Sending Messages

Chapter 5 Waking Up

It was like a thick, heavy fog. There was light, but nothing focused and there was no shape to anything. All around her she felt a prickly feeling; distant, but there. To move her arms and legs felt like trying to lift the weight of the world. But as she woke, Patricia Hammond’s mind started to slowly work. She forced her eyes open, and almost immediately wished she hadn’t. The light was painful. Switching senses, she moved her fingers at first and then her arms. Her fingers felt the prickly things surrounding her. They were long strands and they bent easily. Through the haze in her mind she finally figured it out — it was straw. Slowly, she eased her eyes open again. She was in a room lighted by some high window openings. As her eyes focused she saw that the walls were some sort of stucco, dirty, and in some places cracking apart. All around her the floor was covered with straw and she was lying directly beside one of the walls. She tried lifting her head. The room spun rapidly and she quickly laid it back down until the room slowed and finally stopped its turning.

She heard a soft moan. Taking it very slowly, she eased herself up until her head was resting against the wall. With some effort, she pushed herself slowly into a sitting position.

The moan had come from Mayor Robert Hudson — a 60 year old friend she had met on a previous conference. He was laying next to her and had settled down into the straw bedding. He too was slowly working his head to try and shake out the drug induced cobwebs. Easing onto his elbows, he blinked his eyes open. Looking around, his eyes rested on her and a strained smile crossed his face. “You okay?” he asked with a gruff voice.

Patricia nodded her head slightly. Even this small movement started the room spinning again. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Looks like some sort of cell,” said another voice from across the room.

Patricia squinted until things focused again. Nick Evans lifted his hand in a slight wave. Nick was a newcomer to the Sister City conferences but was one of the more enthusiastic of the mayors attending. Although normally well dressed and dashing in his appearance, he now looked almost ten years older than his age of 32. His clothes were wrinkled and stained. Yet he seemed to be doing better than the rest. “There’s a barred door on the far end. Someone passed by a few minutes ago as I was waking up.”

Despite the dizziness, Patricia forced herself to look around the room. Her eyes rested on each of the people lying in various positions in the straw bedding. Some were still asleep, while others were beginning to force their way to consciousness. Several were holding their heads, obviously having their own bouts with the dizziness. “What happened? The last thing I remember was eating dinner,” she said.

“Beats me,” said Jeff Thompson from another corner of the room. “But it’s pretty obvious we’ve been drugged,” he said slowly. “How we got here is anybody’s guess.”

“And where’s here?” asked Jim Mitchell, the oldest member of the group. His face was very pale as he sat against one corner of the room. He was feeling in his pockets until he came up with an orange colored plastic bottle with a white top. He began to struggle slightly with the “child-proof” cap, then finally prying it off, took one of the pills inside and slid it under his tongue. “Thank God I still have these,” he said with a sigh.

“Is everybody here?” Patricia asked.

Evans was looking around as well. “I don’t see Alan Brennan.”

The others were looking around as well. “There are only 14 people here,” Thompson said.

“Remember, he was feeling sick all day and I remember he had to leave the table before this happened,” said Hudson, finally shaking loose from his haze. “Maybe whoever it was didn’t get him,” he said.

“There’s some bottled water over here,” said Sharon Roberts, one of the four woman mayors in the group. She began tossing the plastic bottles around the room. “I suggest everybody drink one before trying to get up.”

By now everyone was stirring. Each reached out for a bottle and quickly down its contents. To Patricia, nothing had ever tasted so good.

There was a sound of a metal door opening. A figure appeared at the cell door with a television camera. He stuck the lens through the door and began taping. Several of the mayors struggled to their feet as he did so. After a few minutes, another figure appeared at the door and placed his hands on his hips. Each of the people in the room turned to stare at him. He was heavy set and dressed in a dark sort of military uniform with a beret type cap. His face was framed with a Van Dyke style beard and mustache. It was set in a scowl.

“I see you are awake finally. As I am sure you have guessed, you are now prisoners under my care,” he said as a smile gently eased onto his face. It was quickly replaced with a frown as he continued. “I see you have found the water. I am instructed to give you all you desire.” There was a rattle of some pots being brought into the outer room. “Your food is here and as long as you are compliant, you will be fed regularly. However, any mischief on your part will be rewarded with the loss of food. So that means that if you want to eat, you must obey my every command. There shall be no disrespect to me or my people. Be good, and you will be treated well.” A door opened up on the wall and paper plates and plastic utensils were shoved in along with a plastic garbage bag. Two of the mayors took the items along with two pots of something warm. “Ask your questions now,” the man said.

“I want to know who you are and who has abducted us,” demanded Curtis Walker, one of the men as he got up from the floor.

The reply was swift and painful. The cell door was flung open and the man struck Walker across the face with a baton before stepping back outside. Walker fell back against the wall and slid to the floor; his eyes now burning with hatred. Two others stumbled to his aid. The rest reacted in horror that such a thing would happen.

The soldier shook his finger at them. “Remember, I said you must be respectful. It is none of your affair who has brought you here or who I am. You must simply obey.”

Sharon Roberts raised her hand like a schoolgirl. He nodded at her. “My I ask where we go when we need to use a bathroom?”

The soldier smiled at her. He pointed to a corner of the room. “It is right over there,” he said with a smirk. Everyone turned to look at what appeared to be a bucket covered with a piece of canvas. When the canvas was lifted, there was a wooden toilet seat laid over it. She looked over at Patricia and rolled her eyes.

“How may we address you,” asked Patricia. “Since we don’t know who you are, we need some way to ask for you or to ask questions,” she said calmly. The anger was rising within her and she had to control it.

“You may simply call me Sergeant, for now.”

Mitchell called out, “Sergeant, I need my medications. They are in my bags at our hotel. I have a heart condition that requires me to take these medications each day. Can someone get them for me?”

The sergeant gave a grunt. “Do I look like an apothecary? I am afraid it is impossible to go to your hotel and retrieve them. You will just have to do without.”

Mitchell turned slightly pale. “I’ve been told I must have them or my heart might quit on me,” he nearly pleaded.

