Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (32 page)

 
          
“For
God’s sake.” GefiFar sighed, touched the screen. “Three-One authenticates
one-niner-niner-five. Get with it, guys—you were briefed this morning.”

 
          
The
pause was a bit shorter this time: “Good authentication, Three-One. My
mistake.” He still didn’t sound too sure but was willing to trust anyone who
gave him the Air Branch commander’s coded reply. “Negative traffic at this
time. Will advise. Over.”

 
          
“Roger.
Three-One out.” GefiFar then checked in with Diamond. Everything seemed to be
working well.

 
          
“Anything
we’ve overlooked?” Hardcastle asked as he and Geffar settled in front of their
electronic “eyes.”

 
          
“I
don’t think so. We could alw ays use more choppers out here but we’re
committing all of the Miami Air Branch's Black Hawks on this one operation.
We’re maxed out.” She took a sip of coffee. “Everything’s in place. Now we sit
and wait.”

 
 
          
Valdivia
,
Colombia

 
          
The Next Morning

 
          
Salazar’s
arrival in
Valdivia
the previous evening created a stir
anything but pleasing to Gachez and the other Cartel representatives. Instead
of the usual flight of three or four small- to medium-sized cargo planes that
usually touched down on Gachez’s private runway, only one arrived this time—but
it was by far the largest aircraft that had ever landed in Valdivia.

 
          
It
was an Antonov-12 cargo plane, the largest Soviet-made turboprop aircraft
available for export to other countries. It had been repainted in dark
camouflage green with a small Cuban flag on its vertical stabilizer. The huge
cargo plane made a picture-perfect touchdown on the
Valdivia
runway, stopped short of midfield and
taxied into a large parking area at the edge of the secluded airfield.

 
          
Gachez
watched in silence as Salazar and his aide Hermosa exited the plane. Salazar,
wearing his typical riding outfit, all but swaggered over to where Gachez and
his bodyguard were standing and waved the Cartel chief a casual salute with a
leather riding crop.

 
          
“What’s
this, Salazar? What in hell is
that?”

 
          
“That,
senor, is your salvation.” Salazar motioned toward it just as a group of his
soldiers deplaned carrying dark green camouflage netting and erector poles.
They began stringing the netting over and across the plane. “My pride and joy
and the solution to your problems. A recent acquisition from my former
colleagues in the People’s Republic of
Cuba
. We will deliver as much product as you
like on board and deliver it anywhere within fifteen hundred kilometers.” “That
monstrosity can be detected on radar hundreds of kilometers away,” Gachez said.
“It’s an easy target—”

 
          
“It
is also the only way you will get any product delivered in the near future. The
American Coast Guard has established a picket across the
Straits of Florida
and the western
Bahamas
—”

 
          
“That’s
why you make the drop in Cuban waters,” Gachez said. “We enjoy protection in
Cuban waters—”

 
          
“But
your product will go nowhere,” Salazar said. “They can concentrate firepower in
one area, possibly two or three different areas. The best chance we have to
beat their cordon is to make several drops in numerous locations at the same
time, and the only aircraft that can haul the quantities you need and make the
trip is
this
one.” Gachez was still
fuming—Salazar seemed out of control. Out of
his
control, anyway ... A car drove up to take Gachez and the
others to the administration center, but it was clear that the drug kingpin
wasn’t ready to leave. “What do you mean, several drops? You don’t make the
plans here, Salazar. / do.”

 
          
“But
it is
my
men that fly the planes,”
Salazar said. “It is
my
men who will
suffer if they are caught. I bring you the best way to do the job, Senor
Gachez. If you do not want my help, I will take my soldiers and my plane and
leave.”

 
          
It
was true, Gachez thought grimly. Salazar clearly was tired of playing messenger
boy and was trying to take control. But at least for the moment he felt he
still had the upper hand. “All right, tell me your grand idea.”

 
          
“Very
simple, senor,” Salazar said, and motioned to Hermosa, who took out a chart
from a briefcase and spread it on the hood of the car, then shined a flashlight
on it. “Instead of one drop at the usual point in the Archipelago de Sabana, we
stage several drops.” He indicated the marked points on the map. “First, we
make the usual drops along the
Camaguey
and the Sabana, as planned. This may draw off
any Coast Guard patrols waiting for us along the north coast of
Cuba
. I then take the shipment toward Cay Sal
Bank. We set up three drop points there. After that, drops along
Andros
Island
,
Ragged
Island
Range
, Mayaguana Passage,
Great
Inagua
Island
and Silver Bank Passage. When the shipment
is depleted I recover in Verrettes.”

 
          
“Ten
drops?” Gachez said. “All in
one
night?”

 
          
“The
Coast Guard will be confused,” Salazar said, waving a hand at Hermosa to take
the chart away. “Even if they have the ability to catch one or two of your men,
the rest will slip away. Instead of the measly twenty- or fifty-kilo containers
we normally carry on the smaller planes, you divide your shipment into ten
loads and divide each load into one-hundred-kilo parcels with flotation and
recovery gear—”

 
          
“One
hundred kilos!”

