Sending Messages

Chapter 8 The Word Gets Out

It was after midnight when Rojas was awakened by a call from Colonel Messina. He had barely gotten out of bed and put on some clothes when he heard the knock at the door. Messina was still dressed in his uniform.

“Carl, what is so important?” asked Rojas as he ushered Messina to a chair. Messina held up his hand. He was carrying a briefcase which he opened and took out a device. Aiming it around the room he studied the display. After a few moments he sighed and placed the device on the table. He took out another device, plugged it in, and turned it on.

“I had to make sure we were not being listened to,” Messina said softly.

Rojas suddenly got very tense. Something was wrong and Messina was taking no chances. Worse yet, it must involve him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I would probably be shot telling you this, but I can’t let things go on as they are,” Messina said. “Today Parente and his Secret Police Chief went to the compound. The intercom was broken. About half way there, I started hearing their conversation.” He took a deep breath. “It seems our Presidente is the one who kidnapped the Americans.”

Rojas took in a breath. He wasn’t sure how to play this. It could be a trap. “What did you hear?”

“They were going over the plans and what would happen to them. They are being held at that compound in the mountains near his little retreat,” Messina said referring to where Parente held his rituals. “But that’s not why I came.” He said as he took Rojas’ arm. “Juan, they are planning on blaming this all on you.”

“Me?” exclaimed Rojas, his eyes bulging at the prospect.

“Yes, my friend. They have evidently faked documentation where you gave all the orders and were doing this to start some sort of coup. When the Americans come looking, all they will find are those documents and a bunch of dead hostages. Parente plans to shoot you and turn it all over to the Americans. I overheard them anticipating that the Americans would then look at Parente as some sort of savior, giving him support,” Messina said. He smiled weakly and looked at his friend. “I knew right away there was no way you could be involved like this.” The he straightened up. “Of course, if you are, then I am ready to be arrested.”

Rojas looked down at his hands. They were trembling. It seemed the nightmare only got worse. He looked up at his friend and smiled. “No arrest for you. If I have to endure this, I guess, it’s better not to be alone,” he said. “Parente told me the morning he took me with him to the compound. His main goal is to gain power, one way or another. It looks like he’s made plans to have it go his way no matter what. Ever since then, I have been pounding my brain to try and find a solution to this. Our Presidente is clearly on the knife edge of insanity and it could bring our nation to ruin,” he said mournfully. “I’m not sure what to do.”

Messina was feeling better now. He knew his friend was innocent and he was now sure he was doing the right thing. He sat back in his chair. “Then we work on this together. Somehow we have to let the Americans know about this without getting shot. I must confess, I have been thinking about this all afternoon and haven’t come up with a solution either,” he said, “at least not a solution that didn’t end up with me in a grave. I thought about just going to their embassy, but it is constantly watched, and the way he was talking, it seemed like the American ambassador was in on it. It at least sounded like he was working with other Americans.”

Rojas thought a moment. “That means we can’t just hand the information over. We have to be careful who we give this to. The Secret Police are very efficient in watching most places.” He glanced over at the devices on the table. “I see you aren’t taking any chances. What are those?” he asked pointing to the equipment.

Messina smiled. “We have to debug aircraft and sometimes places where El Presidente wants to meet with people. The first one will let me know if there is an eavesdropping device. The second is putting out some sort of electronic noise that will prevent us being heard. We keep them stowed in the aircraft just in case.”

Rojas nodded in approval. Messina was a smart man. “Good idea. Now where do we go from here?”

Messina threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’m sure we’re being watched, how closely, I don’t know. So we will have to be careful.”

“Agreed,” said Rojas. “For the time being, we will just have to sit tight and wait. Something is bound to open up. You are now the third person I know who knows about all this. With our Presidente liking to brag, I’m sure we won’t be the last. The only other ones are his personal guard and secret police. Somehow I don’t think going to them would be appropriate.”

“The way our superiors like to curry favors, I don’t think we need to share this with them either,” said Messina.

“Then we wait and look for opportunities,” said Rojas. “The problem we will have is the distance between us, you being at the air base and me in the palace.”

Messina thought for a moment. “You like fútbol?”

Rojas smiled. “Since I was twelve.”

“Parente does too. Maybe we should arrange to go along with him. We’ll go to the general seats while he goes to his box. I understand he prefers female company there anyway,” said Messina. “Then the occasional lunch, maybe my son’s lacrosse games, maybe drinks after work, the normal things.”

“He’s planning to go to the fútbol game day after tomorrow. I’ll let you know how it goes,” said Rojas.

“Good,” said Messina as he stood to leave. “By the way, what do we say if someone saw me come in here tonight?”

