Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (49 page)

 
          
“Admiral
Hardcastle, can you tell us what happened tonight?” one reporter called out.
“We understand one of your pilots is dead—”

 
          
“No one is dead. ”

           
That short answer only intensified
the reporter’s efforts. “Who is that with you, Admiral? Is that a suspect?”

 
          
“Were
you drinking before shooting at that boat tonight, Admiral? Were you drunk?”

 
          
The
babble was shut off as they got into the sedan and closed and locked the doors,
but Hardcastle knew that the nightmare had just begun.

 
          
Zaza
Airfield,
Verrettes
,
Haiti

 
          
Two Weeks Later

 
          
The
room broke out into applause as young Carlos Canseco entered the main briefing
room.

 
          
Salazar
joined in as Canseco limped up to the stage, stood before him and saluted. Most
of Canseco’s handsome face had been badly burned in the attack and the fire,
and he had suffered more burns on his back and legs. Doctors in
Miami
had treated his burns and had even
performed skin grafts to repair some of the damage. Considering his condition,
he had been placed under light guard in the hospital, which allowed him to slip
out a third-story window and make his escape. He had stolen a boat and sailed
it to
Andros
Island
, where he arranged for a pick-up.

 
          
Salazar
returned the young man’s salute, then carefully wrapped his arms around him.
Actually, Salazar wished Canseco was still in American custody—he would not
betray the Cuchillos, and that way he would be a useful martyr to invoke.
Still, his escape was a morale booster for the Cuchillos.

 
          
“The
actions of Canseco deserve the highest praise. Attention to orders.” The
crewmen came to attention. “As of this day Private Canseco will be promoted to
the rank of lieutenant of aviation. His deeds made in the name of the Cuchillos
should inspire us all.”

 
          
Canseco
saluted again with a bandaged right hand, then limped off the stage.
 
         
“Thank
you for the honor you gave young Canseco, sir,”
Trujillo
told Salazar as they began their meeting.
“It means a lot to all your pilots, especially the young ones."

 
          
“He
showed guts,” Salazar said idly. “Still, what did he tell us? What did we learn
from this?”

 
          
“We
have plotted out the effective ranges and the response times of much of the
Border Security Force’s assets in southeastern
Florida
, sir. Their strength is formidable, they
have significant firepower and are able to use it.”

 
          
“Canseco
almost made it,” another senior pilot said. “He came very close ...”

 
          
“But
his boat was destroyed by a Sea Lion tilt-rotor aircraft,”
Trujillo
said. “He could have opened fire much
earlier. A slower vessel might not have gotten as far.”
Trujillo
turned to Salazar. “In my opinion, we
should stay away from south
Florida
as much as possible. The Border Security
Force has concentrated most of their efforts in this area. After this incident
it will be even greater.”

 
          
“But
most of the Cartel’s distribution network operates out of that region,” Salazar
said. “The Cartel will pay less for shipments directed anywhere else.”

 
          
“Perhaps
so, sir, but we run significant risk by operating in that area. The Cartel
should be advised of this. We should exploit new openings in
Mexico
and in the southwest
United States
as soon as possible before the Border
Security Force closes in on these areas as well.”

 
          
Valdivia
,
Columbia

 
          
Later That Day

 
          
“It
was a stupid plan, Salazar,” Gonzales Gachez was saying over the phone in his
office at his main production plant. He got to his feet, squeezing an
autographed baseball in one fist. “Why are you telling me this? What are you
saying?”

 
          
“I
am saying that I cannot risk my people trying to deliver your product into your
established drop points. If you want your shipments brought into
Florida
or the northern
Bahamas
area it will cost you extra—ten thousand
dollars a kilo. Half up front, half on delivery—”

 
          
“Ten
thousand? Are you insane? This is almost the full retail price of a kilo of
cocaine—”

 
          
“Then
the price goes up, senor,” Salazar said. “The Border Security Force is real,
Gachez. This is no paper tiger. It will cost you ten thousand dollars a kilo.
End of negotiations.” And the line went dead. Gachez slammed the phone down.
“Damn him, I should have him killed.” He turned to one of his lieutenants.
“Salazar wants ten thousand dollars a kilo to deliver product to
Florida
. He says the Hammerheads are so strong it
is too risky.”

 
          
“He
is trying to blackmail you, Senor Gachez,” his assistant said. “Don’t deal with
him. Let him come to us.”

 
          
“And
what do you suggest I do with two thousand kilos of cocaine in our warehouses?
Not to mention the rest of the Cartel. This threatens my position in the
Cartel, Juan. The Cartel might even negotiate with Salazar directly.”