The Sergeant leaned angrily toward the man, pointing his finger at him. “It is not my problem. Do without,” he said emphasizing by shoving his finger toward the man. It was obvious the Sergeant enjoyed pushing others around.

“Do without!” exclaimed Patricia. “You were the ones who brought us here and now this man may die because you didn’t think about the possible repercussions! I respectfully ask to see your superior, Sergeant,” she demanded.

The sergeant lifted his baton again, and then growled an order in Spanish. Two men quickly opened the cell door, entered the room, and retrieved the food pots from one of the mayors before locking the door again. A smile appeared on the sergeant’s face. “It appears you already need to be taught a lesson. You see, I am in charge here and I won’t tolerate any disrespect. No more food until tonight. Now, the question and answer time is over,” he said before turning and exiting the building. A younger guard dressed in a similar uniform sat down outside the room on a bench. His rifle was laid across his lap. The young man simply stared vacantly into the cell.

The mayors let out a small sigh and looked round at each other. “Pat, you gotta learn how to watch your temper,” said Roberts with a grin.

Patricia nodded. “I know. People like that infuriate me. Sorry guys,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. He has empowerment issues,” Roberts said. “We’re just going to have to find a way to suck up to this guy so we can survive, that’s all,” she said with a grin.

“In the mean time, come get some food,” said Tim Sweeny in the front corner of the room. The mayors looked in amazement at fourteen plates of some sort of stew sat on the floor.

“How the hell did you do that?” asked Kay May, staring at the plates in amazement.

Tim chuckled. “Knowing how outspoken some of you are, it figured he might take the pots away, so I poured it out and then stood there with the nearly empty pots.” He began handing out the plates of food. “One thing I noticed. The young guards who took the pots definitely noticed they were empty. They didn’t say a word,” he said.

George Kaye, the middle aged mayor of Jefferson, Tennessee, thought a moment on that one as he quickly began eating the bland meal. “That tells me not everyone agrees with our illustrious sergeant,” he said with a knowing eyebrow raised.

Roger Hammond stirred from his sleep as the sun eased above the horizon and into the bridge windows of the ship. He opened his eyes to a familiar sight, across the window sill out over the ship’s two forward turrets and across the bow. It was almost as if they were underway once more. His thoughts were interrupted by hushed male voices on the other side of the bridge. That was when he noticed the blanket covering him. Wondering where it came from, he looked around behind his seat.

The young female sentry had been replaced by another young petty officer standing by the rear entrance to the bridge. A Secret Service agent was just visible on the deck outside the bridge. The sentry was quieting someone inside the armored citadel.

Moving the blanket aside, Hammons eased down from his chair and walked back to the huge 17 inch thick steel door. He urged the sentry to remain silent. Three young Boy Scouts were inside looking at the gear.

“This is where we steer this thing,” said Hammond, startling the boys inside.

“Whoa,” said one of the boy almost jumping against the bulkhead at the sight of the man in an admiral’s uniform.

“It’s okay, guys,” Hammond said with a chuckle. “I’ve spent many a day on the bridge of this ship,” he said.

The oldest of the three scouts had a questioning look. “Were you the guy I read about during the war?”

Hammond raised his hands. “Guilty as charged. I’m Roger Hammond,” he said extending his hand.

A look of wonder spread across the young man’s face. “Wow! I read all about you and all the stuff you did aboard this ship,” the young man said as he shook Hammond’s hand. “I’m Kurt and this is Tommy and Chuck.”

Hammond nodded. “Yes, I heard there was a troop aboard. How do you like our ship?”

“This is cool,” said Tommy. “I don’t even know how this thing floats,” he said.

“Me either,” said Hammond. “You need to see if they’ll let you go all the way to the top. It’s the best,” Hammond said pointing upward.

“Do you think they would?” asked Chuck.

“I think I can arrange it. By the way, who brought me the blanket?”

“We did,” said Kurt. “We were exploring some last night and saw you up here, so we brought up one of the blankets and they said we could come back when it was daylight.”

“Well, I appreciate it. I was pretty tired after the concert. Did you guys like the music?”

“Yes sir!” exclaimed Chuck. “I’m learning how to play the trumpet.”

“Well, good. Keep practicing and you can get as good as my guys,” Hammond said.

There was a shuffle outside the citadel and Brian Davis stuck his head in. “About time you woke up,” he said with a grin. “We have orders to get you back down to San Diego. We’ll be getting underway in an hour,” he said.

“I can drive quicker,” Hammond said.

Davis shook his head. “No, sir. Admiral Johnson told me personally that I was to bring you. I’ve arranged for one of my officers to drive your car down.”

Hammond sighed slightly. He looked at the scouts beside him. “See. Even admirals get told what to do sometimes,” he said. “See you around again,” he said to the boys as he shook their hands again.

Standing outside the citadel the sentry and agent were now joined by “Boats” Patnaude. “Boats, you still here?” asked Hammond.

“Hell, somebody’s gotta be your wet nurse,” Patnaude said with a grin. Then he got serious. “Look, Captain,” he said quietly. “Let us know if there’s something we can do. You know you can count on us.”

Hammond looked the old man square in the eye. “I know, Boats. Tell the guys I appreciate it. If you guys can help in any way, I’ll call,” he said placing his hand on Patnaude’s shoulder.

A twinkle appeared in Patnaude’s eye. “You better,” he said.

Hammond started to leave when he turned suddenly. “Boats, how about seeing that these guys get the chance to go up to the 0-11 level. They deserve a look,” he said with a grin.

Boats nodded and waved as Hammond and the others left the bridge. He looked at the three young boys standing nearby. He eyed them intently, sizing each young man up, then mumbled, “Three future recruits.” After a moment he nodded his head. “Okay you three shitheads wanna see the real Navy? Let’s get going,” he said firmly. Patnaude was going to show them this ship if it killed them.

One hour later, USS Kings Mountain took in her moorings and departed for San Diego. From her bridge, Hammond watched as Patnaude, in his old white helmet, had thirty young boys in their bare feet lined up on the Iowa’s deck holystoning like real sailors.