Rojas thought a minute. This was a real possibility. There would have to be some plausible explanation. He looked around the room. In the corner was his old lacrosse gear. Messina had mentioned a couple of weeks back that his fourteen year old son was getting interested in the sport. Rojas had gotten it out to give it to him. He walked over and gathered up the equipment. “Here, take the sticks,” he told Messina.

A smile crossed Messina’s face. He chuckled, “You just gave us an excuse and saved me a ton of money,” he said.

After gathering up the equipment and the briefcase, the two men went down to Messina’s car and loudly placed it all in the trunk. Thanking Rojas profusely, Messina started the car and backed into the street. Rojas gave a friendly wave as he left. That was when he saw what appeared to be someone in a parked car just down the street. Rojas turned and slowly made his way back to his apartment. Now he knew.

Ambassador Craig Jonas looked up from his desk to see Pete Wilson as he came into his office. Wilson was from the FBI and was down to work with the local agencies in the current crisis. Although Jonas didn’t really want him there at all, he had to keep the President happy. “Good morning, Mister Wilson. I take it you are here to brief me on yesterday’s activities?”

Wilson smiled. It was a fake smile because he wanted to keep Jonas off balance as far as the FBI was concerned. He had been there for two days and had already been looking at some irregularities in the embassy. The offices and quarters had been clean of bugs and he had installed measures to trace calls from the buildings. One of the communications staff had told him of a private line the ambassador had installed in his office outside of the normal security set-up. He also found out about a small, secluded private entrance and exit from the compound from the ambassador’s quarters which had been installed just one month after Jonas had been assigned to the embassy. The fact that it was there, was not so bad, but that he had insisted that there be no monitoring of the entrance was a little suspicious. It had been explained that on occasion, the ambassador wanted some privacy. Otherwise, there were some of the usual things, lax message procedures, no monitoring of some of the regular staff when they interacted with local dignitaries, even some questionable purchases or expenses. Those kinds of things could be found in most embassies around the world. He would mention these to the supervisors, but not the ambassador. Supposedly, Wilson was visiting with government officials to solicit their aid. He had done that the first day and simply kept up via the phone. The real mission had been detailed when Jonas had mentioned something to the Secretary of State about his very close ties with Parente. The Secretary had thought they might be a little too close. They all hoped that it was just bragging, but with the current conditions, everyone wanted to make sure.

Wilson handed over a sheet of paper. “I thought you would like a detail sheet of who is doing what at their defense and foreign relations sides. These guys are turning up the heat against the FARC in this country. Although they are a little distant when we talk, they are being very helpful. I can understand the distance, since we haven’t had the greatest track record down here,” he said.

Jonas smiled at the man. He hated having the FBI in his back yard, but at least he wasn’t doing much more than what a policeman would do. “Yes, we haven’t always been the best friend around here. Have you heard anything from your side in Washington?”

He always asks that question, thought Wilson. Maybe now would be a time to let out a little line. “They’re still in the dark except for the video and now a letter restating what we already know. The President is hoping that the governments down here can find our people and get them back, but I did hear he’s looking at some military options of some kind. It might even involve the Navy,” he said nonchalantly.

Jonas sat back. Now there was some interesting news, he thought. “Doesn’t make much sense, but who am I to second guess our President,” he said. “Anything else?”

Wilson shook his head. “No sir, I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he said.

“Good. Thanks for keeping me informed,” Jonas said as he dismissed Wilson.

Wilson turned and left the office. He was beginning to dislike Jonas more and more. His suspicions were getting deeper. He had already decided to monitor all communications coming out of the embassy, including one phone line he had found that led solely to the ambassador’s desk. With enough rope, there would be a fine hanging.

The young guard was a new one. Unlike the others, he didn’t pace back and forth or simply glare through the bars at his captives. This one was sitting opposite the barred doorway. His rifle was lying across his lap and his head was down. There was almost a pained look on the young man’s face. On occasion, he would look up from his thoughts and peer at one or two of the mayors sitting in the sweltering heat.

Patricia noticed the young man. She noticed that this one was a little different and decided to take a chance. She eased over and sat next to the bars of the door. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly in Spanish.

The young man nearly jumped off the seat, springing to his feet. His rifle was swept up and he pointed it toward the door. His eyes glued to Patricia. Suddenly, as if realizing what he was doing, he stopped and the rifle was pointed toward the floor. His shoulders slumped slightly as he relaxed. After taking a breath he slowly placed a finger to his lips, then he gave a glance toward the door. After a moment he sat back down.

“I must not allow you to talk to me,” he said almost in a whisper.

Now it was Patricia’s time to relax. For a moment she thought it was the end, but after seeing the understanding in the young man’s eyes, she eased back and nodded. “I’m sorry, but you looked so troubled I wanted to help,” she said.

