Six minutes early, p.1
Six Minutes Early, page 1
part #1 of Max Kenworth Series
Six Minutes Early
Patrick Parker
Chapter 1
September 18, 2013
Green Iguana Bar
Balboa, Panama
George snuffed out his cigarette and then reached for his Panama beer. The alcohol had already started impairing his judgment, and his dark-brown hand knocked over the bottle. “Dorotea!” he said, his voice dominating the din as he sprang to his feet. “Bring a towel!” Wiping his bare hand quickly across the wooden table, he looked up at the man seated across from him and said, “Felipe, ready for another beer?”
Felipe simply nodded. His attention was elsewhere. Slowly grasping the empty bottle, he threw it at a two-foot-long iguana. Droplets of beer arched across his front, some splattering on George. His aim was good, but the reptile’s reflexes were better. Wandering into the old bohío bar in search of food, oblivious to the people and blaring music, the lizard wound up being the entertainment. Felipe retrieved a cigarette from the pocket of his tan shirt, lit it, and then offered one to George.
“Make that two beers, Dorotea!” George wiped beer and sweat from his face.
As usual the two men rendezvoused in the bar that evening before going home after their shift. They drank, talked about the day, and shared dreams of a better life. Often their conversations were punctuated with stories of their youth when they’d had even less responsibilities or money. Although their employers were good to them, the two men were envious of the Americans.
“Why did your parents name you George?” Felipe asked, leaning back in his chair and exhaling the smoke.
“When all the Americans were here, my mother worked for one named George and named me after him.” Looking around, he saw the voluptuous Dorotea, displaying enormous amounts of cleavage, approach with three bottles of beer.
Setting the bottles on the old table with a clack, she then smoothed her worn but colorful red-and-black skirt and seated herself at the table. Crossing her shapely brown legs and lifting a beer, she said, “Saludi!”
The two men did the same and clicked their bottles against hers, and then in unison they took a swig of the local favorite. Each leaned back and watched the sun sink into the green-foliaged horizon. Only four other people, seated several tables across from them, were in the bar.
The Green Iguana bar was located about twelve kilometers west of Balboa, Panama, and about two kilometers from the site where the two men worked. This was a favorite watering hole, and that’s about all it was, for the men who worked nearby. It was a no-frills kind of place, open on three sides with a concrete-slab floor. Food, if that’s what you chose to call it, was cooked on a grill outside. The beer was always cold, the men always sweat stained, and, of course, there was Dorotea.
Leaning forward and brushing her long, black hair back, Dorotea said, “George, I talked to my cousin, and he’ll be here the day after tomorrow.” She paused and glanced around the room. Retrieving a slip of paper from her bra and handing it to George, she continued, “Be at this address at ten o’clock Friday night. My cousin wants to look around.”
“We can’t get him into the site,” Felipe said and then took a drag of his cigarette.
“From the outside,” she replied.
Felipe looked at George.
“We’ll be there,” George said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his hand and then drying it on his tan cargo pants.
“Who’s your cousin? Why are we looking around the site?” Felipe asked. “We just supply the information.”
“Do you want the rest of your money?” she asked, her voice stern and brow furrowed. “Be there the day after tomorrow. No more questions.”
She stood, and George grabbed her arm, pulling her close to him. He caught a whiff of her perfume.
“How about you and me—”
“I’m working.” She jerked free. “Day after tomorrow, ten at night.” She flounced away without waiting for a response.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Felipe took a pull on the beer. “I don’t trust her.”
“She’s got a fine ass.” George swigged his beer. “Easy money. We’re just giving them information. They’re going to do the work. Besides, who’ll know?”
“I…I just don’t know.”
“You didn’t have any problems before when we both needed the money. We’ve worked out there as guards for over a year, and we’re still nobodies,” George said.
“I know, but it’s a job.”
“We’re making some real money now. Finish up. Let’s go.”
That Friday night at ten, as ordered, George and Felipe entered the house located at the address Dorotea had provided; it was about one kilometer from where they worked. The airy tropical-style house, located in a small community shielded by dense jungle, was typical for the area and modestly furnished. Handing the two men Panama beers and with her sandals slapping the floor, Dorotea, curvaceous as ever, escorted them into the den. A casually dressed, muscular man with a dark complexion was seated in a side chair. Opposite him was a tanned Caucasian man. A third man, a Panamanian, closed the door and remained standing next to it. A fourth man stood guard outside on the patio. Dorotea steered the new arrivals to the couch.
“This is my cousin, Franco,” she said, introducing the forty-two-year-old Latin American man as he and the Caucasian man stood. “He’s the commander of the Fifty-Seventh Front, FARC.”
FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia—the military wing of the Colombian Communist Party. The expressions dropped from the faces of George and Felipe as she mentioned FARC. They had not expected to come face-to-face with a FARC member, let alone a commander. The notorious terrorist organization was well known to them and feared throughout Latin America. Knowing that this was bigger than they had anticipated, the two men moved to stand in respect.
“Please…relax, my friends,” Franco said, taking George’s hand and then Felipe’s. “We finally meet. Dorotea has told me quite a bit about you.”