Major General Claire Richardson sat in her office in a foul mood. The Chairman, General Black, had called her personally to get her up on what had happened and told her that he wanted her to organize a team. As the Chief of the Pentagon’s new Special Operations Division, she had plenty to choose from, but not enough answers to make any decisions. Already she had contacted the Defense Intelligence Agency to get her those answers. Now it was time to organize a team. Her chief of staff was already working on a list or options, but until things started falling into place, there wasn’t much she could do. That left a bitter taste in her mouth. Hammond was one of her friends and she knew the President, another friend, needed her help.

The Special Operations Division had been formed to gather the very best from each service to take care of the growing number of problems around the world that couldn’t be done with an army or navy. She was like a surgeon’s scalpel. She could go in and cut out a problem and then let the wounds “heal.” Already her teams had rescued some students in Kenya, a diplomat in Indonesia and some kidnapped businessmen in Angola without a single loss and without anyone knowing what had happened. This was going to be one of those type operations. Already the alert had gone out to teams One through Six, although Team Five was currently finishing up some intensive training in the swamps of South Carolina. In the mean time, everyone was getting equipment ready and waiting for the call.

She was checking one team’s readiness report when there was a knock on her door. Captain Chris Spalding opened the swinging door and stepped in.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, but you have visitors in the waiting room. It’s the Dickson family.”

All her concerns were swept away as the smile spread across her face. She had met the Dicksons upon the death of their son, one of her own officers, during the war. They had adopted a young Korean boy who their son had saved from a grenade attack. Since that time she had followed the family and the young boy closely. She rose from her desk and walked to the reception area. There sat Mr. and Mrs. Dickson and a tall, thin 11 year old boy who jumped to his feet and saluted. She stopped and returned his salute. He then rushed up to give his Aunt Clair a hug.

“Hey there, Marine. How have you been doing?” she asked with glee.

“Real good, Aunt Claire. We’re gonna see the memorial today,” he exclaimed.

“Well, I know you’ve been looking forward to that,” she said, and then turning to the Dicksons, she gave each a hug. “I’m so glad you could come by. Thanks for bringing my little boy to see me again. Come on it the office.”

The three followed her to her office and sat down at a couch and two chairs opposite her desk. For the next fifteen minutes they caught up on everything going on since their last visit nearly a year before. Richardson was particularly interested in seeing how Jua Jing, whose name had now been changed to William, was doing in school and with other children.

“Well, we had a problem recently in school. Will got suspended for a day,” said Russ Dickson, stifling a grin on his face. Obviously he was holding something back.

Richardson turned to look at young Will. She gave him a skeptical look. “Suspended? Now how did this happen? I thought you were a straight “A” model student.”

William hung his head slightly, then looked up at her. “I got in a fight.”

The typing and rustling of papers in the outer office ceased and Richardson heard a couple of chairs ease back along the floor as the occupants quietly came to the door to listen. Everyone in the office liked the little boy and he had become their “mascot” once they had heard of how one of their own had personally saved him. Three faces appeared at the door.

Richardson noticed, but continued her concerned look. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Will looked over at his Mom, then his Dad nodded to go ahead. He looked back at Richardson. “Well, there’s this guy at school. He likes to pick on me because I’m Korean.”

Richardson nodded. “You’ve had things like that happen before.”

Will nodded. “Yes, Ma’am, that doesn’t bother me too much,” he said. “But he started saying things bad about my brother.”

Richardson almost heard a growl from outside her office. The guys were listening intently. Even she was getting upset. His adopted brother, also named William, had made the ultimate sacrifice to save this boy’s life. This would be a very painful memory. She looked at Will. “I understand. So what did you do?”

“Well, Mom always told me that I shouldn’t get into fights at school, but what he said just made me angry,” he said almost shamefully.

Richardson nodded. “It must have been pretty bad then. What did he say?”

Will looked at his Mom and then back again. “Mom says it’s not a nice thing to say.”

Richardson smiled. Will was growing up to be such a good boy. Her pride in the young man was growing each time they saw each other. She smiled slightly and said, “I’m sure it’s alright to tell me. I won’t be angry.”

He looked at her with almost a pleading in his eyes. “He said my brother and all Marines were a bunch of pussies!” he blurted out.

There was a slight gasp in the other room as Richardson calmly nodded and asked, “And then what happened?”

William suddenly stood up tall with a look of intense determination on his face as he told her, “I kicked his ass.”

There was a whoop from the outer office as four Marines sprang into the room. They swept the young man up offering their support, then slapping him on the back. Richardson sat back laughing while his adopted father beamed with pride. Only his Mom looked a little skeptical. Richardson knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before every Marine in the Pentagon knew what had happened.

“It turns out this guy has been a troublemaker for a while. He ended up with two black eyes and lost a tooth. The teacher had to pull Will off of him. When I told the principal the situation, Will got off with just one day. The other boy got a month,” Russ Dickson said with some pride.

Richardson continued to chuckle at the situation. The boy had defended both his brother and the Corps. Not bad for an 11 year old.

Will was now smiling broadly. Although the guys were reinforcing the idea of not starting fights, it was clear they approved of what he had done. To him, it meant the world.

The celebration was short lived. General Black entered the room and the shouting and congratulations suddenly halted as everyone came to attention. Even Will stood straight.

“I seem to be interrupting something,” Black exclaimed.

After introductions and retelling the story which had just unfolded, Black stood back and grinned at the young man. “It appears our young man has some pride in the Corps and his family. That is a very good thing, young man. Now, what’s this I hear about you wanting to see the Iwo Jima Memorial?”

“He’s been wanting to see it for over a year, General,” said Amy Dickson. “In the three years since he’s learned about his brother and the Marines, he’s wanted to see for himself. We can’t keep him from the history books.”

Black looked at the boy, and then got down on one knee in front of him. “Tell me. What is so special to you about the Marines?”

The young, dark eyes focused on Black. The boy’s face was thoughtful and determined. “The Marines always try to do good things. They stop people from doing bad things. They rescued me and my friends. A Marine saved my life and gave me my family. When I grow up, I want to be one,” he said.