A slight smile appeared on his face. He shook his head. “I do not think you are able to do so.”

Patricia shrugged her shoulders. “I’m willing to listen,” she said.

He waved her off. “It is something I saw that bothers me,” he said. “As a soldier, I am not allowed to let these things upset me. My father would tell me to ‘be a man,’” he said. By now his smile had grown larger.

“How old are you?” she asked.

He straightened up. “I am nineteen,” he said proudly. “In my village many of my friends are already married,” he said.

Patricia nodded. “Yes, but even as old as I am, sometimes things happen that make me upset as well. A lot of times, it just takes a friend to talk to.”

The sound of footsteps was heard outside and the young man sprang to his feet once more. Patricia moved away from the door. After a moment, the footsteps faded.

Patricia glanced back at the young guard. He saw her and let out a slow breath with a grin. With one hand he indicated the conversation was over. But he looked down at her and whispered, “Gracias, Señora.”

Patricia nodded and moved away from the door. Despite the fact she was a captive and he was a captor, she felt closer to the young man. At least it made for a more pleasant morning.

Carlos Verdes was driving his old Chevrolet pickup along the dusty mountain roads heading toward the last of his village pickups. For nearly twenty years he had plied between the small villages in the western part of Venezuela picking up the handmade mountain wares and then selling them as souvenirs in Caracas and the coastal resorts. As it was, this made a very lucrative living for the villagers and kept him busy while performing his main job as an in-country operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Verdes wasn’t sure who had come up with the cover, but it made a real difference for the mountain people and allowed him the freedom to travel almost the entire country without being noticed. He had grown to love the work and the people, despite the governments they had to live under.

The old Chevy took a big bounce in one of the many potholes along the dirt road. She squeaked and rattled, and it appeared the rust would finally consume the body at any moment, but the engine just kept on going. Verdes was quite proud of his truck. Made in the late 1980s, it was probably one of the last ones still doing real work. Never mind that the Agency made sure it was always in top shape even though it looked decrepit. Never mind that it was like a Bond car with its little tricks. There was even a small switch under the dash that caused the engine to run rough if inspected. Despite it all, he had grown to love it and rely on it every day.

In the back of the truck was a load of woolen blankets and ponchos for trading and sale. Once he made this last stop, he would head toward the capitol and deliver them to his distributors for sale in the shops. But there was one more reason for this stop. Since the kidnapping, the Agency had been screaming for information on the FARC and anything else going on in the region. Today he would meet with Oro Etosa, a longtime friend and one of the original leaders of the FARC. He had long since retired and had moved back to his home in Venezuela, but Carlos knew he still kept up with the organization.

After another half hour of bouncing along the roads, Verdes pulled into the very small village of Llanuras de Montaña (Mountain Plains), which sat on a wide open area overlooking several deep gorges. For centuries, the villagers had hunted in the gorges and farmed what little would grow on the mountaintop. There was one electric line going to the village, which would occasionally provide power. The poles also carried the one telephone line that led to the village store. The simple homes were adobe, occasionally whitewashed, with the only color coming from the doorways which the owners would decorate. As the truck pulled up, children ran beside it and several of the villagers came out to welcome Verdes.

“Welcome back Carlos!” shouted one of the men under a wide straw hat. His handshake was rough but firm.

“Esteban, it is good to be back. How are Elesa and the children?” asked Verdes.

“Much better this time. Little Paco finally healed up. The medicine worked well,” Esteban said proudly. Paco had gotten an infection when stepping on a sharp splinter. Verdes had acquired some antibiotics from a doctor he knew and it had made all the difference.

Verdes beamed. Little things like that made his work much more enjoyable. “That’s good. Just make sure he stays away from the old trash heap before it is burned. Now, what have you got for me this trip?” he asked.

As the two men talked, several villagers came around them, several with items they wished Carlos to sell for them. Before long there was a large crowd, all sharing stories and eager to hear more news from the cities and other villages. Within an hour, Verdes had pulled out his ledger and began handing out the money from everything that had sold. For the villagers, it was like Christmas.

As the sun began to set, Verdes made his way to the home of Oro Etosa. Located at the far end of the village, it was a little more substantial than the others, but Carlos noticed there was a bustle of activity inside and a large truck sat to one side partially loaded with the family’s belongings.

As he approached, the towering form of Etosa appeared in the lit doorway. “Thank God it is you, Carlos. I was afraid they had come for me,” Etosa said.

The two men embraced like the good friends they were. “Who would be coming for you, my friend?” asked Carlos. “Better yet, who would have the courage,” he grinned.

Oro laughed heartily. “Only you,” he said between laughs. “I heard you were distributing the earnings. I hope it’s not the last time.”

“Not if I can help it. Now what’s going on? Why are you moving?” asked Verdes. The concern in his voice was real.

