Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (30 page)

Gulfton, Texas

23 January

As a community, Gulfton, in Southwest Houston, had seen better days.

In the 1960s and ‘70s, booming oil money threw cash in the pockets of thousands of upwardly mobile young men and women from all over the country who were willing to come and work in Gulfton. Money also talked to immigrants from the Middle East, the Pacific Rim, and South America in need of service jobs. Land was abundant, dollars flowed like oil. Builders prospered.

Apartment complexes with
nouveau riche
names like “Chateau Carmel” and “Napoleon Square” were rushed to completion. But developers put little thought into the foundation of Gulfton and planning for the future. The principal goal—perhaps the only goal—was to build quickly and inexpensively to meet the overnight demand and capitalize on deregulation benefits in the financial markets.

However, the boom began to bust in the 1980s. With jobs evaporating and higher-paid oil employees moving out, rents plummeted. The value of many of the buildings, not yet fully amortized, dropped rapidly and went into foreclosure. Foreclosure was followed by bankruptcy. Bankruptcy led to abandonment. And yet, there was still the working class and the underclass ready to occupy Gulfton.

Gulfton became the most densely populated section of Houston with a core demographic of more than 70 percent Hispanic, including families from Mexico and Central America.

Crime rates soared. Much of Gulfton degraded into a lockdown and gun-loaded municipality. Houstonians who skirted the area on their commutes dubbed the densely populated 3.2-square-mile area as Gulfton Ghetto.

It became the perfect breeding ground for a gang known as Mara Salvatrucha—MS-13.

Manuel Estavan lived in one of the dilapidated apartment buildings. Most of the letters had fallen off the marquee, but faded paint managed to bring out the once dignified name, “The Standish Arms.”

This was Estavan’s home, his compound, his bordello, his bunker, and his bank. He lived here with his army of bullies and killers and their rotating supply of whores. Today there were fourteen. There could be as many as thirty-six. But it was a Saturday morning, and even MS-13 members had to see the kids they had fathered from the women they abandoned.

Estavan had transformed the eight-apartment structure into a fortress with no regard for the owner, who was actually too fearful to collect rent. He was the boss of the building, the dictator of the block, and the emperor of the neighborhood. He controlled an ever-expanding fiefdom where no one dared to cross him.

The gang leader profited from drugs, prostitution, gun trafficking, and, most recently, a unique taxi service to various points North, East, and West. He was a killer without remorse and so far directly untouchable by the FBI and the ATF. But he did have an Achilles’ heel known throughout his ranks, right down to Ricardo Perez. The man was deathly afraid of earthquakes.

That’s what Scott Roarke learned from his conversations with Perez in Montana. It’s what Jonas Jackson Johnson counted on this morning as he walked the floor into the White House Situation Room.

Moscow

The same time

The snow had been falling for ten hours, blanketing the city streets, making life move at a slower pace. Few people were outside. Those who dared, tried to get inside as quickly as possible.

But doctors had their responsibilities. Among them, Max Yurovich. He trudged through the snow outside the Burdenko Central Military Hospital. He braced himself against the cold and covered his face with a black and white hand-knitted scarf.

Yurovich passed a maintenance crew that was furiously trying to keep the 18-square-inch slabs of cement clear. They took no interest in him at all. But their efforts neatly removed his footprints.

The doctor clutched an old hard leather briefcase. He made sure not to swing it too much. His job was to fit in, not provide anyone with a reason to look twice or remember anything distinctive about him.

Yurovich paused outside the impressive yellow structure, embellished with white columns that began on the exterior of the second floor and extended three stories. He removed his wet glasses, brushed the snow off his topcoat, and blew his nose. All normal acts; all reasonable in one of the coldest days so far of the already brutal Moscow winter.

Inside, when asked for identification, Dr. Max Yurovich provided credentials from Sechenov Medical Academy.

The guard was on his last twenty-five minutes of work. He gave the ID a tired, superficial glance. It looked perfectly authentic and certainly not new. He waved the visiting doctor through without ever looking at his face.

