Baroota- the Hunting Ground Page 4

  “Why does the runway length matter? And what is a STOL aircraft?”

  “Because, Mr. Armani suit, I can land a plane almost anywhere, but I can’t take off from anywhere. A plane that needs a 3200-foot runway to take off can’t take off from a 1500-foot runway. It’s basic fucking math, goddamn it! What’s the runway length? STOL? Stands for Short Takeoff and Landing. You need an aircraft that’s built to do that.”

  He grimaced; he hated profane language. He opened the file on his desk marked “Baroota” and read the description of the area. Finally, after a few pages of information had been sifted through, he located the runway length.

  “Fourteen hundred and fifty feet,” he announced. Looking up from the paperwork, he couldn’t believe his eyes: the woman was knuckle deep in her right nostril, digging for God knows what. He grimaced again. “Please, madam,” he said while handing her a box of tissues.

  She removed the snot covered finger and said, “No, thanks,” as she removed her now filthy and snot encrusted finger from her nose and inserted the disgusting mass into her mouth. Smiling at him she then removed the now spotlessly clean finger.

  His gaze darkened. He hated every moment in this woman’s presence. She continued on as if nothing was unusual about her behavior, and for her this was not unusual.

  “Jesus, that’ll be tight; however, it can be done. The aircraft I would choose is the C-130. It’s commonly used and has the necessary STOL profile, and it’ll be easy to obtain. I can take care of that. I have access to a ‘company aircraft’, given I possess enough money to grease the necessary palms. Three hundred thousand should do it. In cash, untraceable numbers.”

  His eyebrows raised; this was more expensive than he had planned, but within acceptable limits. If everything worked out, the plane would be his when the operation was over. He would own the plane, and the foul, disagreeable pilot. The thought made him smile. Soon enough, he would teach her respect.

  “That should be no problem,” he replied.

  “Finally, what’s the route you’d like to take? And when do we begin this cluster fuck of a mission?”

  “Before I detail the route, I need to know, do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah, sure, we have a deal – provided I get paid exactly what I said, and how I said. You’ll have your plane and pilot.”

  “Now about the route and details – oh yes, there is one small detail I haven’t mentioned. The crash site location.”

  “What the hell do you mean crash site?”

  “Let me explain.”

  “I’m all ears, and another whiskey, huh?” She tipped her glass at him, implying he needed to get up and refill her glass. “Oh, and tell me, do you fuck to this music? It sounds like elephants humping in the zoo. I’m sure it makes your kind of people all hot and bothered. To me, it sounds like elephants swapping bodily fluids.”

  He sighed deeply and got up to fill their glasses. Hopefully, he thought, the whiskey would perhaps dull his senses. The stench this woman had unleashed on his office still filled the air. Remarkably, it had been 2 hours, and pockets of the poison lingered in unpleasant, hidden, invisible clouds here and there. He would probably have to have the entire office cleaned after this negotiation was complete. He would be most satisfied when this was over and she was firmly in his debt.

  He returned to the desk and handed her the glass. He made a mental note to throw these glasses away when she left and the meeting was over. She was filth that could not be washed off, scrubbed off, or removed. The glasses were gone as soon as she was.

  “Now about the crash site, what I’m going to tell you will be difficult to understand at first, but when I’m finished, you’ll see why your complete confidence and discretion in this aspect of the mission is critical.”

  He had to admit, the woman was horror beyond measure, but when he was done explaining the more delicate aspects of the mission, she did not flinch a muscle. He understood why she had been so highly recommended. She had a razor sharp understanding of the darker side of this mission, and remarkably, her complete lack of couth was exactly what made her ideal for this mission. She was as evil as she was filthy, and unscrupulous; perhaps, he thought, in her case the qualities went hand in hand.

  “So after we land and my part in the mission is complete, how will I get back to the United States?” she asked. She then added, “How will you acquire the spare parts and equipment you’ll require for the crash site?”

  “We were hoping you would be able to assist us with that. Your recommendation is the C-130 aircraft, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can fly that particular plane, I assume?”

  “I’ve flown it several times, and I’m more than familiar with it.”