Etosa shrugged his shoulders. “The government is rounding up FARC members all over the country. My source says they are disappearing from all the villages. We don’t know why, unless Parente has decided to equal some old score. They even took old Hernando in Pueblo Cielo. I am taking my family to an old place higher in the mountains. Hopefully they will leave us alone there.”

So that’s what’s going on, Verdes said to himself. These people don’t know what they are accused of. “Then you need to know the news,” said Verdes as the two men sat down. He told Etosa about the kidnapping and how a video with the hostages claimed that they had been kidnapped by the FARC.

Etosa’s eyes shot wide. “It is false! Everyone knows we do not do such things anymore. Even our most radical branch in Colombia is now working in politics instead of these acts of barbarism. I know this for a fact!” Etosa demanded. He sat by Verdes. “I know the FARC did not do this, Carlos. I was the one who got the leadership to agree to the more peaceful ways to get things done. We are now more successful than ever. It doesn’t make sense,” he pleaded.

Carlos took Oro’s arm. “I believe you, my friend. I have watched all the good things happening, but why is Parente doing this in Venezuela when this happened in Colombia?”

Oro took a deep breath. “I do not know. True, we haven’t been as cordial lately, because we have been opposed to some of his policies, but he had always supported us before.”

“Tell me, are there any militant factions in the FARC at all now?” asked Verdes.

Oro shook his head. “None. We don’t wear uniforms and we don’t carry weapons. Those days are gone. In Venezuela and Colombia, the only ones with uniforms and rifles are the military. Are you sure they said it was the FARC?”

“That’s what they say. In the video, the captors were wearing dark camouflage uniforms and they had the flag of the FARC on the corner. It looked like some of the old posters you used to put out long ago.” Verdes placed his hand on Oro’s shoulder. “But if you say it is untrue, I believe you. We have been friends a long time. Too long for me to mistrust you.”

Oro looked at his friend. He remembered the day he first drove into the village with that old truck. It seemed a hundred years ago. A smile returned to his face. “Yes, too long. And we will get through this like we have all our other troubles, eh?” Oro said with a grin. Come have a drink with me and we shall share old times for a while. Tomorrow we will go up to my mountain hideaway and live off the hills like I used to do. When this blows over, I may have several blankets for you to sell to those tourists in the city,” he said with a laugh.

Verdes followed his friend into the house and two bottles of beer were opened. He couldn’t stay long. This information had to get back to Langley.

It was 5 am when Juan Ricardo drove his Toyoda to the parking area where he could watch the ship. There had been a lot of activity over the past few days and he had reported it in. Things had gone smoothly till last night when one of his assistants called in sick. There were only three people assigned to watch the ship and all three were tired of the hours spent simply sitting in a hot car and watching the people going on and off the great steel vessel. The decision had been made to simply pick up the watch again early this morning. As he pulled around the corner of a building, his heart sank. USS Iowa was gone. He also noticed a yellow convertible parked at the edge of the pier. Frantically, he fumbled for his phone and selected the number to call. After several rings, a groggy voice answered.

“The ship is gone,” said Ricardo.

“What do you mean, it’s gone,” asked the voice. “When did it leave?”

Ricardo explained the problem.

“El Presidente will not be pleased. How long was the ship left unwatched?”

“Only since midnight,” said Ricardo. “It must have left shortly after that since I cannot see her anywhere in the harbor. She cannot have gone far.”

The man on the other end swore. “I will report it in. If you are lucky, you only be asked to return home. Go find out what you can and report back,” said the voice.

“Immediately,” said Ricardo. The voice on the other end clicked off. Ricardo sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. This may just be the end of my life, he thought. His thoughts were interrupted by someone knocking in his window. Ricardo looked out to see a young man holding a badge and motioning for him to lower the window.

“Mr. Ricardo, I think you need to come with us,” the young man said as the window went down. Ricardo glanced at the keys with the thought of making a run for it, but when his eyes returned to the man, there was a pistol aiming between them.

“I wouldn’t recommend doing anything stupid. Take a look behind you,” the young man said.

That was when he saw about a dozen armed men aiming at him from the rear window. Ricardo slowly put his hands up.

“A smart choice,” said the young man. “We have been listening to your phone conversations and know who you have been reporting to. If you cooperate, things just might turn out well for you,” he said.

Ricardo took a breath. It might mean he could live after all. “My contact is reporting the ship is gone,” he said.

The young man smiled. “That’s just what we wanted.”

Colonel Rojas arrived in his office early, as usual, and prepared the morning brief. There were some twenty officials in the room besides Parente and each had either a brief or was a part of the presidential staff. Parente seemed a little lost in thought during the briefing, but Rojas was used to that look. Whenever something was bothering the man, he didn’t pay attention to anything around him. Without much discussion on any topic, the meeting ended a little early. On his way out, Parente called Rojas over.