Black looked at the sincerity in the boy’s eyes. It was the most innocent and truthful thing he had heard in a long time. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and nodded his head. “Then I promise I will help you become one,” he said.

Black got to his feet. “Mr. and Mrs. Dickson, how about you and Will come with me. Claire, you come too. I’m going to personally make sure you get to see the Memorial, but first, I want you to meet a friend of ours,” he said with a grin. Before he left the office with everyone in tow, he made a special phone call to a number only a few people know.

“I just need to know if Parente will be cooperative or not,” said the Secretary of State Branson over the secure communications set. He had been on the phone for an hour with Ambassador Jonas trying to get a feel for Parente and how far they could trust him. Jonas hadn’t given him a really straight answer yet. “We don’t know if we can trust him.”

“Of course you can,” said Ambassador Jonas. “I keep a dialogue going with him just so he knows me and I can know him. He is a man of considerable power and can do quite a lot for us when the time comes. I know what makes him tick.”

“So he’ll cooperate with our investigations?” Branson asked.

“He has no reason not to since it doesn’t involve him. Just send one or two people down and I’ll see about getting them in with their counterparts,” Jonas said. “They can work through me to get their investigations done.”

Through him? thought Branson. What did that mean? “We’re already working to get people down there. They may need a wide range of assistance,” the Secretary said without telling Jonas of the revelations about the truck. “What if we need the help of his armed forces?”

“What? You think someone might make a break across the border? Parente won’t stand for that, and he won’t be willing to take orders from the United States. He is the leader of a sovereign nation and takes it very seriously. I can get him to do a great many things, but using his military will be his call and his call alone. He also won’t stand by and let someone else come in either. I can tell him if we have suspicions about this and he will act on it as he sees fit,” Jonas said.

“I’m not talking about any invasion, but if we find out someone has spirited the hostages across the border, will he use his people to help in the search?” Branson asked.

“I have no doubt,” said Ambassador Jonas, growing tired of the conversation. “I have been able to get on his good side and intend to keep it that way,” he boasted. “But at the same time, he will want something in return. That’s why I have to keep him informed about what we are doing and what we are planning. That way he will feel he can trust us,” Jonas said.

Branson looked at the handset he was holding in disbelief. Is he joking, he thought. “We are not in the habit of telling others our operational plans — especially those who are outspoken against what we do.”

“That’s part of the reason these people down here distrust us so,” said Jonas. “They think we just go around doing what we want to do without their advice or consent. Give him something to make him feel good and it will go a long way,” Jonas said. “That’s how I can handle him. You let me know what’s going on and I can use some of it to keep him doing what we want.”

Branson almost couldn’t speak. Maybe this guy was just tired and a little boastful, but if he thought this was the way to handle a dictator, they were all in trouble. He decided to calm the waters for the time being. “Very well, expect someone from the FBI and CIA down there sometime today. As we find out anything, I will let you know. The main thing is to find our people and get them back,” he said.

“No CIA. Their guy down here is good enough. The agency is hated around here,” Jonas said.

“I’ll pass that along. In the mean time, try and find out anything you can as well. There are fourteen Americans who need our help,” said Branson, wanting to end the conversation.

“I will. Keep me informed,” said Jonas as the call ended.

Branson stared at his desk. This guy’s a piece of work, he thought. And what was that all about keeping him informed? The hair on the back of the Secretary’s neck was standing on end. Something was terribly wrong. He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. It was answered after only one ring.

“Pete, I just got off the line with Ambassador Jonas in Venezuela,” he said. “I think we have a problem.”

The helicopter circled the airfield before coming in for a soft landing on the pad. A black armored Chevrolet Suburban was waiting and Presidente Parente and Colonel Rojas quickly exited the craft and climbed into the car. They completely ignored the small contingent of soldiers standing stiffly at attention to one side. Once inside the car, the driver closed the door and ran to get into the front. The big vehicle pulled out of the gate and down the paved road.

Inside the car, Parente continued his narrative on how he was to gain political control of the United States, then work his way down the isthmus and back into South America. In his mind, there was nothing to stand in his way.

“Most nations are politically weak. They lack real leadership,” he said to Rojas. “Look at the United States. Their president lets the people in congress push him around. He can’t make a decision without working to have a clear majority, both in their congress and in public opinion. A true leader may take suggestions, but he makes decisions. Once the decision is made it must be up to the rest to get in line to make things happen. This is what we have in Venezuela. I listen to what our parliament says is a problem and the suggestions they have on its outcome and then I make the executive decision on the best way to go. Once that decision is made, the parliament decides on how to make the decision work. I say what must be done and then it simply happens. You see how that differs greatly from these other so called democratic governments? It is much more efficient,” he said taking a drink from his chilled bottled water.

Rojas sat and took it all in. Until now he had not realized just how bad the government had gotten in Venezuela. Only people like Hitler and Stalin had wielded such power. The more he listened, the more he knew he must escape the situation. But how could he do it? Rojas was sure he was being watched and he knew the security forces in the capital were far reaching. From this point he knew he must look for every opportunity so that when the time came, he could jump.

As Parente rattled on, the car drove through the hills until turning on a gravel road that led to a small fortress like encampment. “Ah, we are here,” said Parente.

A small opening on the large wooden set of doors opened and a squad of men in black uniforms quickly formed a line. Standing in front of the men was the sergeant. He saluted as Parente exited the car and stepped forward. “We have been successful, Señor Presidente,” the sergeant stated formally.

Parente returned the sergeant’s salute and then shook his hand. “Very well done. Very well done, indeed!” said Parente. “Where are the prisoners?”

“They are under guard in our small stockade, Señor Presidente. So far they have posed few problems.”

“Excellent. As we walk, tell be about your operation,” Parente said as he began walking toward the door. The sergeant fell in step, providing every detail of the raid the night before and his instructions to his people regarding their prisoners. As he finished his report he asked, “What shall be done with the prisoners, Señor Presidente? I ask only because that will govern how we shall ultimately treat them.”

