The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) Read online

  "I am looking forward to the day when you are no longer needed Oscar. I will enjoy that day very much," said Hector Durand as he turned and left the room.

  Miguel followed him, laughing when he passed the shuttered closet door as another shrieking wail drifted out.

  The screaming noises coming out of the closet continued unabated for a dozen minutes or so before silence returned to the basement room.

  Chapter 6

  A few days later,

  Everglades City - 1997

  Richard Daniels fiddled with the pre-flight checks on his team leader bonus, a new Beech Craft twin engine Seabee 1411 seaplane—all titled and registered in his name by the Agency. It was his to keep. He thought about how the plane and money would fuel his new activities.

  All he had to do was come back alive.

  Rollie sat on the dock watching him, knocking down a cold one in the ninety-five plus heat of Everglades City.

  "You really like that thing, hey," said Rollie.

  "Yeah, opens up whole possibilities for the future."

  "Just make sure we have a future."

  "Well Rollie, regarding the future, I'm still pissed off and concerned."

  "You still worried about that Rhineman guy?"

  "What do you think?" replied Daniels. "You saw his picture. Bright blue eyes, blonde hair, tall, thin, he might blend in Sweden or Norway, but we're not going to Sweden or Norway. We're going to Injun country in Mexico. Vikings kind of stick out over there, know what I mean?"

  "Give him a chance man. He's supposed to have special talents. Taylor wants this operation to succeed real bad so he wouldn't send us a fuck-up. This guy's supposed to fit perfect in the mission plan."

  Yeah, the mission plan, thought Daniels. Taylor swore it was ingenious and unique, bound to succeed. Dangerous and risky, but it would work. They hadn't even seen it yet. Course it didn't reassure Daniels that Taylor had never done a field operation in his life. Still he had a near perfect record in planning and putting together teams to carry them out. Now Daniels and Rollie were holed up in this little Marina in Everglades City, waiting for the remaining team members to show up.

  Somebody named Matt Kelley and Kurt Rhineman.

  Taylor had shown them a grainy picture of Matt in LAPD uniform. Supposed to be a former Marine Force Recon Sniper currently with LAPD SWAT team. Matt had two additional qualifications: Experience with fixed and rotary wing craft. That meant he could fly helicopters and small airplanes. Taylor said the plan called for two pilots. Daniels was the second.

  Once the team members arrived, Daniels would take them into two deserted islands in the Everglades for training and evaluation. Seven days had been allotted to learn how to best work together, to find their strengths and weaknesses and how to offset them working as a team. Daniels' job was to blend this group of experienced combat veterans into a coordinated deadly machine. After the initial seven days, there would be three days in Langley where a mock up of the Durand's compound outside of Guadalajara had been prepared.

  * * *

  He was past middle aged and stooped. It didn't seem to slow him much as he crossed the dirt lot in front of the canal where the seaplane was docked. His face was brown and wrinkled like someone who'd spent a lifetime working in the sun. A few flecks of silver in a brush wire mustache were the only light spots in his face. Daniels and Rollie watched the man approach until he stopped a few feet from the edge of the canal. Definitely South American with probably a touch of Indian or Metizo, thought Daniels.

  "Pardon me Senor," he said, his accent thick with inflections of Mexico. His teeth stood out, brown, stained with chewing tobacco. "I am looking for Richard Daniels."

  Daniels jumped from the plane's wing to stand in front of the man. He saw Rollie getting up, his dark face frowning and glistening with sweat. No one outside of Taylor had been told they were here. The Marina people knew Daniels only as Mike Hauptman.

  "Who's looking for him?" Daniels said.

  "I would be looking for him."

  "And who are you?"

  "I am Juan Valdez. I have picked some coffee beans for him."

  Daniels frowned while Rollie let out a chuckle.

  "Juan fucking Valdez?" Rollie said.