Franco was obviously attempting to put them at ease in order to gain their trust and confidence. Intrigued by the information they were providing, Franco wanted to develop them more—a skill he had learned when he had been a Panamanian policeman. “The information you provided us has been very informative.”
“Thank you, Comandante,” George replied, still wary of the commander and intimidated by the situation.
“This is my advisor, Bart Madison,” Franco said as he motioned to the man next to him.
“An American!” Felipe said to himself as he studied the rugged Caucasian man before him. The man’s steely gaze made Felipe uncomfortable. “I don’t like this. Can we trust this guy? Is he CIA?”
“I wanted to look you in the eye,” Franco said, leveling a stern gaze on them. “I am interested in this American site. We’ll know tonight if you’re trustworthy or if you work for the Americans. If the latter is true, you will not see the sunrise. Do you understand?”
“Sí, Comandante! We are loyal to you.” George forced the words as Felipe nodded. They both realized that they were in over their heads and that it was too late to back out.
“I want to know more about this place, and then we’ll go see it.” Franco sat in the chair, and Bart stepped behind to look over Franco’s shoulder. “What else have you found out?”
“As I reported last time, the site is guarded around the clock,” George said, unfolding a sketch he had made. His hand trembled. Orienting it to the north, he described the small facility, estimating it to be 100 by 150 meters.
“It’s located on a knoll, and the jungle is cut back about two hundred meters around the perimeter fence,” George continued. “The rear of the compound has a bunker. That’s where the activity is. That’s where we work.”
“The location is strange. Security is very tight in the rear portion of the compound. There is security in the front but not as heavy,” Felipe added.
“The sign in front of the building says NASA Climate Research.” George indicated the building and then said, “That’s the only sign, except for a couple of others that say US Government Property, Keep Out. We’ve never been in the main building; we go through an entrance on the side.” George pointed to the sketch. “Just inside the entrance is the guardhouse—it controls the entry.” He identified the small structure.
“Also in there is a reactionary force—a squad-sized unit. Between the main building and the helipad is the security force’s quarters.” George pointed to that building. “The rest of the security force—about three squads—stays there for a shift. Only about thirty-eight to forty men provide security at the site at any given time.”
“The security force—are they soldiers or contractors like you?” Franco asked, evaluating George’s words.
“Sí, we all work for an American company, except for a few main people. Those men are all US Special Forces.”
“Continue.” Franco’s face remained expressionless.
“There are automatic weapons in the towers.” George handed the sketch to Franco.
As Bart Madison looked over his shoulder, Franco leaned back in his chair and studied the detailed sketch briefly and then handed it to Madison. “Go on,” he said, looking at George. “What is stored there?”
“They only tell us that it is highly sensitive equipment. We’ve seen large, rectangular containers, about the size of a trunk, through the open door of the bunker. Two men usually move them about,” George said. “It’s always two or more men who go in there together to handle the containers.”< br />
“Are these containers dark green?” Madison asked.
“Sí.”
“Two guard towers, diagonally across from each other, overlooking the area. Is that correct?”
“Sí.”
“Helicopters land here.” Felipe pointed to the helipad in an open space between the bunker and the main building.
“How often?” Madison asked.
“Not very often. Maybe three or four times in the last year.”
“Do they keep helicopter impediment poles up when the helipad is not in use?”
“Helicopter impediment poles?” George displayed a blank look on his face.
“Poles positioned in the ground about every meter and tied together at the top.”
“Yes, all over the open ground.”
Madison nodded and then asked, “At night, how is it lit, and is there much activity?”
“Very little activity at night, and the place is locked down. Metal halide lights illuminate the site and perimeter. Felipe and I start on the night shift next month.”
“Very good. You have done well,” Franco said as he motioned to Madison.
Madison withdrew an envelope stuffed with cash from his briefcase and handed it to Franco.
“For you and Felipe,” Franco said, handing George the envelope. “Let’s see this place now. I’ll want an update after you’re on the night shift. Dorotea will let you know what else we want or what we decide to do next. If there are any changes to the routine or anything out of the ordinary, tell Dorotea.”
“Sí, Comandante, we will.”
As George and Felipe led Franco and Bart along the dark jungle path that they had marked earlier, the light from their red flashlights danced about and illuminated the way. The nocturnal rainforest was alive with insects, reptiles, and mammals—many deadly to humans—that thrived here. Any biologist would be fascinated with the variety of life, and many were. Even the US Army maintained a tropical test center in Panama because of the near-perfect tropical conditions there.
Meandering through the foliage, Franco and Bart lagged behind, out of hearing from the other two, and discussed the site and the opportunity it might provide. The vines, branches, and leaves constantly slapped and tugged at their clothes. The bright, full moon was like a beacon in the clear night sky, and the stars shone like diamonds. However, the ambient light was unable to penetrate the dense canopy. Only on occasion did traces of light pierce the darkness as the men followed the markers. The warm night air was heavy with humidity.
“You know about this place, Bart?” Franco wiped the sweat from his face.
