Eyes of the Hammer

CHAPTER TEN

Riley was methodically kicking the heavy bag that hung in the corner of the team room. Ten turn kicks left leg, ten right leg, ten back kicks left, ten right. He pressed on as he felt the sweat pour off his body and the pleasant pain of exertion flood his limbs.

The team room for 055 consisted of the top floor of a renovated World War II barracks. It was essentially a large bay, almost sixty feet by twenty-five feet. The dominant feature in the room was a large T-shaped table in the center. Wall lockers holding the members' field gear stretched along one wall.

The corner in which Riley was working out held both a heavy and a light punching bag, a lifting bench, and assorted weights that team members had deposited over the years. The floor of the room was tiled in an ugly shade of red in which some long-forgotten team member had taken the time to cut and emplace white tiles to spell out the detachment's number, 055, and the motto of Special Forces — De Oppresso Liber: to free the oppressed.

A refrigerator sat against another wall, flanked by two large padlocked boxes that contained the team's radio and engineer equipment. The refrigerator was technically used to store batteries for the radios. In reality the batteries took up only the bottom shelf; cases of beer and soda filled the rest of the shelves. The soda was for the duty day and the beer for after hours when most of the unmarried team members would hang around until the early morning. In extremes, the team room became home for members who had had too much to drink.

Enjoying one of those cold beers, MSgt. Dan Powers sat with his feet on his beat-up desk and watched Riley from across the team room. "Damn, compadre, don't you ever get tired? I mean it's hot out and everything, and it's Sunday. The good Lord designated today as a day of rest. Why don't you take a break and grab a brew?"

Riley paused. "I can see you're resting enough for both of us. Dan, one of these days that beer belly of yours is going to get you in trouble." He stepped back. With a yell he leapt and hit high on the bag with a flying side kick. The bag lurched, then settled back, rattling the chains that connected it to a beam in the ceiling.

Powers burped. "Yeah, Dave, it might at that. But I'll die happy. Guess you little greasers need to work out to be tough, not being a natural-born stud like me." He scratched his belly under the worn-out green T-shirt that made up his off-duty garb. "Hey, you hear we might be getting a team leader? A real live commissioned officer? Not like you make-believe warrant officers."

"Keep it up, redneck." Riley started working his arms. His hand strikes rattled the bag only slightly less than his kicks had. "Any idea who? Somebody from inside group, or is it a new guy from the qualification course?"

"Don't know. Just heard a rumor there're two officers coming into battalion. But, hell, with four teams that need captains we probably won't get one. The colonel likes you too much. You ain't raped nobody lately or created any international incidents. Besides, I like you as team leader and I don't need to be breaking in no new captain."

Riley smiled as he continued punishing the bag. He and Powers had been running the team together for over a year. Their initial mutual respect for each other's competence had grown into a genuine friendship. That friendship was a critical ingredient in making the team one of the best in the battalion, which is why they'd been picked to join the nuclear facility testing team. Riley was glad that mission was over.

Riley felt the team deserved a break. Everyone had been frozen in the assignment for the year, as the team traveled around the world. Now people could move, and three of the nine team members were leaving in the next week. That left the team with only six of its twelve authorized slots filled. Hopefully, they would get some time off. One of the greatest banes of Special Forces duty was the time spent away from home.

Riley knew he'd get in some replacement people, but he wasn't sure he wanted a captain. He'd never worked under a team leader since he'd gotten his warrant over a year ago and he wasn't sure how he'd like it. He figured it'd be nice to have someone else get all the ass- chewings but not at the expense of losing control of the team. It would upset the benevolent dictatorship under which Powers and he ran things.

Riley also wasn't sure what the team's next assignment would be. In 7th Group, almost everyone spent at least half the year down south in Central America training local military and police forces. The 2d Battalion operations officer had told him before the Plattsburgh trip that 055 wasn't going anywhere for the next couple of months at least. Which was just fine with Riley.

Riley started working the striking edges of his hands on a two-by-four wrapped in hemp rope to toughen the calluses. We'll probably be pulling post police call for the next couple of months, he figured, since most everyone else in the battalion was deployed. As near as he could tell by looking at the battalion training board, when he'd gone up to talk to the ops officer, eleven of the fifteen operational teams were gone. One of the four remaining was the Gabriel demonstration team, which did all the shows for the "Great American Public" at Fort Bragg and as requested around the region.

Riley could do simple army math as well as anyone. That left three teams to pull all the crap details that came down from group headquarters. The thought of picking up pinecones at Fort Bragg didn't thrill Riley but it beat traveling around constantly. At least for a week or two. Then Riley knew he'd be anxious to be on the move again, doing something. Hitting the singles' bars in Fayetteville, North Carolina, wasn't his idea of a fun time.

Finished punishing his hands, Riley turned to his team sergeant. "Hey, Dan, let's go over to the sports club range and do some shooting. I got about three hundred rounds of 9-millimeter in my trunk I want to burn up. Let's go get your H and K submachine gun and pop some rounds out of that."