“You were correct in us watching the American battleships. Your admiral got his underway sometime after midnight,” Parente said. “Unfortunately, our people could not tell us the exact time, but I do not think that will make a difference. If you are correct, there is only one place they will go. I have people watching the western entrances to the Panama Canal. When she arrives, we will know.”

Rojas nodded. “Then it is as I feared. Do we have word on any of the other battleships?”

“No, but we will know the minute one begins to move,” Parente said. “In the meantime, I have ordered additional coastal artillery and some of our missile assets to our coasts. I need you to coordinate troops to patrol the beaches and to be ready in case we are approached from the sea.”

“At once, Señor Presidente!” said Rojas as he came to attention. “I will place extra attention to our more remote beaches. I doubt they would make a move into our more populated areas. Shall I double our air patrols?”

Parente nodded. “I have already ordered it, but I told our commanders it is an exercise. They will patrol out at least fifty miles. I also alerted our air force to have planes fully fueled and armed as a part of the exercise so that they may respond immediately when I give the word. I included our Navy in these exercises. I do not think they can do much good, but we can have them ready in any case. As of now, I do not think the Americans have any idea where their people are, but they are acting as I would, getting their assets in closer proximity to where it happened. For now, we need to be prepared in case things change.”

“Yes, Señor Presidente. Do any of our commanders know the real reasons behind the exercise,” asked Rojas.

Parente shook his head. “And I do not wish them to know. Remember that, My Colonel,” Parente said pointing his finger in his face. “If the Americans come to our shores, they will be defending our homeland, nothing more.”

“Of course, Señor Presidente, I fully realize how important this is,” said Rojas. “Besides, my duty is to serve you in the manner you desire, nothing more,” he said stiffly.

Parente’s face softened. A smile appeared once more. “Forgive me, My Colonel, this information has placed me on edge. I know you will do your duty. As I hear more, we can take additional steps. Until then, we shall act normally,” he said as he turned toward his office. Suddenly he turned again. “Tell me, do you like sports?”

There it was. Now Rojas knew for a fact he was being watched. He could not let on how much it concerned him. He smiled at his president. “Yes, Señor Presidente. In my youth I played lacrosse and some fútbol, but since I have been serving you I do not have much time for attending any games. As a matter of fact, I just gave my lacrosse equipment to Colonel Messina, for his son to use. It seems he is getting involved in a league near his home. I was hoping to have some time to help the young man out,” he said enthusiastically.

Parente’s smile grew wide. Rojas had confirmed that Messina had visited him and why. It made perfect sense and was beyond suspicion. It was another worry taken care of. “Good. Perhaps you should take some time off to help out. At the same time, I am planning on attending tomorrow’s fútbol game. Messina must fly me there. Why don’t you come and the two of you enjoy the afternoon. We can all use some time to relax,” he said with some enthusiasm.

“That would be very welcome, Señor Presidente. Thank you!”

Parente waved his hand. “It is a small thing to do for my trusted Colonel,” he said as he turned and entered his office.

Rojas let out a long breath. The tenseness he was feeling slowly left him. Somehow he had dodged a bullet and still arranged to attend the game with Messina. Things were getting too close. Between he and Messina, there had to be a way to get out of this.

Captain Douglas “Dusty” Rhodes could not believe his good fortune. Only a week before he had been called by his detailer to hightail it to San Pedro and take command of his ship. His orders were to take command and, using a crew made up of reservists and veterans, get underway as soon as possible. He had known immediately which ship it was. He had originally been aboard in the 1980s as an enlisted man, and then went through the programs to become an officer. As a Commander, he had been assigned aboard the ship as Operations Officer under Captain and then Rear Admiral Roger Hammond. Now he was sitting in the captain’s chair on the bridge looking out over the bow of the ship as she made her way south.

The sun was just now edging over the horizon. To Iowa’s right was the guided missile destroyer USS Arleigh Burke, the first of the modern DDGs. To the left, was the guided missile cruiser USS Kings Mountain. Astern was the recently commissioned destroyer USS Cochrane, the first modern destroyer with electric drive. Ahead was USS Freedom, a littoral combat ship capable of making 50 knots. It wasn’t a large force, but woe be unto anyone who tried to stop them. This force packed a punch.

Rhodes looked around the bridge. Everything was quiet and orderly. The Officer of the Deck was maintaining a good watch, keeping an extra lookout for anything that might show up in these coastal waters. The reports from the Combat Information Center and lookouts came in routinely and displayed accurately on the status board. Just moments before the task group had been ordered to change course and Iowa had responded as she should. He was enjoying being in the captain’s chair.

