Treaty Violation (13 page)

The minutes ticked by slowly as the air conditioner hummed, the closest thing to silence on the operations floor.

“This is Magic Zero One.” The voice on the radio said. “We have the aircraft on radar…The
A
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37
s have been vectored in by the Colombian controllers.”

Price quieted the cheering airmen and picked up the radio. “Magic Zero One, good copy. Standing by.”

“This is Magic Zero One…We got word the
A
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37
s have been cleared to fire…I say again, the
A
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37
s are cleared to fire.”

All eyes fixed on the computer monitor. The snail-paced action was the most exciting video game in town. Price stood aside and waited patiently. He’d done all he could—vector in Colombian fighters for the kill. Unfortunately, the staff weenies would judge his work a success or a failure depending on whether the Colombians destroyed the aircraft, which was beyond his control. A part of him suddenly felt comfortable chasing drug dealers in Panama, but his days were numbered.

“This is Magic Zero One…The
A
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37
s have fired on the aircraft…A direct hit…The aircraft is dropping in a trail of smoke…I say again, a direct hit…This guy is history!”

Price smiled as the others cheered and slapped high fives.

“Good work, Captain Price,” Dupree said and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good work, boys!” he added and pumped his fist. “You did us all proud tonight!”

Nicholas paced in Dirk’s office with a
satellite phone. The coffee and morning sunlight couldn’t deceive his biochemistry much longer.
With no real expectation of success, bordering on delirious masochism, he dialed the number again. The feminine digital voice asked him to leave a message. He recognized he wasn’t thinking rationally when he theorized the computer might respond with a different message if he raised his voice. Finally, he acquiesced that Elliot and Sammy were dead and the shipment was lost, along with the five million dollars.

Nicholas pounded the table. Perhaps Elliot and Sammy were with Cesar’s men and had turned off their phone to hide from the police. He called Cesar.

“Cesar,” Nicholas said. Eddy told him to hold. Nicholas resorted to drumming his fingers on the desk. “Have you heard anything about last night?”

Cesar had heard from his men.

“What the hell’s going on?”

He manipulated Cesar’s response to salvage a sliver of hope, but no luck. From what Cesar understood, a Colombian
A
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37
had shot down the plane.

“I see,” he said and hung up.

Dirk entered the office. “Still working, I see”

Nicholas shrugged and rubbed his coarse stubble.

Dirk set some folders on his desk and sat in his chair. He cleared his throat and leaned back. “The military confirmed the
A
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37
s destroyed the plane. I doubt the pilots survived.” He didn’t look angry, or pleased. “According to the report, the plane returned to Colombia before making the drop. What the hell happened?”

Nicholas lifted his hands in defeat. From what he understood, a pilot’s chances of survival were the same whether or not he dropped the drugs. The secret to success was avoiding the Colombian
A
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37
s on the return trip.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I grilled them until they repeated the plan forward and backward.” He stood erect, refusing to let the situation defeat him. “I read every report I could find about drug operations. The plan was perfect.”

“Except for the pilots you chose,” Dirk said.

Nicholas’ instinct was to defend himself, but Dirk had a point.

“They probably freaked out when the Navy
P
-
3
started tracking
them,” Dirk said. “We can’t worry about that now. My concern is the military was tipped off.”

Nicholas couldn’t believe his ears.

“They had exact details about the shipment,” Dirk said. “When I asked Colonel Dupree about the source, he told me it was Manuel Espinosa.”

Nicholas groaned and nodded knowingly. “He was in Cesar’s penthouse last night when we finalized the deal.”

“You met him?” Dirk asked. “Does he know who you are?”

Nicholas shook his head. “We didn’t use names, but if he’s working for the military, it’s only a matter of time before they figure it we’re working with Cesar.”

Dirk paused, deep in thought. “Listen,” he said with a coach’s enthusiasm, “run the next shipment, but be more careful. I recommend you feed Manuel some bogus information. We can’t afford another mistake, literally, and we can’t tell Colonel Dupree to stop his operation without exposing ours. The referendum is next week. No money, no military bases.”

Nicholas nodded. “Did Tyler have any problems like this?”

Dirk shook his head. “He ran them the same way you did, which suggests Manuel started providing information to the military only recently.” He gestured outside. “I scheduled a tour for you at the operations center at Howard Air Force Base. Learn how they do business so we can avoid this problem the next time.”

Nicholas nodded, embarrassed. Ten years ago, the operations center would have been his first stop, not a pile of intelligence reports. Too
many years at headquarters had bred bad habits. The truth was he’d covered ninety-eight percent of the details; but as K always had told him, the last two percent always bite you in the ass.

“How did this operation originate?” Nicholas asked.

Dirk appeared to be collating memories. “After the negotiations failed, we started developing new plans to maintain military bases in Panama post-
1999
. The problem was we weren’t sure which politicians supported us.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone was playing the

‘I hate gringos more than you do’ game.”

“That’s when Tyler recruited Minister Hernandez,” Nicholas said.

Dirk nodded. “We knew he wanted us to stay, and he helped us understand the political calculus.” Chuckling, he added, “The problem was most of the politicians were neither for nor against our staying. They wanted money, something our negotiators refused to offer. Hernandez helped us understand that President Mendoza would approve the deal if we helped him win reelection. After that, K approved it and we developed the operation.”

“K?” Nicholas said.

Dirk grimaced as if caught in a lie. “K flew here to ask Tyler to run the operation. He even offered him a promotion back in Washington for him and Helena to settle down for a few years.”

Nicholas gestured for Dirk to continue.