Powers burped amiably. "It's hot out there, man. I know you dark-skinned folks like the heat, but us fair-skinned people gots to be careful. Don't you ever sit still and just enjoy yourself?"

Powers crushed his empty beer can with a massive paw. "Yeah, all right. I got nothing else to do. Bought me a new shotgun yesterday that I need to break in anyway. Wait'll you check it out — a twelve gauge with a ten-round box magazine that can be fired on semi-automatic."

Riley laughed. "What the hell are you going to use that on? You have hordes of deer attacking you on your hunting trips?"

"Never know, my friend, when you might need a lot of firepower." The phone in the hall outside rang. Powers got up and headed toward the door to answer it. "Who the hell could that be on a Sunday morning?"

Riley was toweling himself off when he heard Powers start cursing. "Goddamnit! Goddamnit! I knew I should'a took off for the mountains for the weekend to get away from the freaking phones."

Riley poked his head out the door. "What's the matter?"

"A goddamn alert! You believe it? We've only been back a couple of days and they have to alert us! Sometimes I get sick and tired of these goddamn army games."

Rich Stevens nervously dashed out his fourth cigarette in the last ten minutes and lit his fifth. He got up and paced around the executive conference room. Stevens didn't know the reason he had been ordered to fly to Washington this morning from Bogota. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

For once Stevens thought he had wrangled himself a "get-over" job down in Colombia. His official designation was DEA embassy liaison. The job was supposed to entail being the DEA's man in the U.S. embassy in Bogota, coordinating DEA operations in country with both the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency. In reality, due to the high profile of DEA operations in Colombia, the DEA station chief did most of the coordinating personally. Stevens's role had been reduced to one of glorified paper pusher at the embassy, working on the routine traffic and paperwork the DEA processed through.

Stevens had been quite happy with the arrangement. He was normally able to finish off the few papers in his in box by lunch and that allowed him the rest of the day off. He had kept a low profile, not wishing to have anyone at the embassy notice that he really wasn't employed productively. But someone must have noticed something, he thought nervously, or else why was he back here in D.C.? The DEA station chief had been evasive in response to Stevens's questions about why he was going back, claiming he didn't know.

Stevens briefly wondered if it was because of his drinking. The fact that he went to the aptly named Embassy Cafe across the street from the U.S. embassy and got blasted almost every night wasn't exactly a secret. There wasn't a whole lot else to do in that godforsaken city.

Why he'd volunteered to go down there in the first place he couldn't immediately remember, preoccupied as he was with the sudden recall. Then he did. He cringed as he pictured his wife's bloated face in his mind. That bitch. It was worth being in Colombia to get away from her and the three screaming kids. If everyone was entitled to one big mistake in their lives, Rich had made his thirteen years ago when he married Norma.

And, boy, had she turned out to be big, Rich mumbled to himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten laid. How could you want to with that tub? She was fine where she was — back in Boston. Being in Colombia and working with the beaners sucked, but it was better than being with her. Stevens just hoped that this recall to the States wasn't permanent.

Thinking of getting laid brought a vision of another face into his mind. Just two nights ago, he'd been sitting on his usual stool in the cafe drinking his normal combination of shots of tequila chased with a mug of beer, when he noticed a new woman bartender come on duty. The new girl was one of the most beautiful women Stevens had ever seen. He had talked to her briefly and found out that her name was Maria. He had also learned that she was working at the bar to learn English so she could go to college in the United States. Stevens hoped he would have a chance to go back to Bogota and talk with Maria again. She'd sure been friendly enough to him. He'd be more than willing to teach her some English and a lot more.

Stevens was startled as the door opened. Thoughts of the bar girl disappeared in smoke as he saw the director of the DEA come in alone. Stevens's fears and concerns returned, now even stronger. Whatever was going to happen had to be extremely important for the director himself to be here. This was the first time Stevens had ever met Director Mullins.

"Evening, sir."

"Hello, Richard. Or may I call you Rich?"

You can call me anything you want, thought Stevens. "Rich is fine, sir."

Mullins sat at the end of the conference table and indicated for Stevens to sit. "You're probably wondering what's so important that you had to fly back up here."

No shit, Stevens thought. I've just about got an ulcer from worrying. "Yes, sir."

"How would you rate the Colombian government's efforts to eradicate the processing laboratories?"

Stevens sighed inwardly with relief. Same old crap. At least it wasn't an ass-chewing. "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being doing all they can and one being doing nothing, I'd have to give them a negative five. If anything they're helping them. I've seen reports of army troops being used to guard some of the shipments and air force planes carrying the stuff. Behind coffee, cocaine's their second leading export. In terms of U.S. dollars it's got to be ahead by now.

"Since the heat's been on the past year they've tightened up some, and I've got to admit that President Alegre has shown real guts with some of the steps he's taken, but in the field the situation's pretty much the same."

Mullins nodded. "That's interesting. Nothing much has changed down there, has it?"