Dr. Yurovich unbuttoned his coat, revealing a navy blue blazer and a boring, nondescript tie. He stood against a wall of the main hall and removed a folder from his briefcase, which he read as he continued his walk. This simple distraction made him fit in even more. He proceeded down the hall, across the complex, beyond a bank of operating rooms, and into an adjoining building. Dr. Yurovich walked slowly, occasionally getting his bearings as anyone so preoccupied would.

In the second building, a guard returning from the bathroom routinely asked if he needed help. Dr. Yurovich responded in perfect Russian that he was fine, but late. Very few words. Not too little to seem impolite. Not too much to create a real memory. Precisely the way he intended.

The good doctor was, in fact, Vinnie D’Angelo, who served the CIA, not the Russian medical community.

Outside San Antonio, Texas

The same time

Major A.J. Giese beat his wake-up alarm on his iPhone by precisely sixty seconds. He stretched his toes in bed and took in the morning air waiting for this phone alert. He didn’t need to check the time. His body was his real clock, just as his experience navigated him successfully over enemy territory.

There’d be no enemy fire on today’s mission, but according to specific orders from the Pentagon, it was no less important to the United States of America.

Forty-nine minutes later Giese was in his flight suit and the first in the briefing room at Randolph AFB, 14.8 miles east outside of San Antonio, Texas. Giese would be first on the flightline, too.

The major was solid beyond solid. At exactly 185 pounds, never wavering more than 10 ounces due to diet and discipline, he fit like a glove in the cockpit of his F-15C.

He’d flown single and two-seater versions of this versatile aircraft for years. Over Libya. Over Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, and a dozen completely classified global hotspots. For today’s flight he would have to avoid obstacles he never encountered over deserts, mountains, and jungles: high rise buildings, apartments, and other aircraft.

Giese had a real target, but his plane, and his squadron of three other F-15s, all tasked out of the 53rd Wing at Eglin Air Force Base, Florida, would fly in tight formation without their normal armaments. Nonetheless, they would pack a wallop.

For this mission, Major A.J. Giese reported to one man. That one man reported to the commander in chief. It was that direct and that important.

That’s what Giese told his men in their predawn briefing. “Short and sweet,” he said. “We each take one pass. Just like we rehearsed.”

The rehearsals occurred only one day earlier, with ten practice runs over the New Mexico desert.

“We’ve all done this before. A real crowd pleaser. But today, turn it up to eleven,” he added. The reference to the classic movie
Spinal Tap
got a laugh from a few of the other men in the room. It was lost on the youngest.

“One more thing. For God’s sake, leave everything standing.”

Vice President Jonas Jackson Johnson personally selected Giese from a very short list. He’d been one of the military’s go-to lead pilots on other vital “exercises.” As far as J3 was concerned, there was no one better. That was good enough for the president of the United States.

Estavan’s building

Gulfton, Texas

Manuel Estavan took care of the accounting on Saturday mornings. He maintained that with practice, he’d be able to figure it out himself. Not quite yet. He paid a cousin, Jorge Rojas, well for the privilege of doing the books and keeping quiet.

They worked on the dining room table, which showed evidence of Estavan’s machete blade coming down on fingers and other body parts.

“That’s it. Eighty-three thousand and change,” Jorge Rojas said after counting. “Not a bad week. Not the best week. But not bad. Why won’t you let me put it in stocks. I’m seeing some real movement in Coke.”

“I move my own coke,” Estavan laughed. “And I like my neighborhood market better.”

Moscow

Vinnie D’Angelo wasn’t certain what he would learn, if anything. First he had to talk his way into the hospital without launching an international incident. Then he needed to convince the old Russian to talk, hoping that if he said anything, it would be the truth. Once finished he had to get out alive.

Actual infiltration was less of a problem than dealing with what he might find. Arkady Gomenko had no intelligence on Dubroff’s health. He could be on a steady recovery from his gunshot wound at the Gum Department Store in Red Square or in a coma. Since Gomenko’s information on the old Cold War Red Banner operation was limited, talking with Dubroff became essential. Yet, D’Angelo recognized that what Dubroff knew was probably important enough for the FSB to stop him from traveling to the West.

