Eyes of the Hammer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

General Pike let out a sigh of relief and turned away from the radio. "They're on their way back. The mission was successful."

He looked at Westland. "That means Eyes Two goes as planned. We'll give it until this afternoon and then re-contact Stevens and see if he has any sort of reaction from the people down there."

Westland smiled as she rubbed her eyes wearily. She was glad things had turned out well. She needed to go over to Langley this morning and update Strom. She looked at the clock on the wall and calculated. She ought to be able to get there and back before the team flew in for the debrief.

Riley climbed slowly out of the van. He was exhausted. Pike had been waiting at the airfield to welcome them back as they got off the C-130. Riley had immediately noticed that Westland was not there and for some reason that had bothered him. He wasn't quite sure why he had expected her to be there.

Returning to the isolation area, Riley and his team were greeted by the members of Eyes Two as they entered the operations room. Pike indicated the hot food and drink laid out on a table. "Why don't you all grab some chow. Westland should be back with the debriefer in a couple of minutes and we can start then. I want the other team to listen in, too, so they can know what to expect."

Riley nodded and walked over to grab himself a cup of coffee. Westland should have already been here, he thought to himself. What did she have that was more important than this debriefing? Her not being at the airfield had bothered him personally, he finally admitted to himself, but her not being here on time for the debriefing bothered him professionally. A debriefing needed to start immediately, before any important information was forgotten.

Roberto Ramirez, better known as "The Shark," ranted and raved and screamed. His closest advisers stoically weathered the storm. After fifteen minutes, he subsided and grew silent. For five minutes, he stared straight ahead out of the bay windows of his mansion overlooking the ocean. Then he turned and faced his men.

"I want whoever was behind this. I want a name today!" He turned to his right. "Miquel. I want you to take the plane to Bogota. Go to the Ministry of Defense. Find out if they were behind this.

"Jaime. You check our contacts in Suarez's outfit. See if his people were involved.

"Carlos. Check out that pig who calls himself Ring Man. I wouldn't put it past that scum to try a stunt like this."

The Ramirez patriarch worked his neck to relieve the tension. "It had to be one of those. Whoever it was will pay."

Miquel Ramirez shook his head. It was dangerous to interfere with his father when he was like this, but it was up to him as the second-eldest son to point out some things that might prevent disaster. "Padre. We must worry about our shipments. We have the load down at the docks that will go out this week, but after that we have nothing. We lost our next three months' inventory in the destruction.

"We cannot afford a war. We must restock, or our customers will turn elsewhere."

Roberto glared at his son. "We cannot afford not to have a war! If we do nothing about this attack, we will be seen as being weak. Then our competitors will be over us like jackals. Also, we add the shipment on the docks with the cache in Miami, and our man there will be able to cover for us up there until we can make up our losses. Your brother Julio was right about us putting that cache in. If I had him here now, he wouldn't be arguing with me. He'd be coming up with solutions." The mention of the eldest son, presently awaiting trial in the United States, quieted the other members of the family for a few seconds.

The youngest son, Carlos, the Harvard MBA, raised his arm. "What bothers me the most, father, is that we received no warning of the attack. That is very ominous. If it was the military, how did they do it without one of the people on our payroll letting us know? Besides, I don't think Alegre would be that stupid. If it was one of the others, Suarez or Ring Man, then why didn't our informants warn us? Such an attack cannot be mounted without preparation, yet we heard nothing."

The Shark stood up, indicating the talking was over and it was time for action. "Whoever failed to warn us will pay the same price as those who did the attack. Get going! I want a name today!"

Riley had just finished a long-overdue breakfast when Westland walked into the operations room with two analysts. "I'm sorry I'm late, but let's get started."

Riley shook his head as they began. He'd approach her after the meeting and find out what was going on. The members of Eyes One settled in around the table with the map of the target.

Starting from the moment the C-130 took off from Fort Belvoir, the two analysts barraged the team with questions, tracking the progress of the mission up through their return to the same airfield.

