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Jorge Dominguez walked carefully through the heavily forested hills above the harbor. The trail he had set up was a compromise between something he could remember and follow in most daylight conditions and one that his “associates” would be unlikely to stumble across or be able to follow to his storage place. The man knew what would happen then: they would kill him. In that case, the only question would be whether it would be a merciful bullet in the back of his head or a matter of him joining the ranks of the No Consagrado, the poor wretches crucified and left to die of thirst outside the main hacienda. He was sure it would be the latter—as an undercover agent of the US Drug Enforcement Agency, he would be considered among the most unholy by the Salinas leaders.
The trail led to a hidden cache of weapons, ammunition, MREs, satellite phones, and spare batteries. This store was his last line of defense if things went wrong. Hide out, call in the cavalry, survive. It was also a link to the real world. Once per week, if practicable, his orders were to call in and report his status. It was not the usual procedure for a UC, but the Salinas Cartel was new, deep, and dark, and his bosses needed as much current information as possible about them and their new stronghold on Barbello. In his earlier days, he would have been infuriated by this “management” level and its risks. Now Dominguez was nonchalant about the dangers, almost bordering on indifferent. He had been in the field too long and seen too many horrors in his UC assignments. So much so that this pack of animals’ depredations could not make much of an impression.
Dominguez should have rotated out of the field more than a year ago. Still, he had remarkable skills with language and was a genius as an engine mechanic—always a marketable skill to drug gangs in need of reliable transport. These factors meant he could always work his way into the targeted gang, and he was just too valuable to spare. Now, however, even his controls at the agency could see that he was pushing over the edge. Dominguez had the DEA equivalent of combat fatigue, and, like the military version, it could only lead to mistakes that endangered his life. Or worse. His supervisors had decided. Although he didn’t know it yet, Barbello would be Dominguez’s last field assignment, and it would end soon.
Dominguez stopped suddenly and turned. He could have sworn he heard something, a rustle of the grass. Although he was probably hearing things, he opted for safety. He turned right off the trail on the next viable path and picked up the pace. When he was sure he was out of sight of anyone who could follow, he broke into a trot, veered left into a cul-de-sac in the jungle, and concealed himself, looking and listening.
After about twenty minutes of sitting in silence, Dominguez shook his head. OK, I guess you’ve been paranoid enough this day. He stood up and started retracing his path to the trail. After a few minutes’ trek, he regained the main trail and turned to follow it to the end. After another ten minutes, he had reached the cache and was booting up one of the satellite phones. He made a satellite link, and after a brief delay, he had established a connection with his boss and executed the usual security kabuki.
“Dom! I’m relieved to hear your voice. How are things there?”
“Mostly same-old/same-old, but we had some excitement a few days ago when my masters went Barbary Pirates on one of their customers.”
“That was one thing I wanted to talk to you about. Tell me what you know.”
“Well, this offshore oil service boat pulled in, there was some shooting, a few bodies dropped, and a couple of fresh faces showed up on the crucifix field. My masters sent me on board to disable the main engines so that no one would get any ideas. That night, the local jefe announced that the boat owners had disrespected the Salinas’s holy order and been assessed for tribute. It serves the damn fools right, sailing into a bottle like this. You need me back on board to get eyes on the inside?”
“No. We can’t risk you right now. Dom, we’re pulling you off this one.”
“What? Do you know what it took me to get in here? What the hell, man?”
“I know, I know. The thing is, the Salinas cartel just poked the bear and is about to be crushed. When it’s done, we don’t expect to see anyone left alive on Barbello. So, you are coming off. You said you disabled the engines on that boat. Is that permanently disabled, or can you fix them?”
“I just took out the control cabling for the starters. I can have them up and running again in twenty minutes.”
“Good, good. We are sending in some sailors to take that boat out of the harbor, and they’ll need your help to get it running. They’ll also need the latest on forces and dispositions. Do you have a suitable spot picked out where you can hole up and observe?”
SEALs? Shit, what the hell is on that boat? “Naturally. When should I expect company?”
“About 02:00 tomorrow morning. They’ll be dropping in the drink and coming ashore on the island’s west side. I need you to set up a rendezvous point and safe approach to the harbor. Call me when you have that. You’ll be remaining with them once they arrive and giving them whatever help they need. Questions?”
“No,” Dominguez replied, his bitterness plain.
“Don’t take this wrong, Dom. This operation comes right from the top, and you’re a critical part. We need you to stay clear and stay safe from here on out. No contact or reconnoitering on your own, clear?”
“Got it.” Dominguez shook his head. What the hell was the matter with him? This was good news—he was to be pulled out of hell on earth, and he wasn’t leaving a job undone. “I’ll call you in two or three hours once I scout the west beach.”