  "Juan Valdez" nodded and suddenly seemed to grow about a foot. Daniels never quite figured out how he did that. Illusion or whatever, he was suddenly taller. He took a damp rag from his pocket and wiped his face. Daniels smelled some solvent. Where the man wiped his face, the skin turned from brown to a light pink and gold tan. The stranger ran the cloth through his hair where the dark brown and black turned to yellow. He wiped the rag across his front teeth and spat. He lowered his head and pulled back his eyelids removing brown contact lenses. The whole thing took no more than a heartbeat. When the man lifted his head again, Daniels looked into bright blue eyes.

  "Kurt Rhineman at your service. I lied about the coffee beans."

  Rollie burst into a belly laugh.

  "You still want to talk about blending? Shit, he'll do better than us."

  Daniels discovered that Kurt was strictly CIA field operations. He'd been recruited immediately after a four-year hitch with the 82nd Airborne. In his late twenties, he'd never seen combat but his training was exquisite and he possessed certain special skills that would be crucial on this mission. Although Daniels was in command, Kurt's role would be pivotal. He had reviewed the plan first. Daniels guessed they had to see if he could pull it off. The rest would get their briefing as a team a week later at the "farm" in Langley.

  * * *

  The Kawasaki Ninja "rice rocket" rounded the curve on the crushed oyster shell road into the marina. Daniels thought the machine was going way too fast and expected the rider to lose control. Not even close. Perfectly balanced, the machine spun as gravel erupted from the rear tire. The rider compensated and the bike straightened and ran across the grassy expanse, stopping under the wing of Daniels plane tied to the dock.

  Daniels watched the rider dismount. Obviously a she, and easy on the eyes with tight leather pants accentuating the curve of her hips. She took off the full helmet and shook her shoulder length blond hair. Green eyes, beautiful as corral in a tropical sea, serious as laser beams and cold as arctic ice, highlighted a model's face without a trace of makeup.

  The stranger slung a sports bag over her shoulder and walked to the plane. She was short, about five feet. She moved like a jungle cat with quick steps on the balls of her feet. Daniels caught himself staring.

  "What's the matter? Never seen a Ninja before?" She said as she put the bag down at her feet and stuck her hands on her hip.

  "I'm Matt Kelley," she said. No handshakes extended.

  Rollie came up beside Daniels. Before Daniels could say anything he spoke directly at Matt.

  "I think you got the wrong address honey." Daniels thought he'd always been a chauvinistic bastard.

  "Are you Richard Daniels?" she asked Rollie, her eyes locked on his.

  Rollie shook his head and nodded toward Daniels.

  "Then fuck off," she replied as she faced Daniels again.

  "Are there anymore assholes on this team?" she asked.

  "Probably. We just don't like to admit it."

  Daniels smiled and extended his hand. She returned the handshake but not the smile.

  "So how'd you get a name like Matt?" said Rollie.

  "It stands for Matilda, genius."

  Chapter 7

  Daniels' team left before sundown for a brief flight to an island he'd spotted previously, just a few miles from Big Lostman's Cay. They anchored the seaplane close to the island, waded ashore and set up camp.

  Daniels ran the team through a series of combat and live fire exercises designed to expose individual skills and weaknesses. Each member was a proven combat expert. The powers that be at the Agency had done a good job of team picking. Despite her smaller size and status as the only woman on the team, Matt held her own. She gave no slack and asked for none. Her skills with f
irearms were nothing less than phenomenal.

  It'd reached noontime and hot enough to raise blisters when Daniels called a break for lunch and passed out MRE's. The team sat under a bushy Cyprus as insects swarmed around them, fighting past the bug repellent slathered over every inch of skin.

  "So watcha got on the agenda for the afternoon, cap?" Rhineman asked as he scooped grayish paste from a pouch and slurped down spoonfuls before the flying critters could get to it.

  "Cover, concealment and approaches," Daniels said. "We'll see how close you can get before I spot you. I'll be firing machine gun bursts over your head to keep it interesting. You'll try to hit targets on either side of me before I can spot you."

  "You should be good at that, Kelley," Rollie said. "That's what you did in the Marines."

  "Better than you, that's for sure," she replied without looking up.

  "What do you say we make it more interesting, then. Twenty bucks per hit."

  "Bullshit. You want to make it more interesting, clean my boots if I beat you."

