Target Deck - 02 Page 12

  20

  Deckard rubbed his eyes.

  They had just touched down in Grand Cayman. It was only noon and it had already been a damn long day.

  “We're refueling and taking back off for the States,” the pilot announced. “This plane is hot as fuck right now and we need to disappear it, slap on some new paint, and re-register it before using it operationally.”

  “And us?”

  “There is a Learjet coming in from Miami that will pick you up and then fly you back to Oaxaca. They are about ten minutes out. In the meantime you need to find something for your two pals to wear when they transfer aircraft.”

  “Got it,” Deckard said, popping the final DVD out of the laptop computer he had been using. They had played cat and mouse with the Mexican Air Force for another forty five minutes before the fighter jets ran low on fuel and returned to base. Once the CIA pilots had turned off their jammers, Deckard had used the plane's laptop and satellite connection to get onto the internet and connect to one of Cody's remote servers. He had blasted out the contents of the DVDs filling the camera case, uploading the contents of something like seventy discs before they landed on Grand Cayman.

  “I'm also being told on our net that there will be an agent on the Lear who will take control of whatever you were supposed to collect in Cancun.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Transitioning to Russian, he told the two Kazakhs to stay put while he exited the airplane with the camera bag over his shoulder. The pilots remained in the cockpit while the ground crew for Owen Roberts International Airport refueled the plane.

  He smiled at a few of the other private pilots as he walked to the hangar. They were in between flying rich tourists in and out of the Cayman Islands and waiting for their passengers, or on some aircraft maintenance. One of the pilots held open the door for him as he walked into the hangar. Inside, he quickly found a locker room where the airplane mechanics stored their equipment and stole a pair of coveralls and a work bag. Next, he headed into the small break room and opened the camera bag.

  Popping open the microwave, he dumped the pile of DVDs inside. Before closing it, he reached into his pocket and threw the CIA issue smart phone in as well. Slapping the door shut he set the timer for ten minutes and punched the start button.

  This wasn't his first rodeo.

  If he simply turned the blackmail material that he had collected over to the CIA then he would lose all control over it and the Agency might very well claim that they had never heard of it or their deal with Deckard. By turning it over, he would lose any leverage over the Mexican authorities as well as the CIA. No, he would instead dole out the filthy material in bits and pieces, holding it over the Agency's head as well. They probably didn't realize that American politicians would appear on the recordings which gave him even more pull when the time came for a power play. Once he got back to Oaxaca in one piece he would have Cody e-mail approximately a quarter of the recordings to Grant so that he had something to work with when they approached the Mexican government with the information.

  Looking through the microwave's window, he watched as the discs begin to melt. With the task complete, he stuffed the coveralls into the bag and walked back outside to the Gulfstream.

  “Hey,” he said to the two mercs as he climbed aboard and tossed them the bag. “Put these over your uniforms and then pack all of our gear into that big work bag. We're going to switch planes in a minute.”

  Inside, he grabbed another bottle of water from the refrigerator. It was hot as hell out on the tarmac.

  “This is your ride,” the pilot said, pointing to a white Learjet taxing towards them.

  “Good deal,” Deckard said spotting the plane as he looked through the cockpit glass. “Thanks for the ride. I'll take you two as drivers any day.”

  “Never a dull moment, huh?” the pilot laughed as they shook hands.

  “I've been hearing a lot of that lately,” Deckard said turning to shake the co-pilots hand.

  They had worked well together. Two professionals, they had known exactly what they were doing every step of the way and had pulled his ass out of the fire when he needed it most.

  “Until next time,” he told them.

  “Fuck next time, get the hell off our jet!”

  By now the two Samruk mercenaries had donned the coveralls and gotten their gear packed up. The bag was heavy with three plate carriers and three rifles so one of the men hefted it over his shoulder for extra support as they climbed down the stairs.

  “This one here,” Deckard pointed out the approaching Learjet to his men. The three of them walked across the tarmac to meet it as the plane continued to taxi down the runway towards them. They stopped at the edge of the parking area for private aircraft and waited.

  Behind him Deckard heard a crash and turned around in time to see a red Toyota van that had just smashed through the chain link fence surrounding the airfield. The van barreled down the pavement towards the private jet lot at full speed.

  “Get those guns out,” Deckard ordered the Kazakhs. “Get them out!”

  The brakes smoked as the van slowed and rocked on its suspension system. The side door slid open and six men clothed in white from head to toe leapt from inside the van to the tarmac. Without waiting to close the door, the driver gunned it towards the CIA Gulfstream V.

  One of the Kazakhs reached into the bag and tossed Deckard his AK-103 rifle. Deckard racked the charging handle, stripping the first bullet from the magazine and chambering it. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he aimed down his sights at the red van just as it slammed into the Gulfstream and detonated.

  The mercenaries were instantly knocked to the ground as the shock wave washed over them. Having just finished refueling, the wings were full of jet fuel and the airplane went up in a giant fireball that rose and curled into the air before swirling into a cloud of black smoke. The fire on the ground spread across the pavement, pieces of hot metal thrown in every direction. Deckard pushed up to a knee as debris were still falling. The blast had struck him like an invisible sledge hammer to the chest.