“Roger that. Stay out of trouble until then.”
“Will do. Talk to you soon. Out.” He had just turned off the phone when he froze at the sound of a soft crack behind him. Someone had stepped on a fallen palm branch and snapped it. Pretending not to hear, he put the phone back into the storage bin, extracted a silenced Glock, quietly inserted a magazine, and chambered a round. Keeping the gun out of sight, he locked the container, then walked a short distance away from the sound’s direction and crouched where he could monitor the cache site unseen. After about five minutes, a figure emerged from the brush and walked over to the site, moving slowly with his head swiveling, looking for the owner. Satisfied, he kneeled to examine and try the lock.
Dominguez recognized the visitor. He was one of the adolescents recruited, or sometimes snatched, from the barrios of Honduras and Guatemala as small boys and brought up within the Salinas gang’s brutal faith. Basically, it was a twenty-first-century version of the Hitler Youth, only much worse. Those of average intelligence furnished the muscle and fodder for gang operations, while the smart ones were refined and groomed to enter the gang’s leadership. This was not one of the smart ones.
Moving quietly, Dominguez stole behind the youth undetected, bringing the gun up and sighting it on the back of his head. Do it! One less monster in the world. It’s not like you have a choice! His hands began shaking, and he realized he couldn’t just shoot the young man, not like this. He lowered the gun and said, “Hola, amigo. What are you doing here?” The youth startled and stood, drawing a large bowie knife from his belt. Dominguez fought the urge to laugh when the thought of “bringing a knife to a gunfight” flashed across his mind.
“I saw you! I heard you, traidor! Espía! I’ll see you dead today!”
“Alright, let’s pause and think a bit. I have a pistol; you have a knife. If I die today, you won’t live to see it.” He paused as he could see the youth’s jaw working, his eyes darting, looking for some advantage. “Come on. Put the knife down. I give you my word, short incarceration. Then I’ll let you go unharmed.” He pressed that point. “Come on, son. There is nothing here worth dying for.” The youth’s eyes widened, and a snarl curled his mouth. Oh, shit!
“I AM NOT YOUR SON!” He charged Dominguez and took two shots in the center of his chest before falling on his face well short of his quarry.
Dominguez stepped forward carefully, his gun sighted on the fallen young man while checking his pulse. Nothing. Dominguez sat down heavily and stared at the body for a full five minutes. It wasn’t the first time he had killed an opponent, but the futility of the youth’s attack troubled him more than any earlier time. Why? Why did you do that, kid? What did you think you would accomplish? He finally shook himself out of his stupor and reopened the storage case. He retrieved a couple of phones, batteries, water bottles, and a few magazines for the pistol and placed them in a shoulder bag. After locking up the case, he walked over, picked up the body, and slung it over his shoulder—he would drop it off in the jungle en route to the western beach. I’m sorry, kid, you got a shit deal and deserve a decent burial, but this thing is bigger than either of us. He moved off down a trail he had scouted leading west.
Two hours later, Dominguez reached the western side of the island and found a stretch of beach reasonably free of rocks suitable for the SEALs to come ashore. He scouted out a good hideout and made notes of the trail leading down so they could make their way back in darkness early the next morning. Once he had set everything up, he called in again on the satellite phone.
“Dom, good to hear from you. What have you got?”
“I have a nice, isolated beach, a solid trail leading east, and a suitable spot to lie up for the day tomorrow. I have the lat-long when you’re ready to copy.”
“Sweet. Send it, please.” After Dominguez had provided the coordinates, his boss continued. “OK, the master plan is still coalescing right now, but the basic gist is that you will help the SEALs get on board and then fix the engines.”
“Um, you know, as soon as we start an engine, they’ll be on us like flies on shit. It’ll be Little Bighorn II.”
“I’m told that will be taken care of. I’m sorry to be so cryptic, but you need to take it on faith that we will get you guys out of there.”
“OK. Still on for oh-two-hundred?”
“Yep. Just lie low until 01:45, then turn on your beacon. The visitors will have Blue Force Trackers and will contact you. Authentication combo is Stake-Tent.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“No. Stay safe, and I’ll see you when you get back. Out.”
“Roger that.” He switched off the phone. God willing.
Kauai cleared the harbor of Key West and passed the sea buoy about thirty minutes previously. Sam had called for a meeting of the dozen crew not on watch and the embarked army personnel on the open afterdeck at 19:00. He usually held meetings on the messdeck, where people could sit comfortably, but there were far too many attendees today.