Parente thought a moment. “Actually sergeant, if everything goes to plan will be to eventually let them go, but plans change. I believe we can say that their fate is in the hands of the Americans. You will receive word on their outcome later.”

From inside the cell, the mayors could hear the conversation, but only a few could understand it. Mitchell seemed most excited. “You hear what he’s saying?” he asked Patricia.

“I heard him. Is that Parente? He keeps calling the man El Presidente,” she said in a whisper.

“A couple of you guys help me take a look,” Mitchell said.

Two of the younger men helped lift Mitchell up to one of the openings and he peered outside.

Parente was giving some instructions when he noticed the face at the opening. “There is someone watching us. Who is it?” he asked sternly in a hushed tone.

The sergeant turned and caught a glimpse before the face disappeared from sight. “I know which one, Señor Presidente. He is the one complaining about his heart medicines. Should I bring him before you?”

Parente grinned and spoke softly. “No. Treat them well for a time and let them think we do not know. There will be a ceremony in two days. Have him ready,” he said to the man.

The sergeant smiled broadly. “It shall be done,” he said.

“I asked to meet with you this afternoon to help me think through some things. Normally I have my staff to do it, but today you will have that task,” said Hammond before the fourteen officers seated around the wardroom table. He had already come to some conclusions about the abduction, but he wanted to make sure that they made sense. After all, with Patricia one of the victims, he needed to make sure he was thinking through the problem in an unbiased way. “Since Captain Davis kindly offered you up as guinea pigs, I thought I would take advantage of your minds,” he said with a grin.

The men and women around the table returned the smile and seemed to relax a bit. Hammond took his seat at the head of the table. Davis was to his right. The XO, Commander Pat Schuetz, was on the left. The rest were a mix of younger eyes watching him from around the table; some eager and some wary of the task ahead. Hammond plowed on.

“You all know the situation from last night. We have the following information…” he said as he quickly laid out the facts as they were known. Fortunately, his staff had forwarded a briefing via email and his Chief of Staff had talked over the secure phone. He knew all they had. “Now where do we go from here?” Hammond asked finally.

“If a truck matching the description was seen going into Venezuela, I’d start there,” said a lieutenant sitting down the table. “Do you think this is a government thing, or is this some terrorist faction?”

“We don’t know as yet,” Hammond said.

At the end of the table someone was typing furiously into a laptop. After some additional arguments she chimed in. “There’s only one terrorist group that might pose a threat in the area. They’re called the FARC. But according to this, they have become a fairly mainstream political organization. Their terrorist activities stopped a good five years ago,” she said pointing to the laptop screen. “They operate mostly out of Colombia, but have crossed the borders on numerous occasions.”

“Could someone from another of the South American countries do this?” asked an ensign at the end of the table.

“I doubt it,” said Schuetz. He had majored in international studies with an emphasis on Latin America. “The distances are pretty big around there. You have Guyana on one side of Venezuela, Brazil down south and Peru and Ecuador on the other side of Colombia. It’s around a thousand miles to any of these borders, and their roads aren’t much more than dirt strips.”

“How bad would it be to transport all fourteen of these people over a long distance?” asked a lieutenant junior grade.

There was a chuckle from another lieutenant. “You ever tried to lift a drunk?” he asked. “It’s worse than lifting bags of cement. Then you get them in a vehicle, and they just bounce around. I assume they aren’t trying to kill these people, so you have to worry about getting too bumpy with them. Since it sounds like they were drugged, you also have to worry about them waking up. So they can’t be on the road that long.”

The arguments went back and forth. Some thought it was terrorists, some thought governments, and some simply argued about how it could have been done in any case. At the end of the table one young man sat quietly the whole time, listening carefully. Hammond noticed the look on the young man’s face and recognized something. He was thinking the problem, not arguing, but putting pieces together. The argument had come to the possibility of the Colombian government actually doing it when he sat up and spoke.

“We’re going the wrong way,” the young officer finally said. The people around the table got quiet.

“What do you mean?” asked another.

“Look, everybody’s trying to guess at who did it and where they might be, but what we really need to think about is why it was done. You know that, and it will point to our captor,” he said calmly. “After all, when someone kidnaps a person or people, it is to make some sort of statement. It can be as simple as ‘you pissed me off and I’m gonna get you,’ or as complicated as a political power play. In any case they want something. What do they want?” he asked.

Hammond smiled inwardly. His guess had been right and this kid had nailed it. “No one has made any demands so far,” he said.

“Then it will be soon. The idea is to get your hostages and let your enemy know as soon as possible. I mean, that’s the whole idea. Why do it if you don’t let people know what you want?” the young officer asked.

After a moment Hammond smiled at the man and said, “Something tells me you’ve already worked it out.”

The young man’s face turned red. He had put his neck out for chopping, but he couldn’t stop now. “Yes sir, I think so.”

Hammond urged him on. “Go ahead. It never hurts to hear a point of view.”

The officer raised a finger. “First, it is too big an operation to be a terrorist group. You mentioned that the border guards seemed to let the truck pass through. That tells me they knew the people. If so, it was a government backed thing,” he said counting off on his fingers. “Although we don’t have a stellar relationship with the Latin American nations, it’s been pretty good as of late and we have been doing a lot to make things better. Colombia’s president has everything to lose and nothing to gain since we just concluded that big trade deal with them. He’s even visited Washington twice during this presidency. Why jeopardize that? I agree with the XO. Distances are key. With them being drugged and in a truck, they just can’t go that far unless they have a plane hidden somewhere. So it’s either Colombia or Venezuela. President Parente is not a friend of the United States, we all know that. But he isn’t so stupid as to carry something like this off and risk the scorn of the world over something small. He loves to boast and brag about his leadership and he has tried to extend that to have influence in his neighbors. What if he could show some of these smaller countries just what a big man he is? It would stroke his ego a long way. Now let’s look at what has happened. A group of American mayors has been kidnapped. Why Americans? Why no hostage demand? And why now? I believe this tells us exactly why it’s been done.”