“K and I spoke with President Mendoza, and I spoke with Cesar, but Tyler gets a lot of the credit. We practiced good old-fashioned diplomacy: the art of letting others have our way. We made them offers they couldn’t refuse.”

Nicholas was surprised. Tyler had never mentioned K’s visit or the promotion offer. “Seems like Tyler ran a flawless operation.”

Dirk’s hesitant nod suggested tepid enthusiasm. “He ran two solid shipments, but he was losing control. He and Helena were having problems. I offered him time off to help her—everyone knew she was using cocaine—but he was obsessed with blaming Cesar for her problems. Her father, Minister Hernandez, was no better. He spoiled her.” He paused and stared out the window. “Tyler let his personal life interfere with his professional life.
Anyway,” he turned to Nicholas, “getting back to our original discussion, at the operations center you’ll meet the watch officer who was on duty last night.”

Nicholas nodded smartly and stood.

“Any progress with the journalist?” Dirk asked.

“We’re probably going out this week,” he said.

Dirk leaned back and folded his arms.

“I’ll make plans to see her tonight.”

“Not looking like that,” Dirk said. “Get some sleep.”

In his office, Minister Hernandez nestled his
nose in Sheena’s cleavage and sniffed. “That perfume is superb,” he said and traced a figure eight with his nose.

“Minister Hernandez,” Sheena said and leaned back, “thank you for the perfume, but I have an exam tonight. I can’t—”

A knock on the door interrupted them.

“Just a minute,” Hernandez called politely. He stood, tugged his lapels, walked to the door, and opened it to find a camouflage-uniformed soldier standing at attention. “Colonel Dupree,” he said. The colonel’s promptness was becoming a nuisance! “Glad you could make it,” he added and gestured to Sheena. “My assistant, Sheena, was just helping me with some administrative matters. We’ll finish our work later,” he said to her, careful not to caress her ass. He hated assuming the puritan ways of the Americans, but they were prone to pass moral judgment.

Dupree gawked at Sheena’s swaying ass as she strutted out of the room.

Hernandez cleared this throat and continued. “I wanted to discuss our operation.” The word operation rolled off his tongue effortlessly, just as he’d practiced. He couldn’t believe Dupree had had the audacity to wear a camouflage uniform to his office, but it looked good. He envisioned himself in camouflage—standing tall in combat boots, sleeves rolled up tight around his biceps, his cap brim casting a domineering shadow over his piercing stare. He would command respect, no doubt.
A wry grin sprouted from his countenance as he folded his hands and cupped his knee. “Our first operation was a success,” he said.

“We destroyed the son of a bitch,” Dupree said.

Dupree apparently didn’t share his enthusiasm. Then again, soldiers were trained to do their jobs well, not to concern themselves with the strategic vision of the civilian leadership.

“The information Manuel passed was right on,” Dupree continued. “The Colombians were slow to react, but luck was on our side.”

Hernandez cocked his head, surprised. “Luck?”

Dupree continued: “The pilot returned to Colombia before dropping the cocaine, so we got the airplane and the drugs.”

Hernandez shrugged. “Why is that luck?”

“We have to prevent the drugs from leaving Colombia,” Dupree said, undaunted. “My mission is to interdict Source Zone drugs, which means stopping the cocaine before it departs Colombia.”

Hernandez nodded and imagined Dupree as his subordinate, briefing him, the covert action mastermind, about the battle results. His heart raced as disturbing questions gnawed at him.
How would the
CIA
contact me again? Would they, or had Tyler’s death ended the relationship? Did Dupree know?
Like a good spy, as Tyler had trained him, he would wait patiently, but the thought of his name in a
CIA
database frightened him. Would some historian disclose his misdeed and humiliate the family name?

“Once a plane with cocaine departs Colombia,” Dupree said, “it falls under the control of a different unit in Key West. We break the mission down into areas of responsibility.” He apologized for his digression with a swipe of the hand, as if swatting at a fly. “The point is if my unit can’t stop the drugs inside Colombia and the unit in Key West does its job, then Washington might question the need for maintaining military bases in Panama. You see?”

Hernandez nodded. “We were lucky because you got the plane and the drugs…in the Source Zone?” The Americans had an acronym or code word for everything. That’s why they were so effective on the battlefield: no one knew what they were doing or saying half of the time. Great leaders guide their subordinates
with an invisible hand and make them believe they are responsible for the victory. “How can we remedy this situation?”

“We need better information from Manuel,” Dupree said. “More lead time—where and when the drugs arrive in northern Colombia. We also need the name of the guy Cesar is working with now. Manuel thinks he’s American. In Colombia, Cesar’s men move quickly: twenty, thirty minutes and the planes are loaded, refueled, and gone. They fly the cocaine from southern Colombia to the Guajira Peninsula via Venezuelan airspace. We have to intercept that plane,” he said and planted his index finger on the desk, “not the one carrying the drugs north to the Caribbean drop site.”

Hernandez didn’t appreciate Dupree’s tone, but he loved American military logic. Soldiers could tell their leaders how to achieve any objective with beautiful simplicity, ignoring all political or economic consequences.

“Nip it in the bud,” he said with a grin.

Dupree nodded, stone faced. “Nip it in the Source Zone.”

One more try. “Or convince President Mendoza to approve the continuation of your military unit in Panama regardless of what happens,” Hernandez said slyly.

Dupree finally smiled. “I appreciate your support, Minister Hernandez,” he said, “but let’s focus on results.”

The nerve
, Hernandez thought. “Results, of course.”