From the time Rhodes had come aboard he noticed that everything had quickly returned to the orderly routine he had experienced during the war. Except for just a few men, they had all served aboard her before, and the veterans had made sure the ship remained ready during the three years since her return. Now USS Iowa was at sea again, ready to answer the call. He clipper bow was slicing through the seas at a good 25 knots. Down below, Captain Kimberlain had his engineering plant humming smoothly without a strain. Later today they would exercise one of the turrets. He didn’t have enough crew to fully man the ship. There were only a little over 1,200 aboard, three hundred shy of a full complement, but the plan was not to fight; it was to be a decoy. The orders were to join up with another task unit in the Gulf of Mexico and then be seen in various places. Rhodes didn’t know the extent of his mission, but that didn’t really matter. Shorthanded or not, he would make sure the ship could fight with what it had — just in case.

Rhodes’ thoughts were interrupted as a khaki uniform appeared beside him. “How do you like sitting there, Dusty?” asked Hammond with a grin as he motioned for Rhodes to keep his seat.

“Just like Christmas,” Rhodes replied with a grin. “Never thought I’d make it, but now that I’m here, I like it.”

Hammond laughed. “So did I. I got to like it so much I often slept in that seat, but we won’t have as many worries as last time.”

Rhodes shifted in the seat. “Don’t know, I might get used to it. Any new word?”

Hammond shook his head. Rhodes noticed the deepening lines on Hammond’s face. Something was hurting the man, but he was determined not to show it.

“No, too early,” said Hammond, “We are all set to transit the canal after dark. We’ll meet up with the others the next day. It seems our departure was reported in. I got word they have our spies and are making some progress, but they don’t tell me much. You know how the intel types are.”

Rhodes nodded. “So we are just to cruise around and scare the hell out of people,” he said. “Well, that still isn’t going to stop me from getting the ship ready. You know about my gunshot this afternoon?”

Hammond nodded. “Just make sure we’re safe and you can shoot all day long as far as I’m concerned. Operations is setting up some port visits for us and I have something brewing to pass the time. Maybe we can give a little demonstration where people can watch. Could be fun.”

“No matter what, I’ll have at least one turret ready and maybe two. The manning is good, but Weaps is looking at what positions we’re missing. I learned back in the 80’s to do it right the first time. We’ll be safe,” said Rhodes. “By the way, when are you heading to the beach?”

“I’ll get off at the canal. I need to be in Washington and a few other places to get some things set up. I finally figured out a way to get our team back home and I need to make sure things are laid on. The big thing is to be seen aboard the ship as she transits the canal. Then I’m free to move.”

“Well, enjoy your time at sea for a couple more days. I’ll let you know if anything comes up,” said Rhodes.

“Fair enough,” said Hammond as he turned and left the bridge.

Rhodes watched him leave. Something had changed him since leaving the Iowa after the last war. He was putting up a brave façade. Hammond was getting ready for something. Rhodes knew it would be something big. As long as he was a part of it, he was a happy man.

It had taken Father Cardoza nearly a full day to hike to the nearest village and get to a phone. It had taken another half a day for his friend to drive up there and bring him back. It was a very tired man who finally slipped the first SD card into his computer to bring an image up in Photoshop. After making the corrections to all the images, he picked out twenty of the images and placed them on a thumb drive. The original SD cards were hidden away so he could get them if needed. Then he erased the images from his computer and set it to defrag to make sure nothing was left. The other SD cards were placed by the computer and one inserted into the drive. He brought up one of the most beautiful images of a soaring Harpy eagle. With a few corrections, he saved it and several other images on the computer’s hard drive then made the first image his desktop background so that anyone asking questions could be shown immediate results.

Cardoza was scared. President Parente was a powerful man. There was no doubt if he knew he had these images, Cardoza would simply disappear. There was no way to simply walk to the American Embassy and hand something over. The embassies were watched like hawks. People entering and leaving were questioned. He also could not talk to the Cardinal about this. Cardinal Gregory had been in office for a long time and he had prided himself on working closely with every president, including Parente. It was well known that Gregory would do anything to remain just where he is. Cardoza had already determined that the Cardinal would simply take the images and either give them up or throw them away — probably the latter — then order Cardoza reassigned. But he also knew that these images must get to the Americans. His friend had told him about what was going on and he was wondering if this was tied to the images he took.

There was a knock at his door and Father Emilio stuck his head in. “Father Cardoza, I did not expect you back so soon,” he exclaimed. “Did you find what you wanted?”

Cardoza smiled and invited the priest over. Emilio gasped at the stunning detail and beauty Cardoza had captured in his camera. “Magnificent!” he gasped. “I wish I had the talent you have at capturing the beauty of God’s earth. Will you show us all of them as before?”