It was an exhausting but necessary process. Riley had often sat on the other side of the table as debriefer during training exercises and he knew that some seemingly unimportant fact could turn out to be extremely important. Although, he had to admit to himself, there wasn't much to report about this mission. It had gone almost like clockwork.

Riley hoped Eyes Two's went as well.

Alegre allowed himself the luxury of feeling good for a few minutes. The raid the previous night had apparently been a success. At least he hadn't received any negative feedback, nor had his door been busted down and he been shot. In Colombia that was a good sign.

Alegre had had his doubts about the information relayed by the Ring Man, but it seemed that the data had been excellent. His chief aide, Montez, had just informed him that the word on the streets was that the Ramirezes had suffered a major setback. Alegre fervently hoped that the next targeting information Montez had relayed to the CIA contact was also valid.

The vote in the United Nations had also gone well. By one vote, the UN General Council had approved Colombia's claim for the mineral and oil rights on a third of the floor of the Gulf of Venezuela. The Venezuelans, naturally, were protesting the decision, but Alegre felt that the claim had a good chance of standing up to the appeal, especially since the Venezuelans had initiated the UN process in the first place. With those rights, he felt Colombia finally had a chance to get rid of the drug cartel.

Alegre knew that there were still many uncertainties, but at least things had started well.

The debriefing took over two hours. By the time it was done, Pike had received the message from Stevens on the scheduled contact. In summary, it indicated that there had been no apparent reaction in Bogota yet. The key part of the message was that the word from DEA informants on the street was that the lab attacked had been a major one, under the control of the Ramirez family.

"It will be coming," Riley warned. "Remember, Stevens told us the guy who ran the lab we hit last night operates out of Cartagena.

It's probably going to take him a while to react to the situation and also to track down all his contacts to see if he can find out who's behind this."

Pike nodded. "I know. But that's not for us to worry about. The only problem it may cause us is that there may be additional security on the next target."

Riley leaned back in his chair. He was beat. Between last night and today, it had been a long twenty-four hours. The members of Eyes Two were upstairs trying to catch a last-minute nap before departing on their mission later this evening.

Riley had sent the rest of his team to bed. He had been holding off himself until Stevens's message came in to confirm whether or not the target had been legitimate and high level. He was ready to catch some z's himself now. But first, there was one more thing he needed to do. He walked over to Westland, who was reviewing the notes from the debriefing. "Could I have a word with you privately?"

She nodded and followed him into the hallway. Riley turned and faced her. "Why weren't you ready for the debrief when we got back today?"

Westland looked uneasy. "I apologize for that. I got caught up at Langley and didn't leave early enough to get here in time."

Riley knew she was reporting everything that happened back to her boss at Langley. That was the way the game was played. He didn't like playing for the CIA or trusting their intelligence. He still didn't feel comfortable with the whole framework of this operation. The fact that someone down in Colombia with detailed knowledge of the drug cartel was passing information on lab locations didn't sit too well with him. That someone must have a pretty extensive net of intelligence to be able to get information on different branches of the cartel. That someone's motives were also open to speculation.

Riley could have understood a single turncoat in one gang, but they were getting countrywide information. Something big was going on down there, and he just hoped that when the storm hit, his people would weather it safely.

He had to admit that Westland had played straight with them as much as she could. They could have been saddled with a real asshole in a three-piece suit. Besides, he had developed a respect and liking for Westland over the last several days. He wondered about it, since he was normally someone who warmed to people very slowly. He hadn't had the time to think about it and he was too damn tired to do that now. He decided to let the whole thing slide and move on. "Do you have our next targets?"

Westland appeared relieved to get off the subject of Langley. "We've got another two. They came in this morning. One is up near Bogota and the other is on the coast near Barranquilla. The general has already broken them down. You get Nail Three, which will be the one near Barranquilla. Captain Vaughn's team gets the other one, Nail Four. The general also wants to run the two concurrently. He thinks it will improve security for the team by doing them on the same night."

Riley considered this. "When do Three and Four go?"

"Monday night."