"No, sir. They talk a better line of denial now, but it's business as usual. Alegre wouldn't stay in power five minutes if he really tried cracking down on the cartel. He's on the edge right now with the steps he has taken. A lot of people's livelihoods down there depend on the cocaine industry, and they don't like anyone screwing with that."

Something clicked in Stevens's mind. "This meeting wouldn't have anything to do with Santia getting gunned down, would it?"

Mullins knew Stevens was an alcoholic and a burn-out, but the man wasn't stupid. "Yes, it does in a way. What would you say if I told you the Colombian government has told us they want the United States to conduct unilateral military strikes against the processing labs in their country?"

Stevens stared at his boss to see if he was joking. "I'd find that real hard to believe, sir. Once word got out, the parliament in Bogota would be in flames. Alegre wouldn't last a day. Remember what happened in November '85? When their Supreme Court decided to allow the extradition of drug people we had outstanding warrants on? The Supreme Court building in downtown Bogota was attacked and eleven of the twenty-four justices were massacred. The guerrillas were actually the ones who conducted the attack, but it's felt that the drug cartel played a strong instigating role, particularly in the execution of those judges.

"Hell, some of their judges are here in the States under our witness protection program for the rest of their lives just because they handed down an indictment or extradition order against someone associated with the cartel. That's why Santia was up here in the first place. If those judges had stayed in Colombia, they wouldn't have lasted a month.

"As far as U.S. military involvement goes, the Colombians just about went through the ceiling when the president mentioned putting that carrier task force off the coast to help interdict traffickers. And the invasion of Panama hasn't reassured anyone down there either."

Mullins nodded. "I agree with everything you say. However, the theory is that word of this won't get out. The entire operation is to be done covertly. That's why I've brought you up here. You're going to be working with the military and CIA on this operation."

Stevens considered this change in his job role. If it's not one thing it's another, he thought. Time for him to start working for a living. "How are we going to know where to hit, sir?"

"The Colombians have agreed to give us locations through a contact with the CIA."

Stevens shook his head. "I hate to say it, sir, but this is probably going to be a waste of time. They'll most likely give us abandoned locations or at best the location of one of the small-time free-lancers. There's no way they'll target one of the big boys from the cartel."

Mullins held up his hand. "The Colombian ambassador promises that we'll get information on the cartel. Alegre's goal is to break the cartel."

I'll believe it when I see it, Stevens thought. "Sounds good, sir. When do I start?"

"Tomorrow at ten at Fort Belvoir."

President Alegre looked across the table at the finely dressed man seated there. "More coffee?"

"No, thank you." The Ring Man leaned back his chair and pulled out a cigar. "So, it is all going as planned?"

Alegre nodded. "Yes. The Americans have agreed."

"Good. Excellent."

Alegre wasn't entirely sure if the man was referring to the international situation or his cigar. The president shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed chair. He didn't like dealing with this man. The Ring Man had burst upon the cartel with devastating ruthlessness a little over four months ago, assassinating his boss, Ahate, in Bogota and taking over the operation. No one even knew his real name. The drug dealer took his name from the gold rings that adorned every finger. Shoulder-length hair, tied behind his head, framed the hatchet-like face. Alegre worried whenever he looked into the eyes that burned out of that face. They didn't seem totally sane.

"Do you have the targeting information for me?"

Ring Man passed a piece of paper across the table. "The map coordinates of two labs. One of Suarez's and one of Ramirez's. The timing is rather fortuitous, since my informants tell me both of these labs also hold major stockpiles of produce."

Alegre fingered the paper. "I hope this will get the Americans off our backs."

The Ring Man smiled benevolently at the president. "I have some other actions being developed as, shall we say, safeguards." He paused and his benevolence disappeared. "In fact, I am myself trying to find the people who were behind the unfortunate incident last week in America. Such foolish business practices could hurt my operation."

Alegre looked at the man across from him. His best guess was that Ramirez was responsible for the American massacre, but he wouldn't put it past the Ring Man to have done it himself to put more heat on him to get the Americans involved in this plan and put the pressure of suspicion on the Ramirez family.

Alegre knew he was playing a dangerous game with the Ring Man. Their goals were different, but for now the paths to their goals remained the same. Alegre wondered what would happen when their paths diverged and Ring Man found out.

The fact that the Ring Man sat brazenly in his office with impunity was a sign of the drug lord's power, Alegre knew. There was no way Alegre could touch him right now, legally or otherwise. To do so would be tantamount to committing suicide. Ring Man wielded too much power and had legally insulated himself from the dirty end of his business through numerous cutouts and subsidiaries. The man may appear insane but he had a mind of startling cunning. Even if Alegre had enough hard evidence on Ring Man, he seriously doubted he could get a judge to issue a warrant. It would be asking that judge to sign a suicide note.

The purpose of the meeting accomplished, Alegre stood up and escorted the Ring Man to the door. "I will relay the information through my contact to the Americans."

The Ring Man smiled coldly at the shorter man. "I hope we can continue to do business together in such an amiable fashion."

Alegre smiled thinly. "I hope so also."