 
          
“Sir,
you are the richest and most powerful of the
Medellin
families ...”

 
          
But
Gachez was obviously worried. Now Juan held out his hand. “Perhaps this will
solve your problem, sir.”

 
          
Gachez
put his autographed Yankees baseball back on its stand on his desk and took the
object from his assistant. It was a jar of clear liquid, of the consistency of
mineral oil or turpentine. Gachez opened the jar; it was odorless. “What is
it?”

 
          
“That
is a half a kilo of cocaine,” Juan said. “Dissolved in water with some
hydrochloric acid to reduce crystallization and precipitation. It is colorless,
odorless and tasteless. It cannot be detected by X-rays or visual inspection.
To bring it back you simply put it into a pot and boil out the water—and you
are left with pure cocaine. Or it can be sold and marketed as a liquid.” He
took the jar back from Gachez, tightly resealed the jar, then walked over to an
aquarium in a corner of the office. He lifted the aquarium’s lid and dropped
the jar in . . . and it promptly vanished. There was no trace of it except for
the metal lid. “We can pack it in shipments of tropical fish, or seafood, or
tanks of gasoline—we can even make blocks of ice out of it.

 
          
“This
is even better.” Juan held up a grocery bag and extracted several grapefruit.
“Each one of these has been injected with liquid cocaine,” he said. “They carry
a quarter-kilo’s worth. A standard fifty-pound bag of fruit holds about twenty
kilos. Even if it is cut open by inspectors they will find nothing—they look
only for powdered cocaine hidden in the fruit itself. Unless they test the
juice itself, it is undetectable.”

 
          
“Ingenious,”
Gachez mumbled. “So you are saying we should forego air and sea deliveries? Ship
product in fruit and tropical fish containers?”

 
          
“Containerized
shipment is a safe alternative, sir. Thousands of sealed containers pass
through American ports every day. Customs inspects only a fraction of them. If
we mix up our shipments between carriers and ports and don’t try to flood the
market we can maintain deliveries without having to submit to Salazar’s
blackmail.”

 
          
Gachez
nodded. “It is no substitute for air-and-sea deliveries, but as you say, it is
an alternative for the time being. And it should take some of the air out of
this pirate Salazar’s sails.”

 
          
At
least so he hoped.

 
          
“Forget
Salazar and his pirates, eh? I like it, Juan. See to the new process
immediately.”

 
          
Miami
,
Florida

 
          
Three Days Later

 
          
Maxwell
Van Nuys rose to his feet at the head table in the banquet room of the
Gusman
Heritage
Center
in downtown
Miami
, chock full of major players. He was about
to introduce the evening’s guest speaker.

 
          
Even
though Van Nuys was now the ex-officio chairman of the Miami Chamber of Commerce
he remained a popular and admired figure in south
Florida
’s affairs.

 
          
“While
the coffee and brandy is being served, it gives me great pleasure to introduce
our honored guest for the annual Chamber of Commerce awards banquet. She has
become one of this country’s most dynamic leaders. With her colleagues she has
taken on the most difficult and important tasks this nation could
assign—securing the borders from those who would impose their death crops on
the people of our country, our state and our proud city. She has been doing
this job with intelligence, determination and professionalism for years.

 
          
“She
is a former Army security officer, former commander of the United States
Customs Service Air Branch drug-interdiction unit at Homestead Air Force Base, a
former
United States
pistol champion as well as a commercial and
military pilot.
And
she is presently
an air-operations commander of the new United States Border Security Force,
also known as the Hammerheads. This organization, in just a few months’ time,
has captured over two hundred aircraft, dozens of large vessels and nearly a
half-billion dollars worth of illegal narcotics. I give you Sandra M. Geffar of
the Hammerheads.”

 
          
Sandra
Geffar, not liking it but doing it as a duty, had become a different person in
public. However she felt inside, she could be, could seem, self-assured on the
outside.

 
          
“Thank
you very much, ladies and gentlemen ...” and graciously named all the important
ones. “I want to express my gratitude to the members of the Chamber of Commerce
for their support of the Border Security Force in recent months. I know it
hasn’t been easy, but with your support, the ominous predictions that tourism,
commerce, shipping and the lifestyles of south Florida somehow would all be
ruined by stricter border-security measures has not come true. We work as a
team, and as I applaud your efforts I also ask for your continued support in
the future.”

 
          
It
was a smart move. The Chamber of Commerce had at first denounced the
Hammerheads and called for their headquarters to be moved out of south
Florida
, but her public relations and apparent
friendship with Van Nuys had paid off.