“I think so, but I’ll verify it with my contact in Washington,” Bart replied, guiding a branch out of their way.
“The senator?” Franco looked at him and then flicked off several large insects—beetles, ants, and a foot-long walking stick—from Bart’s shoulder.
Bart nodded.
“OK, but what do you think is there?”
“I think it’s a nuclear-weapons storage facility.”
“No shit?” Franco paused and looked at Bart. “I thought the United States closed all the storage sites down that were outside the borders.”
“I thought so, too, but I’ll find out for sure. It wouldn’t surprise me, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“When the army closed down the tactical storage facilities, SOCOM took over the sole mission of employing man-portable nuclear devices. Before I left the special forces, I worked on plans for using this type of weapon against a potential adversary. They even considered using them in Iraq.” SOCOM, or United States Special Operations Command was a unified combatant command that was legislated into existence to provide command, control, and training for all US special-operations forces.
“Man-portable nuclear devices? Go on.” Franco brushed a huge spider from the leg of his pants.
“There was a lot of discussion about scattering a few facilities outside the country in order to conceal the weapons and move them without detection. It was probably as much an effort to conceal them from the politicians as it was from spies. SOCOM didn’t want to give up the weapons when DOD was reducing much of the nuclear stockpiles. My guess is that this is one of those locations. The way these knuckleheads sketched out and described the place, it fits in the way I remember them.”
“I’m only interested in conventional weapons and ammunition,” Franco replied. “If there are nuclear weapons, we can sell them to the highest bidder—ISIS, Hezbollah, Iran, whoever—and they’ll pay a good price for them. We just don’t want to get caught with them.”
“Especially if they belonged to the Americans in the first place!” Bart added with a smirk. “They would all love to get their hands on one; using something like that against the Americans is their wet dream.”
“This is what I’m thinking,” Franco continued. “We use Los Zetas’s mules to deliver the weapons just across the border. We can get a higher price that way.”
“Can we trust Los Zetas?” Bart asked, knowing the reputation of the cartel made up of former Mexican Special Forces.
“I think we can, but it will cost us. After we reach an agreement with the top bidder, then I’ll contact the Los Zetas commander and work out a deal. You plan it out and figure out the deception and routes. Don’t mention this to anyone yet. When we’re ready, we’ll auction them off and execute quickly. Those Arabs can’t keep a secret, so we’ll have to move fast.”
“What about these two?”
“We’ll use them as long as we can and then eliminate them. They don’t need to know everything.”
***
Monday
September 23, 2013
Darien Gap
Near the Panamanian-Colombian Border
At the jungle compound, Franco Trujillo, commander of the Fifty-Seventh Front, FARC, laid the newspaper on the bamboo coffee table and then refilled his snifter. Two televisions, one tuned to Fox News and the other to the BBC, continuously reported on the chaos in Washington, DC, over the pending government shutdown. Both stations provided commentary on the conflict between the liberal and conservative sides of the government standoff.
The elections were a year away, and politicians were trying to keep their bases happy. Neither side was about to make any move that would jeopardize votes. Votes meant money and, above all, power. Anything outside the domestic issues was given only a cursory attention, mainly for show.
Bart entered the spacious room and started to speak, but Franco held up his hand and indicated for Bart to wait as he listened to one of the pundits.
“This is like watching kids fight over the candy bowl,” Franco said, motioning for Bart to sit beside him on the couch. The floral fabric showed its age. “Here, have a brandy.” He pointed to a snifter and bottle on the coffee table. “Try one of these cigars too. Montecristo Number Two. I just got them today.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” Grasping the brandy, Bart filled the snifter to the bowl, swirled it, and then took a sip. Retrieving one of the cigars, he lit it in a cloud of bluish smoke. “Nice!”
“This box of Cohíba Espléndidos is for the senator.” Franco lifted the box of cigars off the coffee table and then handed it to Bart.
“Good. The meeting is on for Wednesday evening in Panama City.”
“Find out all you can—the real story about the government shutdown,” Franco said. “Also I don’t want the border closed. Be sure he knows to keep the DOJ and Border Patrol under control.”
“Several of my other contacts have told me that the administration is bogged down with domestic issues and isn’t concerned with anything else,” Bart said. “I’m told that the president isn’t even taking the daily intelligence briefings and that the ongoing scandals are eating his lunch. I don’t think we have to worry about the US military too much for a while. The president and staffers are micromanaging everyone. He’s fired a number of generals, and the others are doing what they can to protect their stars. No one is doing anything without explicit approval. The politicians are jockeying for reelection and fighting with each other. The whole place is screwed.”
“Good! All the better for us, amigo.” Franco took a sip of brandy and then puffed the Montecristo as he leaned back. “While you’re meeting with the senator, I’m meeting with the representatives from the Secretariat and my commander.” He sipped his brandy again and then continued. “Bart, this may get me promoted. As you know, the Ivan Rios Bloc commander is an old man and in poor health; they might just retire him. If they make me the bloc commander, that would mean a promotion for you as well, amigo. What do you think?”