Damn, that was cutting it tight, Riley thought. Especially for the other team. Only two days of preparation. In reality, though, there wasn't that much to plan other than infiltration and exfiltration. He was tired and all this thinking and worrying was giving him a headache. He turned for the stairs. "I'm going to rack out. I'll see you later."

He stopped as he felt Westland's hand on his arm. She looked into his eyes. "Get some good sleep. Let me do the worrying for a little while, OK?"

Riley replied without thinking. "As long as it's my men's lives on the line, I'll be worrying."

Seeing the hurt reaction in her eyes, he realized he'd been too abrupt. He lightly touched her hand on his arm. "Hey, I'm sorry, Kate. I didn't mean that I didn't trust you. I'm too tired to think straight. Let's talk when we're both up to working speed."

Westland let go of his arm and nodded wearily. "All right."

Stevens was exhausted. Even his newly rejuvenated libido couldn't keep him going. Just a quick stop across the street to say hi to Maria and then he would try to get some more sleep before having to monitor the radio tonight.

He shuffled across the street to the Embassy Cafe. He peered around the darkened interior looking for the girl. He spotted her uncle behind the bar. Stevens hoped the uncle didn't know what was going on between the two of them. If he was like most of the greasers around here, he wouldn't approve of her being with a gringo. Stevens tentatively walked over to the bar. "Is Maria around?"

Maria's uncle spared him a neutral glance. "Are you drinking or are you only asking questions?"

Stevens cursed to himself. He glanced around the bar to see if anyone who knew him from the embassy was present. There was no one. "I'll have a beer and shot of tequila."

The barman placed the drinks in front of the American and then stepped back and regarded him. "Maria does not come to work tonight until six. Who should I say is asking for her?"

Stevens savored his beer. "Tell her Rich."

"Rich? As in has a lot of money?"

A beaner smart ass, Stevens thought to himself. "No. Rich as in Rich Stevens. That's my name. Tell Maria I'll give her a call tonight here at the bar."

The barman regarded the American distrustfully. "If I remember, I tell her."

"Thanks," Stevens said. For nothing, he thought. He finished his tequila and turned for the door. Time for a few hours of rack time before having to be bored to death sitting in front of the radio in the comm room. As he walked out the door, he saw Maria coming down the street. He waited for her under the awning in front of the cafe.

When she caught sight of him her face lit up with a wide smile. "Rich! How are you?"

"I'm fine. Well, actually I'm a little tired. I was up all night."

Maria looked concerned. "You are working too hard. I was sad we could not be together last night." She smiled coyly. "We can make up for that tonight."

Stevens shook his head reluctantly. "I have to work tonight, too."

"What is all this work! It is not right. You work much too hard. Will you be working all night? No time off at all to see me?"

Stevens calculated in his mind. "Pretty much the whole night. I should be done around three in the morning, but that's too late for you."

Maria shook her head. "No, it isn't. I can be there."

"But I can't get you in the gate that late."

Maria smiled. "Then I'll go in now and wait in your room."

Stevens protested weakly. "I thought you had to be at work at six."

"My uncle will understand. I'll tell him I'm not feeling well."

The MC-130E banked steeply to the left and headed due east toward the shore of Colombia.

The aircraft, designated as the Combat Talon, was a modified Lockheed C-130. From the outside some of the modifications were obvious. The nose of the airplane had a large bulbous protrusion under the cockpit where many of the additional navigational devices were housed. Another noticeable feature was the extra fuel pods slung under the wings, which increased the aircraft's range.

Two eight-foot prongs scissored out from the bottom of the nose, forming an inverted V along the direction of flight. These snares were for the Fulton recovery system. A cable, pulled up by a balloon, was snatched between the prongs; the cable was clamped in the center and then the speed of the aircraft drew the cable up along the belly of the plane. Hanging off the open ramp in the rear another clamp caught the cable and rotated it into a winch inside the aircraft. Once the winch was activated the cable was pulled into the aircraft, reeling in whatever had been on the ground end of the balloon cable. That whatever could range from a bundle to one or two personnel. It made for an interesting ride.