 
          
“Your
men should be able to handle that size container even in a small racer,”
Salazar said. “In a larger vessel, a freighter, it will be a simple matter. Our
plane will not circle any area to make drops. We make one run in the designated
area and leave.

 
          
Gachez’s
anger was slowly running out. The idea had merit. “I will need to contact my
men and position them for the drops. It may take several days.”

 
          
Salazar
shrugged. “Take your time. The longer you wait, the more likely that the
Americans will relax their pickets.” He laced his fingers behind his head and
put his feet up on Gachez’s desk. “I would also investigate your organization
for an intelligence leak or informant, senor. The Americans have obviously
received information that a drop was imminent.”

 
          
“My
organization!” Gachez told the
infuriating ex-Cuban officer. “If there is a leak, colonel, it is in
your
organization.”

 
          
“My
men are totally loyal to me,” Salazar said. “They are the best pilots in the
world and proud Cuban soldiers. They would never betray their loyalty to me or
their country.”

           
“I have heard how you enforce your
loyalty,” Gachez said. “A mock trial, a knife in the back by so-called outraged
patriots. Yours is a gang of terrorists, senor, and you prey on your own just
as you do on others. But that is of nc concern to me as long as our contracts
are followed and security is maintained. Look elsewhere, however, for security
leaks. It may be coincidence that the Coast Guard has a patrol in the
Caribbean
at this particular time. In any case, no
one knows where the drops will be made at the time of takeoff except me. I
alert the entire network on the day of the drop but I advise no one that a drop
will be made at their location until
minutes
before the drop is made.”

 
          
“You
can still have a serious breach—”

 
          
“Perhaps
so, colonel,” Gachez interrupted. “Yet / did not devise a complicated plan for
a massive twenty-thousand-kilo delivery
—you
did. I never draw charts or carry maps
—you
do. Tell me—how long ago was this mission of yours planned, and how closely
does that coincide with the arrival of the American patrols?”

 
          
Salazar’s
smile faded. There was really no way to put the blame on either side without
finding the informant himself, of course. Gachez’s words, however, made sense.
But a spy in the Cuchillos? Impossible .. .

 
          
“The
mission must be cancelled,” Field Captain Enrique Hermosa decided. “It is our
only option.”

 
          
Salazar
shook his head as he ran a short, thin throwing knife across an oiled
gray-green whetstone. Hermosa stared at his superior, then once again went over
to the chart. “Our latest reconnaissance flight shows the Coast Guard cutter
between the eastern edge of Cay Sal Bank and Mangrove Cay on
Andros
island. The cutter carries an aerostat
radar balloon that has a radar range of nearly two-hundred kilometers ...”

 
          
“I
heard you, captain,” Salazar said, wiping the blade clean and replacing it in
its sheath in his right riding boot. They were meeting with the Antonov-12
cargo plane’s crew of three pilots, flight engineer, senior loadmaster, two
assistant loadmasters, two armed soldiers and gunner for the plane’s
23-millimeter anti-aircraft gun mounted in the tail blister. The crew was
sipping tequila and whiskey provided by Gachez as they examined the proposed
route.

 
          
“I
also heard you report the transmissions we were able to intercept between this
vessel and an aircraft,” Salazar continued, “which you presume to be a Customs
Service or Coast Guard tracking plane also operating in the vicinity.” Hermosa
nodded. “You have surmised therefore that this plane is working in conjunction
with the cutter.”

 
          
Hermosa
was about to speak but Salazar raised a hand. “Hermosa, if the U.S. Customs
Service and Coast Guard both are operating in this area they must have received
intelligence about our operation. It is also strange that our agent in
Florida
City
chooses this particular time to go
incommunicado on precisely the day I need to know the aircraft status at
Homestead Air Force Base.”

 
          
“Our
agent went to ground the day the American Vice President came to
Miami
, sir. There were Secret Service agents at
every toll booth from
Fort Lauderdale
to
Homestead
. His forged green card would not have held
up to close scrutiny by federal authorities.” Salazar shook his head. “The
Americans still haven’t forgotten the downing of their patrol aircraft and
Customs assault team. If they’ve received any word on our activities they will
be out in force. This delivery is worth one hundred and twenty million dollars
to us. I want a way to make sure it gets through.”

 
          
“We
can’t insure something like that,” the Antonov-12 pilot, Major Jose Trujillo
said, “especially with a plane like the Antonov-12—it's too large and too
cumbersome to fly at low altitudes and try to sneak under radar—”

 
          
“Not
that it will do us any good,” his flight engineer added. “Not with those
aerostat units that can track us every kilometer we fly all across the route,
no matter what altitude.”

 
          
Trujillo
downed a shot of tequila and chased it with
cold beer. “We fly the mission, stay out of American airspace and hope they
don’t shoot us down. What we need is air cover of our own ...”