  “Do you know a method in which we would be able to acquire the necessary parts for this mission?”

  “I think so. There are ‘boneyards’ of retired and stored C-130 aircraft. I believe with the necessary incentives, I could acquire the parts you’ll need to be successful.”

  “Boneyards?” he questioned. “I’m sorry, I’m unfamiliar with that term.”

  She replied, “A boneyard is like a junkyard for aircraft. You can’t just have an old aircraft towed by a towing company to a local scrap dealer. Aircraft have to be parked in huge boneyards, usually located in the desert. Oftentimes, older planes like the C-130 are cannibalized for their parts. It’s a cheaper alternative to buying new parts, and it keeps the plane flying. I have a friend who can make that happen, no questions asked, and he won’t be expensive.”

  “Good, then I’ll leave that particular aspect of the mission in your hands.” He continued, “Now back to your return trip; you will meet with a small, privately owned yacht and reenter the United States from the Gulf of Mexico. There should be no issues there.”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, for hell’s sake, aren’t you forgetting the minor detail of a passport stamp? How will I explain that I left the U.S. and then returned from South America and have no passport stamp?”

  “The United States Coast Guard does not require passport stamps, provided you haven’t landed anywhere. Your ship’s captain will be on a personal cruise and understands the ins and outs of small vessel smuggling. When you return, you will be tanned and have spent an amazing time in the Gulf of Mexico. That will be your cover. For small passenger ships, the system is honor-based as far as reporting where you have been. The CBP will be contacted, and he will provide them with the necessary details for your return.”

  “CBP?”

  “Customs and Borders Protection,” he replied and then continued thinking, Does she have no manners at all? All she does is interrupt. “If you choose to look up the details, you may do so, but trust me, we have done a dry run or two to ensure that we understand the nuances of their system. Our captain and his boat are already registered with the SVRS and have an established history; he is part of the ‘Coast Guard’s Trusted Traveler’ program and has a history of making such trips, so yours will be nothing unusual as a cover story, and no unnecessary attention will be drawn to this trip.”

  “What the hell is the SVRS? Sounds like a sexually transmitted disease to me,” she said and then laughed an obnoxiously loud and awkward laugh.

  “SVRS stands for Small Vessel Registration Service. It is used by the Coast Guard to regulate small vessel traffic in the Gulf.”

  “Sounds like you already have all the details worked out. I look forward to a lucrative and long lasting relationship with you and your people.”

  “Yes, we hope this will be lucrative for both our interests and yours.”

  She stood up and reached out her hand to shake his. He shuddered as he touched her skin. She grasped his hand, hers rough and strong, while his was well manicured and soft.

  She pulled him closer. “I’m sure I can pull off my part in your little ‘mission impossible’. I look forward to seeing the six-digit increase in my account. The aircraft will be ready when I have the necessary monetary incentives for my people.”

  He was surprised at the relief he felt when she left his office. Using a tissue, he picked up her glass and dropped it in the trash. He then went to the bar and began to vigorously scrub his hands.

  “Arthur, come in here,” he called out loudly through the open office door.

  “Yes, sir.” Arthur entered the office and immediately was overwhelmed by the stench.

  “Please remove this chair and have my office cleaned immediately! Ensure they understand I want them to remove the foul stench of that…person.”

  Arthur covered his mouth with a lightly perfumed handkerchief in an attempt to manage the stench that continued to permeate the office.

  “Yes, sir, most definitely, sir.”

  It was five a.m. Eastern Standard Time when the phone rang.

  “Mm, hello?”

  “Jay, are you up?”

  “Yes, sir!” Jay immediately sat straight up in bed.

  If there was a military term for being at attention while sitting in bed, Jay was doing it. Twenty-five years of training and psychological conditioning had made their impact on his unconscious mind. Yes, he could still think for himself, but at moments like this he realized he was different than the nineteen-year-old kid who had laughed at military veterans for their nearly automatic response to any authority figure. He vowed back then never to become one of them, and yet here he was at five a.m. sitting at attention in his own bed. The two women curled up together in bed with him never moved a muscle, never even flinched. They were not conditioned, and for some reason he resented that. He felt anger boiling up in his chest at this unintentional acknowledgement of his conditioning. He’d become what he most ridiculed, at least parts of him had, he thought as his mind cleared and he focused on the conversation he was having. The old guard never would have given a thought about this mission, neither would they have imagined the cash he was about to rake in if all went according to plan.