Inside the aircraft, the members of Eyes Two were pressed deeper into their seats as the aircraft turned and headed for the Colombian coast. The interior of the aircraft was the same size as the one that had infiltrated Eyes One, except that the front half of the cargo area was taken up with banks of electronic equipment, which was constantly being monitored by several air force officers. A black curtain separated the team in the rear half of the cargo bay from the electronic warfare people in the front half.

The most significant changes to the aircraft were not visible except to the electronic warfare personnel and the pilots. The pilots' greatest allies were terrain-following radar and precision ground-mapping radar. These two combined presented the pilots with a visual display of the terrain ahead regardless of the weather and outside light conditions. It was sort of like flying by television. Flying low to the terrain enabled the Talon to avoid radar.

In the complex modern world of radar and sophisticated air defense systems, the Talon's ability to defeat electronic detection was its key. To aid in that battle the electronic warfare specialists in the cargo bay manned a variety of electronic countermeasures designed to foil enemy radars. The Talon crews thought it was ironic that the air force was willing to spend billions on the Stealth bomber while continually trying to cut funds for the ungainly transport plane that had already proved it could beat radar systems and had led the way in every American military operation since the end of the Vietnam war. The big joke among the Talon drivers was that they could up their funding by loading a few nukes in the cargo bay and redesignating their aircraft the B-130.

At the present moment the aircraft was skimming barely fifty feet above the tops of the waves. A darker line on the horizon indicated the Colombian coast coming up. The Talon hit the coast at a hundred feet and the pilot gradually raised the altitude to two hundred fifty feet as they headed into the foothills of the Cordillera Occidental mountains, a small range of the Andes.

The loadmaster turned to Alexander and held up both hands, fingers extended. Alexander nodded, stood up, and turned to the team. Raising both hands, he screamed: "Ten minutes!"

Alexander quickly lowered himself into the safety of his seat. The plane was jerking from side to side and bouncing up and down as the pilots skimmed the margin of safety that kept them from splattering into a mountainside. The plane crested over the mountains and started heading down, flying so low that the pilots could look up out of the cockpit at the ridgelines on either side of the aircraft.

Getting another signal, Alexander stood for the last time and hooked up his static line. He held six fingers aloft. "Six minutes!" he shouted into the roar of the aircraft. He extended both hands, palms out. "Get ready!" The team members unbuckled their safety straps.

With both arms, Alexander pointed at the team seated along the outside of the aircraft. Then he pointed up. "Outboard personnel stand up." The members of Eyes Two staggered to their feet in the wildly swaying aircraft, using the static line cable and side of the aircraft for support.

Curling his index fingers over his head, representing hooks, Alexander pumped his arms up and down. "Hook up!" He watched as each man connected his static line, snap hook gate toward the skin of the aircraft, into the static line cable, and secured the gate shut with a safety wire.

The loadmaster held onto Alexander's static line and tried to keep him from falling over while he used both hands to pantomime the jump commands. "Check static lines!"

Each jumper checked his snap hook and traced the static line from the snap hook to where it disappeared over his shoulder. He then checked the static line of the man in front, from where it came over his shoulder to where it disappeared into his parachute. The last man, Captain Vaughn, turned and allowed the man in front to check him.

"Check equipment!" Each man made sure one last time that all his equipment was secured and the connections made fast on his parachute harness.

Alexander cupped his hands over his ears. "Sound off for equipment check!" The last man slapped the man in front on his rear and yelled "OK," then the yell and slap were passed from man to man until the second jumper, just behind Alexander, yelled, "All OK, Jumpmaster," giving the thumbs-up.

With all his jump commands done except the final "Go," Alexander gained control of his static line from the loadmaster and turned toward the rear of the aircraft. He waited for the ramp to open, ready to lead the team off into the dark night. He swayed to the front as the aircraft slowed down from 250 knots to 125 knots. Three minutes out.

The noise level increased abruptly as a crack appeared in the ramp and widened into a gaping mouth. As the ramp leveled off, Alexander stared out into the dark. Fighting the rucksack hanging in front of his legs, he got to his knees and, grabbing the hydraulic arm on the right side of the ramp, peered around the edge of the aircraft looking forward. He blinked in the wind. It took a few seconds to get oriented.