  Shaking off the over pressure from the explosion, it was the heat of the fire that caused the three men to cover their faces with their hands and backpedal away.

  Through the wavering blur of the heat mirage coming from the fire and off the tarmac, Deckard spotted one of the men dressed in white running towards him. He could see the tears streaming down the man's eyes, his mouth was open, screaming something that he was unable to hear above the ringing in his ears. The clothing was Islamic and he had something clutched in his right hand. That was enough for Deckard.

  Bringing his AK to the ready he shot the man twice through the chest. His target collapsed to the ground and detonated himself. An arm was torn from the body by the blast and sent end over end into the air. A leg went in the opposite direction. Scraps of flesh went everywhere.

  Five more suicide bombers rushed across the flight line towards the three mercenaries. They were running at a dead sprint. Now he could make out their words.

  “Allah Akbar!” they screamed in unison.

  The two Kazakhs finally pulled their rifles out and put them into operation. With three AK's in the fight they began working the opposition from side to side, putting two shots center mass. At this point they were unconcerned with whether or not their bullets detonated the explosives in their suicide vest or not.

  One by one they flopped to the ground, two more self-destructing. As hot shrapnel shot over Deckard's head, the Samruk mercenary to his side collapsed to the ground. He had to leave his comrade for a moment while they still had targets rushing their position.

  The Kazakh who was still on his feet fired a burst into the final suicide bomber. The 7.62 rounds impacted his shoulder and spun the terrorist to the ground. Sobbing, the terrorist threw his detonator to the ground and put his hands in the air, the arm on the injured side hanging lower than the other. Blood soaked his white tunic as tears continued to poor down his f
ace.

  Struggling to his knees the bomber kept his hands as high as he could, attempting to surrender.

  “Don't shoot,” Deckard ordered. “We can take him-”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the surrendering bomber exploded. His head separated from his body as the explosive vest went off and spun through the air. Hitting the tarmac, the head bounced across the pavement like a soccer ball before rolling off into the grass.

  Deckard blinked. The threat was no longer a concern so he turned to their casualty. Rolling the Samruk mercenary onto his back, he saw that a piece of shrapnel had penetrated his team mate's skull. Suicide bombers often embedded nails or ball bearings into the explosives they used for increased carnage. The Kazakh's eyes stared up at him, empty. There was nothing he could do for him.

  The Learjet was already turning around and preparing to take off. They were not sticking around after what had just happened.

  “Go stop them,” Deckard told the remaining Kazakh. “Take our bag with you and I'll be right behind you.”

  Deckard managed to fling the body over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Holding onto an arm and leg with one hand, he carried his AK in the other, chasing after their only chance at a ride out of the hell zone they had been trapped him.

  The Kazakh managed to wave down the pilots as they turned the Learjet around. They opened the door and helped Deckard load the corpse on board. Once inside they got the door closed and prepared for takeoff. The fire was still burning fiercely behind them. They had lost two CIA pilots and one mercenary in the surprise attack.

  Deckard's mind raced. None of it made sense.

  An agent in khakis and polo shirt came forward while Deckard was still catching his breath.

  “Where is the package?”

  The Learjet lurched forward, causing everyone to hold on to something while they blasted down the runway and lifted off.

  “Where is the intel you collected,” the agent repeated once they got airborne.

  “Destroyed,” Deckard answered.

  “What do you mean it was destroyed?” the agent asked as he went red in the face.

  Deckard pointed out one of the windows to the fire raging back at the airport.

  “Destroyed in the explosion.”

  21

  The sun was dropping below the horizon as Deckard and his partner carried their fallen team mate to the waiting deuce and a half truck. The Learjet immediately took off and left them behind, the agent on board furious with Deckard and half suspecting that he was playing a game of his own.

  He was still turning the events over his hid mind, replaying them again and again. The presence of Jihadi suicide bombers was bizarre to say the least and the timing of the attack was incredible. Once they got the body loaded, Deckard stood there thinking about it some more. They had Oaxaca airport more or less under their control for the time being.

  The bombers had been the hardcore Islamic extremists that you find in Afghanistan, Iraq, or Palestine. The kind of crazies you expect from the Wahhabi sect originating in Saudi Arabia. He had come across those types before, but on a resort island like Grand Cayman? Somebody transported them there and managed the logistics. More importantly, someone had steered the kamikaze attack directly to the CIA black flight at exactly the right time. The enemy knew precisely where and when to strike. How could their Operational Security have been breached so thoroughly?

  Then there was the final nail in the figurative coffin. The last bomber had tried to surrender only to have his suicide vest go off after he discarded the detonator. The terrorist cell leader had to have been in an overwatch position somewhere nearby. The s-vests must have been dual primed, a second detonator rigged with a remote control as an insurance policy against any of the bombers falling into the hands of law enforcement. Someone watching the airfield saw the bomber try to give himself up and detonated the explosive vest remotely.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Deckard looked up and saw one of the Samruk men hanging out the driver's side window.