  "And what do I get if I win?" Rollie said. "Hey, I got it. If I win, how's about I get into your sweet little panties?"

  Rhineman whistled softly. Daniels looked at each one in turn. The insects buzzed as a slight breeze came up and something splashed loudly nearby. The corners of Matt Kelley's mouth twitched and she fixed Rollie like laser beams from glacial emerald eyes.

  "There's only one way you could do that," she said softly, eyes locked on his.

  "How's that, Kelley?"

  "Shoot me in the head first, and don't miss, cause I fucking won't."

  * * *

  Toward the end of the third day's exercise, they advanced toward Rollie. Crawling in the saw grass and thick vegetation growing out of the few inches of loamy topsoil, they moved on the target—Rollie -under camouflage. The goal was to approach within killing distance without being spotted. To make things more interesting, Rollie lay down a stream of fire that shrieked inches over their heads.

  Suddenly Matt came up on one knee, raised the modified M-16 and fired one round, it seemed, directly at Rollie. She'd been much closer then he believed and took him by surprise. The move was quick, fluid and smooth like ultra-fast ballet. Rollie dropped the M-60 he'd been firing, stumbled and fell. He got up quick more pissed off then a raccoon with its tail in a door. If he hadn't been black he would have turned red. He rambled and screamed until Matt pointed to the ground next to where he'd been sitting. The body of a deadly Corral snake was still twisting in its death throes. Matt had shot the head off.

  "I should have let it bite your ugly ass. We could have tested the anti-venom, see if it works."

  After that episode, Rollie seemed to develop a little more respect for Matt. Not much really, just enough to make things workable.

  Kurt Rhineman remained the only one without actual combat time. At least not the kind of experience the others had. His forte was covert civilian operations, mostly in Europe and South America. The skills he'd developed were excellent and his experience rounded out the team. Rollie was Rollie and wherever he had been the last few years hadn't slowed him down at all. Daniels thought he was tough, sassy and as much a pain in the ass as ever.

  At the end of the first week Daniels felt a little better about the mission. There was no doubt they were the best and had very quickly learned to work together.

  They spent the next three days at the Farm in Langley. The Agency had built an impressive life size mock up of the Durand brother's compound near Guadalajara. The mini-fortress was nothing more than a big rambling two-story house in the old Mexican architectural style. A large center hallway/salon opened into a wide corridor leading to eight spacious rooms downstairs. Staircases flanked both sides of the corridor and ascended to the second floor. Upstairs, the rooms were spacious, featuring balconies, fireplaces and bathrooms complete with Jacuzzis and sauna. The Durands and their chieftains and top officers lived upstairs while the guards and house staff remained downstairs.

  A basement ran the entire length of the house. The Agency had a good idea what was down there. Two smaller, plainer houses flanked the main one housing more guards and other staff. A barn big as an aircraft hangar contained some high-end vehicles, Mercedes, Hummers and Rolls Royces. The Durands liked their toys. An assortment of other vehicles, trucks, SUV's and cars stood parked in the wide yard that surrounded the main house. The entire compound was circled by razor-barbed wire and motion detector alarms. Spotlights blazed each night and guards roamed the perimeter constantly, two at a time, with dogs. A single road led in, bounded by a four-foot brick wall. The first outpost one encountered was fifty yards down the road, a concrete bunker manned by two AK-47 totting guards. Another couple of hundred feet, at the end of the road, another bunker controlled an electronically operated five-foot high ferro-cement, steel reinforced gate. That particular bunker contained a Garrand high-speed Belgium machine gun, also manned around the clock.

  The Agency used two active informants to bolster satellite surveillance. Information had been received that the captives were held in the basement. It was known that the compound had hosted many "guests" over the last few years, and none had returned, at least not in one piece and alive.

  The two informants remained unaware of each other's existence. Run separately by agents from Mexico City, each agent did not know the existence of the other. The informer inside the house, a kid named Antonio, had failed to show up for his scheduled contact. The other informant owned a combination cantina/bodega often frequented by the men who worked at the Durand compound.