The people in the wardroom sat silent for a moment until the young woman at the computer sat up. “The election,” she blurted out. “The media will have a field day just like the Iranian hostages back in the 70’s. With no real indication of who did it or where they are, the President will have a heck of a time getting them back before the vote and in the mean time the public has just enough time to get annoyed and change sides. The opposition would be crazy not to take advantage of this,” she said.

Heads around the room were nodding and voicing their agreement. Hammond looked at Davis and smiled. “I think we have all come to the same conclusion.” He nodded toward the young officer who found the answer. “Keep an eye on him Brian. He’ll go places,” he said before thanking the group and closing the meeting. He had come to the same conclusion that morning. Now he had to take it to his friends.

The swamps of South Carolina were stifling hot in late September. Mosquitoes were everywhere and were joined by seemingly every other insect in the world, not to mention a few snakes. Major Josh Pegram stood in his command post and scanned the surrounding area for the enemy. In the gamming situation, he and his troops had a hostage and the opposing force was tasked with rescuing the hostage without getting him killed. The command post was in the middle of the swamp and the rescuers would have to crawl through it to get the man out. So far, no team had been able to do it. The combination of heat and insects seemed to always cause something to give the other team away. Special Team Five had been training up for this mission for three weeks. They had left the kick off point three days ago. So far there had been no sign of them. Pegram chuckled at the idea that they might have gotten lost.

This team was a pretty good one. The captain in charge was better than most and listened to his people. But it was the enlisted leadership that had impressed Pegram — especially Master Sergeant Dale Ricks. At first he was skeptical. Ricks didn’t have his legs. He had lost them during the last war. But obviously that hadn’t stopped him. He could outrun, jump or kick any man in the outfit. He was smart too. He had learned a lot of evasion techniques during the war and was eager to pass those along to his people. Where some people might just give up and walk away, Ricks would just move faster. Yet, he was the most pleasant guy to be around. Not bad at all.

One of his men came around the corner. “Sir, one of the guys heard something on the other side.”

Pegram grabbed the field glasses and walked to the other side of the compound. The compound was literally a small island only about three feet higher than the surrounding swamp. There was one narrow path that snaked to it. Pegram lifted his glasses and scanned in the direction the young man was pointing. “What did it sound like?” he asked.

The younger sentry was also scanning the area. “Can’t place it, sir. It just wasn’t like the rest of the sounds,” he said quietly. A third man joined in with his binoculars. After a minute, a second sound, almost like something clinking against a glass jar was faintly heard above the cacophony of life surrounding the compound.

Pegram was expecting something. “Get the rest of the squad up here.”

Within a minute five more people were along the mud wall, rifles in hand. They spread themselves along the wall and waited. The marshy waters surrounding the compound remained a flat calm. There was no sign of anything amiss. After a few minutes Pegram began a circle of the compound. About three quarters of his men were at the one wall while the others remained at their posts on the other three. He rounded the corner of the tent at the center of the island. Inside the tent an observer was posing as the hostage and watching through the tent windows. He was watching intently.

Pegram walked up to the sentry on the door side of the tent opposite the others. “See anything out here?” he asked. The soldier didn’t respond. Pegram nudged him and the young man turned his head and stared at him. There was a bright yellow paintball splotch at the dead center of his helmet. Pegram started to respond when two paintballs hit him — one in the head and one in the center of his chest. As per the exercise rules, Pegram sat down and didn’t make a sound.

A figure that looked like some sort of swamp monster emerged from the tent and made a hand signal. Three men suddenly materialized from the front of the mud wall and quietly climbed over. They were dripping with mud, moss and the tarry black ooze from the swamp. The figure from the tent then spoke into a small microphone seemingly attached to his cheek.

The sound was heard again. This time there was some stirring in the water. Now all the men rushed to the one side of the island and aimed their rifles toward the disturbance. One man called for the Major.

Suddenly each of the men found himself hit several times with the paintballs — not from the direction of the disturbance, but from the island itself. It took only a moment and Special Team Five gathered around the observer. The defending team sat dejected along the wall where they fell. The observer took in a deep breath. “Nice to be a free man again. Where’s the coffee?”

The faces of the team broke into wide grins and one peeled off his hat and leaned against the wall. “I had some doughnuts, but an alligator ate ‘em,” said Ricks. The men chuckled around him.

“Damn it, when did you get here, Ricks?” asked Pegram, finally getting up from the ground. “We haven’t seen anything move in this water all day,” he said.

Ricks gave him a jaunty look. “We got here last night, Major,” he said. “It took us till nearly dawn to get in position, then we wanted to let you guys get a little tired. Right after lunch most of these guys looked like they needed a nap.”

“Shit,” Pegram said, disgusted.

Captain Gregg Chapman was standing on the outside of the wall, leaning against it. He had let Ricks lead this one in. But even he had been only ten feet away when it had all gone down. On top of his hat was a set of weeds and a stick that matched perfectly with the surrounding swamp. “Okay people, let’s get our hostage back to safety. The quicker we get back, the quicker we can crawl out of these suits,” he said. “Let’s do this by the book. Carter, take point. Griffiths, Jones, right and left.” He turned to the Major. “We’ll see you at debriefing, sir.”

Pegram was visibly upset, but he was a professional soldier and that just wouldn’t do. “Carry on Captain,” he said. The two saluted and Special Team Five moved out with their rescued hostage. After they had moved off a few yards Pegram turned to his men, still covered in yellow splotches. “Alright, ladies, this is one we aren’t going to live down. Looks like we need some more training ourselves. Sergeant, pack it up. We move out in five,” he ordered. The Major turned and watched as the team melded into the surrounding swamp. “How the hell did they do that,” he asked himself.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Stark was getting to like the big Oldsmobile. As the Commissary Officer aboard the Kings Mountain he wasn’t really needed for the short trip back to San Diego, so he had been chosen to drive the Admiral’s car back. He was used to a quick little Honda Civic. The big Olds with its 455 cubic inch engine made him feel like he was riding a thoroughbred. Just the slightest tough of the accelerator and the car instantly responded, pressing him firmly back into the bench seat. He had actually spun the rear wheels as he left the parking lot.