  “We've got two missions about to kick off simultaneously. They need you back in the OPCEN.”

  Deckard turned and climbed aboard the truck. With a puff of black smoke from the exhaust pipe they left the airport. It was a quick drive to the Samruk compound. Jumping out of the back of the truck, he walked into the OPCEN where Cody and Frank sat quietly, monitoring several ongoing operations.

  The projector was in standby, a blue rectangle was the only image being projected on the wall.

  “The Agency just cut our ISR feed,” Frank said without looking up from his computer. “You did something to piss them off.”

  “Cody?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I uploaded those videos to your server I also dumped the contents of the smart phone. You'll find the e-mail for a Case Officer named Grant. I want you to mail him about twenty five percent of the videos I uploaded.”

  Cody's hands flew across the keyboard.

  “It is sending now,” Cody said as they watched the green bar on the computer screen move as it uploaded the MPEG files. “Ok, it has been sent.”

  “What is going on here?”

  “A lot since you've been gone,” Frank answered. “We got word through interrogations of how Jimenez has nearly a hundred men down in Guatemala conducting para-military training. He has recalled them and they will be leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “We have to ambush them before they get here,” Deckard said. “If they arrive in Oaxaca they will go underground and fight an unconventional war.”

  “That's what we've been working on. I've been in touch with the Agency since you took off on whatever errand they had you run. The Guatemalans have had enough with the cartels so their military was more than happy to provide an aircraft. The real trouble was locating the camp.”

  “They should be about five minutes out,” Cody announced.

  “We can't know for certain until this fucking ISR feed gets unscrambled,” Frank said irritably.

  “So the Guatemalan military provided an aircraft for us to use and gave up the location of the camp?”

  “No, it is somewhere in the highlands not far across the border. That area is facing its own cartel insurgency and the government forces don't have much of presence there. I looked over the antenna array you brought back from that objective before you left and figured out how it worked. Cody and I were able to back trace their signals part way into Guatemala as it skipped across cell phone towers. At some point it hit a repeater station and the frequency was converted into VHF which we were unable to trace.”

  “And not even the CIA or NSA has the assets in place to track something as antiquated as VHF. Who uses a walkie-talkie these days?” Cody interjected.

  “Well, thanks to Al Qaeda playing these games with us in the Middle East we have developed the assets. Now with the war winding down, many of those assets are being shifted to Central and South America, lucky for us.”

  “How did it go down?”

  “As I understand it they flew an F-16 from a carrier to Galeta Island and then on to the target area that I determined. The fighter was outfitted with a Liberty Blue SIGINT collection package that allowed us to determine where the VHF signals were terminating. I would compliment you Deck, you really forged an alliance with Uncle Sugar instead of burning bridges like you usually do. They came through for us, but then,” Frank pointed to the blank projection on the wall, “you went ahead and fucked it all up.”

  “OP-1 just called in the airfield as being clear,” Cody announced. “I'm going to radio the Dakota and give them the green light.”

  “Wait until they get a load of who is on some of those videos with underage kids,” Deckard frowned. “I think that ISR feed will be coming back up any second now.”

  “At least we got a location for the camp. It is up in the mountains of Quiche, about fifty klicks south of the Mexican border. We got our boys loaded up in a Guatemalan Air Force Dakota and off the groun
d just before you got back. They are almost on target. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. We also borrowed some static line parachutes from the Guatemalan Army.”

  “The Kazakhs aren't airborne qualified,” Deckard choked.

  “They will be in about three minutes when Pat kicks them out of the door at five hundred feet,” Frank said before spitting brown Copenhagen juice into an empty Styrofoam cup.

  Just then the ISR feed kicked back in, some stooge in Langley having shit his pants when he spotted the House Minority Leader on one of Bashir's videos with a fourteen year old girl and made a desperate phone call to the US Air Force who was flying the drone circling over Guatemala. Deckard had documented evidence against some very powerful people, and that in turn made him a very powerful person.

  Deckard's jaw dropped as he watched tiny black forms falling out both doors of the Dakota airplane. Their parachutes were inflating just moments before they collided with the jungle airstrip below them.

  Kurt Jager was impressed.

  The Zapatistas had been living in the jungle long enough that they knew the terrain and knew how to move in it. The entire mission had been a rush to interdict the cartel para-military soldiers before they could depart the camp and cross back into Mexico. More than once it looked like they had faced obstacles that they would not be able to overcome only to have everything work out at the last moment. Having a certain three letter agency greasing the wheels certainly didn't hurt.

  He had not even met Commandente Zero but one of his sub-commanders when he requested two Zaptista rebels to take along with him and Pascal, one of the former 7th Special Forces Group Sergeants that Deckard had contracted. They had a half assed comms system but it worked. Kurt had just crept into their Observation Post and got eyes on the objective area. He got on his MBITR radio and called the all clear to the Mission Support Site. The airstrip was empty and quiet. The MSS consisted of Pascal and the other Zapatista who used a SATCOM radio to communicate with their compound back in Oaxaca.