Rumors were flying since they started heading southwest after clearing the sea buoy instead of the expected easterly course back to the homeport of Port Canaveral, Florida. Sam chafed under the need to keep their mission a secret and was eager to brief the crew on those aspects he could share. As the appointed hour approached, Drake gathered the crew into ranks and settled the army personnel to the side. When Sam stepped out onto the afterdeck with Ben a step behind, Drake shouted, “Attention on Deck!” The crew came to attention, and when Sam halted before them, Drake saluted and said, “Crew present or accounted for, sir.”
After he and Ben returned the salute, Sam said, “Thank you, Chief. Fall out and gather ‘round everybody!” Sam continued as the crew formed a semicircle in front of the officers. “I’m sure most of you have heard that we will take the scenic route back to Port Canaveral. I wanted to get you the good news that the Coast Guard is providing this Caribbean holiday completely free!” He waited for the laughing to subside and then continued. “More on that later. Right now, we have some important business to attend to. Seaman Juan Lopez, front and center!” Lopez stepped forward and came to attention. “Carry on, please. Everybody, I’m pleased to announce that we have a brand-new graduate of the Maritime Law Enforcement Specialist School in our midst. Congratulations, Seaman Lopez!” Sam led the crew in applause and held up his hand after a few seconds. “As the TV commercial says: But wait! There’s more! Normally, when someone goes to A-school from a patrol boat, they move on to another unit on graduation. We are lucky enough to get Lope back with us, but he seems to be out of uniform!” Sam smiled at Lopez’s concerned look and said, “Chief Drake, would you assist me, please?”
“With pleasure, Captain,” Drake said as Ben handed him and Sam each a third-class petty officer’s collar insignia.
After the two men had pinned them on Lopez’s collar, they stepped back, and Sam announced. “Crew of Kauai, I have the pleasure of presenting Maritime Law Enforcement Specialist Third Class Juan Lopez!” He stepped forward and shook Lopez’s hand as the crew cheered and pounded his back. After allowing a couple of minutes for congratulations, Sam raised his hand, and the crew went silent and stepped forward.
“OK, folks, that was the fun part. Now, I’m going to fill you in on what we’re going to be doing for the next few days. I know some of you wondered why our trip to AUTEC was cut short and what the hell a two-star admiral was doing riding with us to Key West. I’m sure you also recognized our old friend Dr. Simmons when he came aboard, and those of you who surmised that meant we are going into action are correct.” He paused for a few murmurs, then raised his hand again.
“We are heading down through the Yucatan Channel to an island off the coast of Honduras called Barbello. Now that place is the stronghold for a drug gang called the Salinas Cartel. They have seized an offshore supply vessel from another criminal organization and are holding it for ransom. I know your first reaction is the same as mine: ‘who cares?’ Unfortunately, that OSV is also carrying a weapon of mass destruction, and we cannot let that go. So, tomorrow night we’ll sneak in under battery power, hook up a towing hawser, and tow that boat out of there. Once we clear the harbor, we’ll either tow or escort the boat up to the deep water north of the island and scuttle her.” Once more, there were murmurs, and Sam paused briefly before raising his hand.
“Now, obviously, the Salinas gang might have some objections to our planned activities, but you’ll be happy to know that we have a team of Navy SEALs on their way down there right now. They will take the boat and enough pier space for us to do our job without raising the alarm. The tricky part will come on the way out, as the only usable channel comes within five hundred yards of a promontory the Salinas gang has fortified. If we’re lucky, we’ll slip past them in the dark. But even if we’re not lucky and they spot us, we have enough firepower between our twenty-five-millimeter and fifty-caliber and the SEAL’s weapons to muscle our way through. While I’m confident we’ll get through without casualties, we are shipping an army combat medical unit with us, just in case.” He looked over to the army personnel and said, “Everyone, this is Major Roberts, combat surgeon and specialists Langley and Rabin, who will live on our messdeck for the trip. Please do your best to welcome them aboard and help them as needed. Now, does anyone have questions?” There were more indistinct murmurs, but no one stepped up.
“OK, thank you all. If I were a gambler, Petty Officer Lopez, I’d bet you wish you were back in Charleston sucking down beers at your graduation party right now!”
“You’d lose that bet, sir!” Lopez replied with a smile, generating a fresh round of laughter.
“Happy to hear that!” Sam nodded with a smile. “OK, one last thing. Dr. Simmons brought a specialist with him to help find and deal with that WMD aboard the boat. Much of what they do is super-secret, so any conversation with them is likely to be uncomfortable for everyone. By mutual agreement, we will suspend our normally friendly and hospitable behavior in their case. Just don’t talk with them and keep your distance. Any questions? OK, since this will be a night job and in honor of our new petty officer, Kauai will be on holiday routine until tomorrow at midnight. Get all the sleep you can when you’re not on watch.” He turned to Drake. “That’s all, Chief.”