Now Stark was a little concerned. He knew what had happened to the Admiral’s wife. About half way back to San Diego he noticed the older white car in his rear view window. It seemed to stay about two cars behind. Every time he passed a car, the other one kept up. One time, he hit the accelerator and made a dash down the road. The other car followed suit. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the San Diego base operator.

“Give me the Naval Investigative Service,” he said quickly. Two rings later he was connected. “This is Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Stark. I’m on Interstate Five heading south nearing San Diego. I’m driving Vice Admiral Hammond’s yellow Oldsmobile back from San Pedro, and I believe I’m being followed.”

The agent didn’t make the connection. “Well, lieutenant, what does that have to do with us?”

Stark actually looked down and stared at the phone with disbelief. Shaking his head, he continued, “Well, considering his wife was one of the people kidnapped in Colombia last night, don’t you think it’s a little strange?”

The agent sat up straight. Until now he hadn’t made the connection. He motioned for others to pick up. “Okay, what makes you think you’re being followed,” he asked.

“There’s a small, older white Nissan that I’ve been watching for the last thirty minutes. He stays about 100 yards or so back. But every time I move, he moves. When I speed up or slow down, he does too. He’s just not acting like the rest of the drivers. With all that’s happened, I thought you might want to know.”

There was another voice on the line. “Lieutenant, this is Agent Carlson. Can you read the plates?”

“No sir, he stays just far back enough that I can’t. I can see that it’s like an older Nissan Altima and there appears to be a dent in his front bumper, like he’s hit a pole or something. I’m driving the admiral’s yellow Oldsmobile convertible. I think he said it was a 1968 model. The base should have the tag number since he has a sticker on the windshield. What should I do?”

Smart kid, Agent Carlson thought. “Alright Lieutenant, here’s what we do. You just keep on driving normal. I want you to come straight back to the base and come through the main gate like there’s nothing wrong. Where did they tell you to take the car?”

“Pier seven is where the Kings Mountain should come back to. I was told to take the car there and wait for the ship,” Stark said.

Thinking quickly, Carlson shook his head. “I have a better idea. There’s a small office building with a big parking lot just inside the gate to the left. I want you to pull around, park the car where it can easily be see from across the train tracks. Then quickly go inside the building. Just wait there until I come get you. You have that?”

“Yes sir,” said Stark.

“Good. We’ll take it from here. If it is someone following you, we’ll take care of it,” Carlson said.

Stark glanced at his watch. “I should be entering the main gate in about 20 minutes.”

“We’ll be waiting. Good job lieutenant,” Carlson said as he hung up the phone. “Okay people, let’s get in some cars. I want to get eyes on this guy in the white Nissan and keep them there. I don’t want him knowing we’re onto him just yet. Let’s give him some rope to hang himself. Get another car in the parking lot outside the gate. He’ll probably park somewhere nearby to keep an eye on the Admiral’s car. We keep our distance and watch. If it’s a false alarm, no harm done. If not, we catch him and find out what he’s up to. Let’s move people.” As half a dozen agents left the office, Carlson picked up the phone and dialed the Secret Service field office.

Juan Ricardo felt out of his league. He had been in the United States with a work visa for the past three years working to promote Venezuelan agricultural products. But his paycheck was for his other job — to gather information on certain aviation activities at several of the bases in Southern California. It was an easy job. With hills surrounding most installations, it was no problem watching any newly developed aircraft, how they handled and what they looked like. Boeing, Northrop-Grumman, General Dynamics, all of them had facilities in the area. He could sit in his car and watch, take photos and pass the word back to his superiors. But following people was not his expertise. His instructions were to follow this man and his car wherever he went and report in. So far, there hadn’t been a problem. The yellow Olds was easy to see and despite some erratic driving, he was able to keep up. His problem would be if the car went inside one of the naval bases. He couldn’t go in there. It meant he would have to wait outside until this guy left. Oh well, this is keeping my family living well, he thought to himself.

As they entered heavier traffic, he got closer to his charge. After a few minutes he watched as the Oldsmobile entered the main gate of the San Diego Naval Base. The car disappeared from his view. He pulled into a parking lot off McCandless Boulevard to wait. Ricardo couldn’t believe his luck when the yellow car pulled into a large parking lot across the highway and parked almost at the fence. He saw the occupant, in his white uniform, get out of the car and go in a small building. Shutting off the engine, he sat back in his seat and relaxed. No problem, he thought to himself.

One row back, a silver Dodge Charger eased into a spot facing the rear of the white Nissan. The darkened windows kept anyone from seeing the two agents inside. They radioed their fellow agents in a blue Ford Mustang sitting just inside the lot. Now they would wait.

“What do you mean he’s being followed?” the President asked.

“We have two cars with eyeballs on the person right now,” Kurt West said. “When a young officer was detailed to take Hammond’s car back to San Diego, he noticed it and called in. He’s sitting in an old Nissan across from the Naval Station gate watching the car like a hawk.”

“What about the other families? Are they being tailed too?” the President asked.

West shook his head. “Not as far as I can tell so far. It’s a little soon, but we immediately sent people out to check. The first indications are that he’s the only one.”

The President sat back and thought a minute. “Any idea who this guy is yet?”

“Not yet. We have good photos and we’re running his face through the system. I even have people checking with Immigration in case he’s come in from outside. I should have something tomorrow morning,” West said.

“Okay, now the big question — why Roger?”

West shrugged. “Whoever it is, they’re afraid of him or what he might do. He’s the only military man in the bunch. My guess is they think he might just be able to do them some harm. Why else would you keep tabs on a guy?”

The President chuckled. “Whoever it is has that right. Roger could put a hurt on just about anyone if he put his mind to it. Just looking at what he did during the last war.” The President stopped and his eyes widened a bit. He looked at West, who had the same expression on his face.

“But why him instead of people in the Pentagon? It’s not a U.S. retaliation they’re afraid of, it’s him,” said West as he thought it through.