Cardoza nodded. “Of course. As soon as I finish cleaning them up. I couldn’t wait to get back to show all of you. It was a glorious couple of days,” he said.

“Wonderful. I look forward to it. When I saw the light in your room I wanted to ask your help. I need to see a dentist tomorrow afternoon and wondered if you would take confessions for me. I’m not sure how long it will take.”

Cardoza smiled. “Of course, Father, I would be happy to.”

Father Emilio thanked him and left. Cardoza thought for a minute in astonishment. Tomorrow was Thursday. Every Thursday afternoon one of the Americans from the embassy always came to confession. He reached into his pocket and felt the thumb drive. God moves in mysterious ways, he thought with a smile.

The game was fairly exciting despite the unease both Rojas and Messina felt. After depositing Presidente Parente in his box, along with the young buxom blonde who had been selected to be his distraction for the game, both men were led to seats at the center of the stadium on the home side, just twenty rows up. As usual, Parente had begun the game waving to the attendees in the stadium before ordering the mirrored glass closed. Both men could easily imagine what was really going on in the air conditioned Presidential Box. As usual, El Presidente would later ask someone who had won.

Despite the enormous stadium, Rojas and Messina were surrounded by throngs of people watching the game. People were so close there was no way to really talk, and both felt they had been placed in these seats for a purpose. At one point Rojas noticed one of the men one row forward kept glancing back at them. But it was a good game and the spirited play on the field allowed the men to relax a little. Soon they were cheering like the rest.

During the break, Rojas leaned over to Messina. “How did your son like the lacrosse gear,” he asked. The man in front turned his head slightly to listen.

Messina saw it as well. “You made his day. The very next morning he was outside in all his gear practicing. Their first scrimmage is tomorrow afternoon about 6. You should come and see how they look. I’m sure their coach would like to meet you.” He had a look in his eye that indicated this should be a part of some plan.

Rojas nodded. “I’ll try. It depends on how late Presidente Parente needs me. His is my first priority,” he said. “But even if I’m a little late I could still get there. When should it be over?”

“Sometime around 8 pm. The coach likes to huddle with the team and go over things for about half an hour at the end of a practice. So it may be just a little later,” Messina said.

“Good. Then I should be able to make it at some time. I may just try and get back into lacrosse. I loved playing in college. Just don’t ask me to run around the field like the kids. I hurt more now,” Rojas joked.

Messina let out a laugh and the two men started talking about a few more trivial things. After a minute or two they noticed the man in front had turned back toward the field. The two men glanced at each other and nodded. Now they knew they were definitely being watched and had to be extremely careful what they might do. As the game resumed, Messina thought about how they might share information. At the scrimmage, many parents would stand at the edge of the field to watch the play and talk among each other. That might offer some opportunities. In addition, his son had told him that one of the players was an American boy whose father was an engineer at a local construction firm. That in itself might be an opportunity. They could talk about it the next day.

Steven Biscotti was a communications specialist assigned to the US embassy. He had been born and raised in the Italian neighborhoods of Brooklyn, and was only the second in his family to leave the family’s restaurant business and head out on his own. Always a quiet young man, he had taken very quickly to his education and got a scholarship to the Polytechnic Institute of New York, where he earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Science and Technology Studies. As he had grown up, his family had instilled in him both a love of country and his Catholic and Italian heritage, so entering the diplomatic corps had fit him like a glove.

Biscotti was nearing his two year mark at the embassy, making a name for himself by keeping the complex communications office both up to date and operating efficiently. This included very highly technical work on the many pieces of cryptologic gear they maintained. About the only thing he didn’t oversee was the embassy’s antiquated phone system.

Living alone in a small apartment on the embassy grounds, Biscotti spent his leisure time exploring Caracas and the surrounding areas and going to church. Every Thursday he left work in the late afternoon to visit the cathedral, go to confession and attend the mass. He never understood much of the homily, since most of it was in Spanish instead of English or Italian, but just being there was enough. Luckily, the priests knew English very well and his confessions were much easier. One of the priests would actually allow him to confess in Italian, which usually made him homesick. No matter who was there, the priests knew him and would often have long conversations with him. It was like going home.

Entering the cathedral, Biscotti glanced to the right and saw there was only one person waiting at the confessional. He made his way to one of the pews next to the large and ornately carved wooden confessional and knelt to say a prayer. Only a few minutes later, the curtain was pulled back and the individual left to offer her own prayers nearby. Biscotti ended his prayer and moved into the confessional, closing the curtains behind him. After preparing himself, he waited until the screened opening between the two sitting areas opened.

Glancing through the screen, he thought he recognized Father Cardoza. Smiling to himself, he said in Italian, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

There was a slight pause, which was unusual for a confession. Then Cardoza spoke, also in Italian, “Not as bad as the sins I have witnessed in recent days, my friend. Would you care to hear of my confession?”

