cached for later retrieval. You will set up in different hotels.” Mac looked at his men. “Do us proud, gentlemen. Kinkaid will bring you up to speed on the essentials.”

Over the next hour, Kinkaid gave Moyer and his men a crash course on Venezuela and its capital city, Caracas. Every detail was accompanied by a PowerPoint slide. Moyer made a mental laundry list:

“It’s not news,” Kinkaid said, “that relations between our country and Venezuela are strained. A military coup in April 2002 briefly ousted Chavez from office. He blamed the coup attempt on the Bush administration. Visit the Venezuelan embassy’s Web page and you will see a list of accusations made against the U.S. It’s easy to dismiss the country; after all, it doesn’t look like much on the map, and Chavez’s public persona is almost comical. However, he and his country sit on what some claim is the second largest oil reserve in the world. The Orinoco Belt has an estimated 236 billion barrels of extra-heavy crude. Only Saudi Arabia has more. Bottom line, when your government sits on that kind of reserve, well, other countries take notice. And so do terrorist groups.”

Kinkaid placed his hands behind his back and paced the front of the room like a university professor. “The Venezuelan leadership is convinced that our government has been trying to destabilize the region. They don’t trust us much, especially our military.”

Moyer didn’t ask whether Chavez’s paranoia had some basis in fact.

Kinkaid stopped his pacing. “Chavez is convinced that the

U.S. plans to invade Venezuela. He learned of a military simulation called Operation Balboa. The simulation does involve Venezuela, but it was nothing more than a simulation carried out by Spain. All that to say that you’re heading into unfriendly territory. Your presence and activity will be denied if push comes to shove. Is that clear?”

The team acknowledged the fact.

“You will be issued credit cards in keeping with your passports and IDs. Use the credit cards. Don’t carry a lot of cash. Thieves work the airport. A number of tourists have been abducted and forced to withdraw cash at ATMs. Several have been murdered. Even taxi drivers with what looks like proper paperwork can’t be trusted, so watch your backs, gentlemen.”

Kinkaid looked around the room. “Questions?”

When there were none, Mac nodded. “That’s it for now, men. You go with my prayers.” He paused. “I wish I were going with you.”

“We’ll bring you a pretty senorita, Colonel.” He chuckled. “Don’t bother, my wife has cut down on the amount of dating I do.”