  That second informant was named Carlos Garcia. He was considered reliable because of the amount of gambling money he owed to the Durand's security chief, Miguel Aquilino. The agency had been funneling cash to Carlos, just enough to prevent Miguel from killing him immediately but not enough to raise suspicion. Only problem was that Miguel was a sadistic bastard. It was inevitable that he'd tire of the collection game and kill Carlos and his family, as much for the sheer cruel pleasure as for the debt. Charming individual thought Daniels. Part of the deal was that Carlos would help with the operation and be extracted with his mother and sister.

  For three days the team practiced on the mock up of the compound. They reviewed the plan to exhaustion. They didn't stop until they'd accounted for every contingency that could go wrong.

  Of course Daniels knew it never works that way. What always gets screwed up is what you never expect. In the end you have to rely on your training, experience and the Edge. You improvise, and if you're cunning enough, mean enough and strong enough, and you don't screw up, you survive. If not, you die. It's that simple.

  Chapter 8

  The team entered Mexico individually with four separate identities. The passports and documentation would pass any scrutiny because they were genuine, issued by the US government.

  Daniels flew the seaplane to Tampico, a harbor town at the edge of the hook formed by the Yucatan peninsula. After checking in with Mexican Customs, he rented a mooring for the floating aircraft. Daniels was beginning to really enjoy having that machine. He was supposed to be a wealthy business owner looking to take advantage of NAFTA and relocate a shoe manufacturing plant near Guadalajara. With the cheaper labor costs it made perfect sense. Matt and Rollie were the owners of a travel agency setting up helicopter and private plane tours for wealthy North Americans wanting to visit Mexico without mingling with the rabble. Kurt Rhineman was a German tourist and flew directly from Canada to Mexico City. At least that's what his German passport and visa said.

  Daniels rented a Landrover in Tampico and headed for the Guadalajara sector on the National Highway. At exactly one fifteen, he stopped in the town of Leon at a rundown roadside tourist shop filled with potteries and blankets. Waves of heated air rose from the red clay and sand like shimmering ghosts. He'd arrived at siesta time and the solitary clerk, a white haired old man, snored atop a pile of Indian decorated blankets in a corner. Two men browsed on the other side of the
shop behind shelves of pottery. One had a waist pouch with a red Nike logo and a Minolta camera slung around his neck by a green strap. That was the ID for the embassy contact man. The other was dressed in a white Mexican shirt with baggy tan pants and sandals. Daniels walked up to them and said the code words.

  "Daniels for extraction."

  "Harvey," said the man with the Minolta. "This is Mr. Carlos Garcia. He is our asset in Zacotacas."

  Zacotacas was the town nearest to the Durand's compound.

  Carlos nodded. The Mexican had dark eyes over a frowning forehead partially covered by long straight dark hair. A bushy mustache jumped amidst the sun-browned creases of his mouth and cheeks.

  "Mr. Garcia brokers things in Zacotacas. It is known that a small North American manufacturer is coming to find a place to build facilities and relocate a shoe manufacturing business. We had the word passed down from one of our business contacts in Mexico City. You can spend the day driving through the surrounding area with Carlos and not raise suspicions."

  The mission plan called for a one-day reconnaissance as the other elements assembled. The rescue would take place the following night.

  Daniels left the souvenir stand ahead of the others and drove the rest of the way. Zacotacas is a little town deriving most of its income from tourists passing through to nearby Guadalajara.

  Daniels parked the Landrover in front of the only hotel. The place was a two story wood building that looked more like a warehouse someone had dressed up. He paid a sleepy looking clerk for a four nights stay. The room held one sagging bed with no blankets or cover, no need for one since there was no air conditioning. A solitary coarse wood dresser and a porcelain sink with patterned brown stains completed the ensemble of this Mexican Ritz-Carlton. Daniels brought in the suitcase with the concealed equipment and stashed it under the bed. He opened the laptop and expended the special antenna providing a secured direct satellite contact through Langley. Each team member had a similar laptop. The computer linked up and the messaging panel showed on screen. Daniels typed in his code and received two messages.