He could see the lights of Medellin off to the left under the aircraft. The Cauca River was passing underneath. Alexander at least knew that they were in the right neighborhood, and that was as good as it got with a blind drop.

The loadmaster leaned over Alexander's shoulder and stuck an index finger in his face. Alexander clambered awkwardly to his feet, looked over his shoulder at the team, and screamed, "One minute!"

Ten seconds later his knees buckled as the plane rapidly climbed the 250 feet to the 500-foot drop altitude. Glancing out, Alexander could see the lights of Medellin passing by off to the left. He yelled over his shoulder as he shuffled out to within three feet of the edge of the ramp. "Stand by!"

Alexander stared at the red light above the top of the ramp; as soon as it turned green, he'd go. He moved a few inches closer to the edge.

The green light flashed. "GO!" Alexander was gone. The rest of Eyes Two followed.

In less than three seconds these things happened to Alexander and his equipment: His fifteen-foot static line uncoiled off the back of his parachute, tearing open the pack-closing tie on the chute itself and pulling out the pack-opening loop. The parachute, encased in a deployment bag, pulled free from Alexander's body. The nylon of the parachute was connected to the harness around his body by four risers extending into numerous suspension lines. Reaching the limit of the suspension line, the weight of Alexander's falling body broke the loops of eighty-pound test webbing that connected the apex of the canopy with the deployment bag and static line. The static line, with deployment bag attached, was left trailing behind the Talon still attached to the static line cable, twirling in the prop blast. The parachute, freed of the deployment bag, exploded open and Alexander went from a forward speed of 125 knots and a downward free fall to a zero forward speed and a sixteen-foot-per-second descent.

Feeling the opening shock try to jar his chin through his chest, Alexander quickly looked up and checked in the moonlight to see if he had a good canopy. He reached up on his risers to gain a modicum of control. Steering the T-10 canopy consisted simply of reaching high on the risers, grabbing as much as possible, and hauling it in; this tilted the canopy, and it would slip in the direction of pull.

Satisfied with his canopy, Alexander quickly took a look below. All he could see was a great darkness rapidly approaching. He reached down below the reserve that covered his stomach and searched for the handles to his eighteen-inch attaching straps. He fumbled briefly, cursing to himself. The two straps held the rucksack, which was hanging from the reserve down to his knees. Landing with a ruck still attached was a good way to break a leg. He located one strap and held that tight in his left hand while he forced his right hand between the ruck and reserve searching for the other strap. Finding it, he quickly jerked both straps at the same time. The ruck sprang free and dropped to the end of a fifteen-foot lowering line, where it dangled beneath him.

All that effort had cost him his remaining time in the air. The ground was rushing up. Less than twenty seconds after leaving the aircraft, Alexander reached up, grabbed his risers, rotated his arms in front of his face, bent his knees with his feet together, and said a brief prayer. The prayer turned to curses as his feet hit branches.

Alexander crashed through the branches of a small tree and slammed into the ground. He lay still for a second, mentally inventorying his body and giving thanks that he was alive. There was no evident pain, and everything still seemed to be attached and working. He unhooked the releases for his harness and slid his rifle off his shoulder. He checked to make sure his weapon was functioning and then quickly reeled in his parachute, cutting it out of the branches where it had been stuck. He stuffed the chute and his Kevlar helmet in his ruck.

Upslope from him Alexander could hear someone else wrestling with a parachute. Putting his ruck on his back, he clambered up the hill toward the sound. After two minutes he came upon Atwaters between two trees, rolling up his chute in the dark.

"You all right?"

Atwaters nodded. "Yeah. But this sure don't look like no DZ."

Alexander nodded. He was glad he had followed Riley's advice. He pushed a button on the large watchlike device on his wrist. The two-inch face lit up and a small light started flashing at a point along the edge. Alexander rotated his arm but the light stayed in the same direction, uphill and to the south.