Who else is out there?
D’Angelo asked Dubroff subconsciously as he walked down the light green halls of Burdenko Central Military Hospital.
They stopped you because it’s all still too hot. Right?

The Andropov Institute, the cloak-and-dagger Russian academy which trained spies to pass as Americans and work their way up into positions of influence in the United States, had nearly succeeded at the highest level. That alone made D’Angelo’s operation critical. Somewhere, part of Red Banner was still alive.

Over Texas

Giese’s F-15C was the perfect plane for the mission.

The F-15 is an all-weather, extremely maneuverable fighter. It is 63.8 feet long, with a 42.8-foot wing span. The plane stands 18.5 feet tall. It can fly at 1,875 mph—Mach 2.5 plus.

The jet is powered by two Pratt & Whitney F100 axial flow turbofan engines with side-by-side afterburners mounted on the fuselage.

Giese and his F-15 squadron, now in their cockpits, went through the final preflight checks. They sat elevated in their forward fuselages, looking through one-piece windscreens and large canopies that offered exceptional visibility.

Visibility was important today.

The planes’ extremely agile handling came from low wing loading or weight-to-wing ratio, with a high thrust-to-weight ratio. What that means to pilots in combat or people watching an F-15 at an airshow is that it can turn tightly without losing airspeed, and it can climb virtually straight up thirty thousand feet in sixty seconds with afterburners blazing.

Maneuverability and afterburners were also essential to today’s undertaking. And while many of Giese’s accomplishments couldn’t be talked about, this one would certainly be heard.

Estavan’s building

“No taxes, all profit,” Estavan said. “For me and you, dear cousin.” He peeled off five thousand dollars, handed it to Rojas and put the rest in an open safe that was bolted to the floor.

Rojas stuffed the cash in his briefcase without counting. All would be there or it wouldn’t. Either case, he knew not to question Estavan’s math. Not today. Not ever. Even though he was the MS-13 gang leader’s second cousin, there had been a first, also an accountant, who was no longer in the family, or elsewhere for that matter.

Russia

Vinnie D’Angelo rounded another corner with the self-assurance of a man familiar with the building. He was. He’d memorized the layout of the complex from plans he downloaded. A brief but strategic surreptitious visit the previous night gave him added confidence. D’Angelo could speak rather well-rehearsed generic medical terms and phrases in Russian. He was that prepared. But most of what he needed to do would be in whispers with Aleksandr Dubroff, with a gun to the old man’s head if necessary.

A decision point lay ahead. Take the elevator or the stairs from the main floor to the third. He opted for the tired doctor way, not what a fit CIA agent would do. He pressed the lift button and waited.

The door opened. D’Angelo smiled at a young orderly who didn’t worry him. He moved on to a grizzled Russian army major who did. Neither took much notice of him, and in keeping with elevator etiquette it stayed that way.

Both Russians were coming up from the basement. D’Angelo turned to see what buttons had been pushed. Both floors 2 and 3. He hoped the officer was getting out at 2. If so, he would go to 3, his ultimate destination. If the major didn’t move on 2, and that was the orderly’s floor, he would get out as well and bide his time before returning to the elevator. He needed to be that cautious.

The elevator was slow, clunky, and in need of repair. When it stopped, D’Angelo fumbled with his papers and stood out of the way. It bought him the moment he needed to see who would depart. Without any grace or civility, the colonel brushed past him. D’Angelo didn’t call any attention to the move but the orderly did.

“
Byeaz oom yets
,
” he proclaimed. D’Angelo knew the phrase and laughed a little. The orderly had just called the colonel an idiot. He responded with a perfect accent, “
Da
,” for yes.

The door closed and elevator rules resumed. There was no further conversation. The door opened, protocol allowed for the doctor to exit first. D’Angelo did so, turned right, and headed to his destination at the end of the hall.

Over Texas

Once aloft, Giese led the squadron almost due east for their 190-mile, thirty-minute flight. They climbed over Bastrop, Texas, crossed between Giddings and La Grange, and reached a peak altitude of 14,480. Roughly five minutes to the target, Giese led the planes in a sharp descent, burning off height and airspeed at an amazing rate.