Drake said, “Yes, sir. Attention on Deck!” Then rendered a salute as the crew came to attention.
Sam and Ben returned the salute, and then Sam said, “Thank you, Chief. Carry on, please.” He and Ben then turned and left as the crew drifted over to talk with Lopez and the army personnel. As they walked forward, Sam said, “The same goes for you, Number One. I want you well-rested for tomorrow night. Lay off whenever you can.”
“Yes, sir.” They stopped before the entry door, and Sam looked back at the afterdeck in grim silence. After a moment, Ben said, “It will be alright, Captain. We all knew what we were signing on for.”
“Yes.” Sam nodded. “Yes.” Then he turned and went inside, Ben a step behind.
Victoria shut down her PC and then looked at Benjamin’s text again. “Can’t wait to see U again.” She was disappointed when she read it after picking up her phone outside the office on the way home. He had only sent the message half an hour before, and she called back at once, hoping to catch him before he left. The call rolled over to voice mail, and she hung up immediately—she could not risk leaving a foolish-sounding message she could not erase. It worried her all the way home that Benjamin would see the missed call without a voice mail and wonder what was wrong with her. As soon as she got home, she sat down and laboriously composed a reply. This was important, and she had to be sure not to make any mistakes. “Benjamin, I will request leave for 12-16 April. I tried to call you back without success. I will miss talking to you. Please call me as soon as it is convenient. Victoria.” She had initially put “as soon as you can,” then “as soon as you return,” before settling on the needy-neutral version she sent.
Regardless of the message, she observed the nightly ritual at her desk. There was always a chance of a change allowing Benjamin to call, and she needed to be able to answer. Regardless, the pictures and her eidetic replay of the events of their two dates were comforting for her.
Dominguez was startled when he heard the click of a weapon safety coming from the water’s direction. “Stake!”
“Tent!” came the reply, and nine figures rose from the surf and waded ashore carrying equipment.
Dominguez walked to meet them. “Howdy, boys. The name’s Dominguez, but you can call me Dom.”
The leader shook his hand. “Glad to meet you. Senior Chief D’Agostino, plus eight. Give us a minute to get into traveling gear. How far to the observation point?”
“Two-and-a-half, three hours, tops. But it’s a little tricky in total darkness.”
“Not an issue for us. Have you ever used the ANVS-9 night vision goggles?”
“Nope.”
“Parker here will hook you up.”
The junior petty officer extracted a spare set of goggles and harness and fitted the device to Dominguez’s head. The capability was startling to the agent, who had only used hand-held scopes before. “This is amazing!” he whispered.
“Take it easy, small steps, and let one of us lead. You call the trail. The resolution is pretty good, but your depth perception will stink, so be careful,” D’Agostino said. “OK, we’re ready to move. Parker will lead; you keep your hand on his shoulder and tell him where to go.”
The party of ten set off quietly, with Dominguez calling the turns in a whisper. It was almost dawn when they pulled up on Dominguez’s cache hideout. After shedding their goggles, the team made their way through the jungle to the ridge overlooking the harbor and took cover. D’Agostino sent two groups of three men each to the opposite ends of the ridge to hunker down and observe. He turned to Dominguez. “Tell me about the boat.”
“Pulled in four days ago, looking for an on-load. As soon as she was tied up with the engines shut down, the Salinas hitters boarded and capped all the guards and about half the crew. The other half they strung up on crucifixes outside the main hacienda.”
“Dead?”
“Unfortunately for them, no. They will be soon, though.”
“Shit!”
“Yeah, that’s the word. There are two left onboard still alive, and I think they’re passengers or sponsors or some damn thing the Jefe thinks can bring in some money. You guys here to rescue them?”
“Nope. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass if they live or die. There’s something on the boat that means we have to sink it and sink it in deep water.”
“Wow. What is it, some sort of weapon of mass destruction? I didn’t see anything unusual when I was on there.”
“Brother, all I know is that we take that boat, wait for one of ours to tow it out of here, and then sink it into the Cayman Trench.”
“They’re crazy! They bring a tugboat there, and it will wake up every Salinas hood on the island. I’ve seen their armory—they have enough RPGs to blow a damn Aegis Cruiser out of the water. A tugboat won’t get to first base!”
“It won’t be a conventional tugboat. All I know is it will be quiet, almost invisible at night, and it will tow us out. They catch on to us, and we’ll light off the engine and fight our way out. That boat and whatever’s on it needs to be destroyed. I understand you disabled the engines. How long to get them running?”
“Fifteen minutes, twenty tops.”
D’Agostino nodded. “That should do. Now tell me about the lights on the pier and where they get their power.”