"The captain's thataway," he whispered to Atwaters. "You got all your stuff? All right, let's go." The wrist device could be used as either a homing instrument or a means to home in on another similar device. Only the captain's was set to transmit; the rest of the team's were set to receive. The plan was that they would all converge on the captain. Vaughn had activated his homing device just prior to jumping so it would be the first on, once they hit the ground.

Alexander led the way. He knew that the captain shouldn't be too far away, only a few hundred meters at best. They had jumped too low to be very spread out, unless someone had hesitated going off the ramp.

Glancing at his wrist again, Alexander was dismayed to see another light come on, slightly to the left of the first one. That could mean only one thing: Someone had gotten hurt or hung up and couldn't make it to the captain. Alexander adjusted his path and headed toward the second light. In less than a minute of scrambling up the hillside and breaking brush, he came upon the source of the second light.

Through his night-vision goggles Alexander could make out the dark pattern of a parachute hung up in a tree. Coming closer he found the jumper lying beneath it. It was Paulson, the weapons man. To make sure he wouldn't be fired on, Alexander called out softly, "Eyes Two," as he approached.

Alexander knelt next to the jumper. "What's the matter?"

Paulson shook his head. "I think I busted my ankle. I hit the trees and thought I was hung up, and then the chute popped free and I hit the ground. I can't stand on it. I tried and it hurt too much. That's when I turned on the transmitter."

Alexander turned to Atwaters. "Leave your ruck here and go to the captain. Tell him to turn off his transmitter and bring everyone here." Atwaters nodded and, checking his direction on his wrist, turned and headed off to get the team leader.

Alexander quickly did a primary survey of Paulson to make sure there was nothing else wrong with him. Sometimes the pain of one injury masked the warning signs from another more dangerous one. Satisfied that nothing else was seriously wrong, he checked out the ankle.

Hearing someone coming through the brush, Alexander swung around with his silenced MP5, pointing it in the direction of the intruders. He watched as four men broke out into the small clearing at the foot of the tree.

"Eyes Two," one of the figures hissed. Alexander relaxed. The rest of the team was here. Vaughn and Colden, the medic, came over while the other two men settled in as security, pointing upslope and down. Alexander quietly briefed the captain while Colden worked on Paulson.

After a few minutes Colden rendered his report. "It's a broken ankle, all right. We'll have to carry him."

Alexander reached for the captain's ruck. "Let's see where we are." Digging through the parachute inside, he pulled out a piece of electronics that looked similar in size and makeup to the SATCOM radio. The machine was called MANPADS, for man portable position azimuth distance system. Alexander had relied on it several times before and thought it was one of the most useful pieces of equipment he had ever used.

Opening a cover on the machine, he typed in a brief code by feel. The small LED display dimly lit up with eight numbers, which stood for the grid coordinates of their present location. Then he punched in a second set of numbers that he had memorized — the grid coordinates for the lab site. The display lit up with a second set of two numbers: 282-2.13. Alexander shook his head in amazement. Didn't even need to do a map check. He wasn't sure how the damn thing worked, although he knew it had something to do with satellites. The machine had calculated the azimuth and distance from their present location to the target. Without the machine, they'd probably have spent half the night fumbling around in the dark — a frustrating and time-expensive exercise. According to the information, they had been dropped only about twelve hundred meters from where they had wanted to be.

Alexander looked up at Vaughn. "Just over two k's to the target." He checked his compass. "Thataway."

Vaughn nodded and turned to Colden, who was splinting Paulson's leg and foot. "What's his status?"

"Simple break of the ankle. I'm extending the splint below his foot so he can limp along on it in an emergency, but I don't recommend that unless absolutely necessary."

Alexander pulled a poncho from the outside pocket of his ruck. "I'll make up a travois. We'll pull him. It's downhill most of the way."

Riley woke with a start. Reaching over, he pulled his watch off the nightstand. 2312. Damn, he hadn't meant to sleep so late. Eyes Two was already long gone and on the ground in Colombia. Riley lay his head back on the pillow and silently wished them luck.