The President sat a moment in thought, then a smile appeared on his face. “Of course it’s him. Either this is a retaliation against him for the war — which is a little unlikely, or they found out they had his wife and are taking some precautions. Remember what he did with the Iowa? He dashed in and wiped out dozens of enemy positions along the coast. When he had a task force full of battleships he did even more damage. I bet they think he might just get in his old ship and try something,” the President said with some excitement.

“Yea, but no one man can take something like a battleship and act on his own,” said West.

The President nodded. “To us that’s true, but to someone who considers himself all powerful, who has people jumping at his command, it’s another story.”

West nodded. It made sense. “Looks like I need to get people looking at each of the battleship sites as well. If some people are watching those, we may have something to go on,” he said.

“Good enough. Now what about this guy watching Hammond?”

West smiled. “I want to trail him along a bit. Let him think he’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to do, then when the time is right, we nail him and get a little information. If there are people watching those ships or any of the other families, we’ll nail them at the same time. By then, we may know who they are reporting to.”

“You’re a sneaky SOB when you want to be, Kurt. Let’s get these guys,” the President said with a grin.

West gave a wink. “Yes sir, Mister President,” he said as he turned and left the room.

The President chuckled and turned to his secure phone. After a hit on his speed dial someone answered immediately. “This is the President, let me speak to Admiral Johnson,” he said. It only took a moment before Admiral Johnson came on the line. “Admiral, I’d like to know when the next two battleships are scheduled for their underway periods.”

“No problem, sir, as I recall the North Carolina is scheduled for later this month and the Iowa is just after the election in November. Missouri is next after that out in Pearl. Is something up?” Johnson asked.

“Maybe. Kurt West just handed me some information that could be interesting. Didn’t you tell me that those crewmen were still aboard Iowa?”

The Chief of Naval Operations chuckled, “Yes sir. They refuse to leave until their mayor’s back.”

“Bless their hearts. I’m thinking about making their dreams come true. How quick could we get a reserve crew onboard?” the President asked.

“Less than a week if we push it. You need me to come over?”

“No, but you might have your staff take a look at both ships getting underway a little early. We’ll talk in the morning at the briefing.”

“Boss, I’m sensing the devious side in you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll have some answers for you,” Johnson said.

“Thanks, Perry. It could be fun. Good night,” the President said as he hung up the phone.

In the Pentagon, Perry Johnson sat back in his chair. Something was cooking and his boss needed some answers. He smiled. The President was right. It could be fun. Two calls later and the halls on the Navy side of the Pentagon began to churn.

Dale Ricks sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi-like hot tub, adjusted the rubber feet over the stumps of his legs and swung himself over the side and into the warm, bubbly water. He immediately let out an audible sigh. After four days in the swamps, his muscles ached and the water caressed every part of him. At the debrief, there wasn’t a single fault found in his team’s execution. The hostage had been rescued and the bad guys eliminated. Not a bad end to any situation, he thought to himself. But the hours required to remain unmoving, or only slightly moving, through the warm infested, murky waters, had left his body stiff and sore. Even when the water moccasin had decided to perch itself on his camouflaged helmet, he had been unable to react to it. Only when he had slowly submerged his head under the water did the snake finally swim away. That alone had taken ten minutes. Such was the price to pay for being stealthy. Ricks slowly turned his body in the roiling water to stretch his tired muscles and let the tension drain away.

As Ricks finally sat back and let the bubbles do their work, one of the staff plopped down beside him in the water. Staff Sergeant Stan Whitman was a part of the training staff at the school. As another Army member, he and Ricks had hit it off over a beer the night Ricks pulled in. Whitman was tall and lanky, but he could throw a 200 pound man through a brick wall whenever he liked.

“Damn, Ricks, did you have to embarrass the Major that bad? He’s going to be after the rest of us for weeks,” Whitman said with a grin.

Ricks shrugged. “If he wants to play with the big guys, he needs to bone up a little,” he said without opening his eyes.

Whitman chuckled. “I just wish I could have been there to see the look in his face. He walks around here like he’s a gift from the gods. This should knock him down a peg or two. He’s been saying for a long time that his team was the best. Then you made him eat those words. You being an Army puke made it even worse,” he said.

“Well, you can tell that Marine that I got my training in the wilds of Korea. Spent over a month behind enemy lines. When the Marines needed help, they called on me,” Ricks said with a grin. “I even have a Navy Cross to prove it.”

“Not to mention the big one,” said Whitman, referring to his Medal of Honor. “You did real good out there, man. Your team is top notch. Who knows, you might even get called in for the latest,” he said.

Ricks and his team had been out for days and hadn’t heard of anything in the outside world. He got a puzzled look on his face as he turned his head toward Whitman. “Haven’t heard. What’s happened?”

“Seems like somebody decided they didn’t like us again. They kidnapped over a dozen of our mayors at some conference down in Colombia,” Whitman said.

“Any ideas who did it?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Ricks grunted. “Why is it some of these guys think they can get away with this shit,” he said disgustedly.

“Same old thing. We’re the big bad Americans. ‘I’ll get you,’ and all that. They really aren’t too smart,” said Whitman.

“Ain’t that the truth. And as usual, we get to clean up their mess. Anybody special we might have heard of?”

“Not really, but it turns out one of the mayors is married to some navy admiral. The news has made a little fuss over it. Other than that…”

Ricks sat up and looked hard at Whitman. “You know the name?”

Whitman was a little surprised. Suddenly the water had turned really cold. “I think it was something like Hammer or Hanley, or something.”

“Roger Hammond?”

“Yea, that was it. Why?”

Ricks pulled himself quickly out of the water and grabbed his towel.

“What’s the matter, Dale? You know this guy or something?”

Ricks turned and looked at Whitman. To Whitman, Ricks face had changed from its normal easy going look to one that made him shiver. It was a face you didn’t want to see on a dark night. “He’s a friend of mine,” said Ricks.

Whitman was about to say something when a young Private came into the gym shouting Ricks’ name.

“Master Sergeant Ricks, the CO wants to see you and your team ASAP,” the young man said.

Ricks glanced at Whitman. “I guess you were right,” he said as he headed for the dressing room.