Biscotti was totally confused. This was not normal. A priest confessing to one of his flock? Biscotti looked into the other chamber. “I am not one to hear a priest’s confession, Father.”

“In normal times, I would agree, but in this case, you may be the only one I can share this particular confession with. May I share with you?”

Now Biscotti was astounded. But he could never turn away from the request of a priest — particularly Father Cardoza. “How may I be of help, Father?”

The screen lifted slightly and a small thumb drive slid through. Father Cardoza was sweating on the other side. The seriousness of what he was doing clearly weighing on him. If he were caught with these images, Biscotti would be taken as a spy and probably shot and Cardoza would not be able to live with that and remain a priest. He summoned up his strength and continued. “My friend, just three days ago, I witnessed the devil at work in this land. I watched as one of God’s children was taken up and butchered like a common steer. Unfortunately, I could not save him, although I prayed mightily for his salvation. On that drive I have placed the images of what I saw and photographed. It is my prayer that through these images this poor man’s sacrifice will not go unpunished or in vein. I confess I can find no other way to do this except to give this to you. Please help me, even though it may place you in peril. Please take this and do what you must.”

Biscotti looked down at the little thumb drive, then back at the screen. He wondered at what might be on the drive and what it may mean. Surely the Father was troubled and was trusting in him. He placed the thumb drive in his pocket. “Father, I will gladly do as you ask. It appears that this weighs far heavier than the confessions I might bring.”

There was a chuckle from the other side. ‘You are a good Catholic, Steven. Trust me when I say what you do with this may wash away the sins of a lifetime — particularly the kinds of sins you confess.” The screen slid all the way up and the Father’s hands reached through, taking Biscotti’s. “Thank you, my son. May God’s protection be with you as you do his work, and thank you for assisting this troubled priest.”

Biscotti kissed the priest’s hands. “I will let you know what happens.”

The priest’s hands tightened. “No. Do not come back except for your usual confessions. From what I have seen, I will know if your work is done easily enough. Now do not stay for mass tonight. Return to your duties and contemplate how this must be done. God be with you,” Cardoza said releasing Biscotti’s hands and giving the sign of the cross.

Biscotti left the confessional quietly and walked out of the rapidly filling cathedral into the evening air. Taking a few breaths, he made his way back to his car and then to the embassy grounds, careful not to speed or do anything out of the ordinary. In his training he had once been told that any member of the diplomatic staff might be singled out to pass along information, but he had never expected it from a Catholic priest. Upon arrival at the embassy, he made his way to his office in the communications section. There was an isolated computer there with all the bells and whistles. He called in the local station agent and checked the drive for viruses while he waited.

Rick Lozier had been up for days trying to get information to help out with the hostage situation. When he came into the communications section he looked bone tired. Biscotti waved him over and he pulled up a chair next to him. “What’ya got Steven?”

Biscotti went over what had happened at the confessional. With every word, Lozier sat up a little straighter. “Let’s see what we have then,” Lozier said turning to the screen.

Biscotti opened the drive to see twenty jpeg images and a Word document. “Open the document first,” Lozier said.

The only thing was a latitude and longitude, and a note saying all photos taken from this point. “The camera was looking to the east,” it said.

Opening the first photo, the image showed the courtyard with the people dancing beneath the obelisk with what looked like a high priest facing toward it with his hands raised. The second showed the old man being led out to be tied to the post. The third showed the old man struggling against the ropes and the high priest facing him.

Lozier suddenly sat up. “My God! That’s one of our hostages,” he gasped.

Biscotti was pointing to the other figure. “Isn’t that Parente?”

Lozier got closer to the screen. “Holy shit,” he said in astonishment. “Open more.”

The next photo showed Parente holding up the black dagger. The next saw it embedded deep into Mitchell’s chest, still clasped in Parente’s hands. It was the photo of Parente holding up Mitchell’s still beating heart that infuriated Lozier. “That son of a bitch. He’s a goddamned murderer. I want you to make copies of these and send them on a secure line to Langley immediately. I know some people who want to see these pictures.”

“Shall I show them to the Ambassador?” asked Biscotti.

“No. As of now, these are the property of the CIA and have a classification far above his level. I’m going to ask you to keep this all to yourself. You say a priest took these?”

“Yes, he was born in America and takes a lot of nature photos,” said Biscotti.

Lozier chuckled. “Well, after this me may just get a medal. Now show me the rest of these images.”

The rest of the photos were opened rapidly. Again, the details were damning. They proceeded until few were left in the compound. The last one showed something that really got Lozier hopping. It was the sight of a small lighted compound with a white panel truck sitting under the branches of a large tree.