  Again he said, “Yes, sir, I’m here. How may I help you, sir?”

  “Is the team ready?”

  “The team is ready, sir. They’ve completed all aspects of the training and passed their physicals. They’re ready, sir.”

  “And our other two players? Detail their readiness for me. Their sponsors wish to know details on their readiness as well. The wild card, is he fit and ready?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve flown to Colorado and observed his fitness training and firearms training. He’s totally immersed himself in the training regiment he designed. He swims in laps in full sweats and shoes in an Olympic size swimming pool for hours. Apparently, he got that idea from his younger days. He was on some kind of team in the military that must have had a pretty intense training program. His firearms accuracy is better than anyone else on the team. Honestly, sir, I don’t think he’ll be an issue as far as preparedness. He’s focused to the point of being insane. I can see why he was removed from his position on the streets. He is most definitely mentally damaged. I thought the team had some ‘whack jobs’, you know, ‘death from above’ types, but this guy is intense. His sponsor will be pleased, I’m sure.”

  “Good, and the reporter? She has no training to monitor, really, but tell me, is she ready for the trip?”

  “Sir, I’m not sure about this one. It isn’t whether she’s ready or not. She’s different. I can’t put my finger on it, but she feels wrong to me. Have you read my report on the first meeting we had?”

  “Yes.”

  “To be honest, she gives me the creeps. She just feels wrong, something’s off about her. She can be in the room with you one moment, smiling and happy, and the next minute her eyes are dark and soulless. I mean, there’s no one there, nothing. It’s like she disappears and something or someone else steps into her body. Her eyes aren’t all that change; her voice changes, and this weird accent comes to the front of her speech. It’s almost like she’s a multiple personality or something. Are you sure she’s the one for this mission?”

  “Yes, her sponsor was quite clear and asked for her by name. She has a remarkable life history. She is definitely the one for this mission. You will make this happen, Jay. Get over whatever it is that you’re feeling. You know what’s at stake here.”

  “Yes, sir. Then again, to answer your question, sir, yes, the team is ready.”

  “Excellent. Send out the orders to meet at The Lake in three days’ time. You will ensure the tactical team arrives as one unit. The other two are to arrive individually, they must never feel a part of the team. Their isolation is a requirement.”

  “When will the support side of the team arrive?”

  “The flight crew will arrive in three days. They can mingle with the tactical team, if they dare. My experience is, these two types of mentalities don’t mix well and probably will have nothing to do with each other. I do not want the wild card and the reporter to mingle with the tactical team unless it cannot be avoided. If it looks like it must happen, then I will trust your judgment. But if we can keep them apart, then do so.”

  “Understood, sir. What about the replacement parts for the crash site?”

  “The parts have been acquired, and not cheaply, I might add. However, they’re an investment I must make. The observer will be there as well. She is…well, you can see for yourself who she is when you arrive. If anyone should give you the creeps and make you think something is wrong with them on this mission, it’s her. I don’t think you’ll be able to remove the stain of meeting her for some time.

  “Jay, all of the other materials have been taken care of and are waiting for you at The Lake. Mission briefing will begin in ninety-six hours. That gives your team 3 days to arrive and get used to the idea that this is finally going to happen. In one week, you land in Baroota, and the mission begins in earnest.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll make the arrangements and brief you on the progress.”

  The line went dead on Jay’s end. He looked at the phone and saw the screen said “unknown number”. The director left nothing to chance. Jay turned off the phone and looked at the sleeping women next to him. The look on his face was predatory. To be so unaware of what was going on around you was both a gift and a curse, he thought, as he ran his hand up the inside thigh of the closest leg to him, exploring the body it belonged to until finally the sleeping woman remembered her place. She awoke smiling and moaning. She and her friend were an excellent distraction he would be able to indulge in more frequently when this mission was successfully completed.

  “The Lake” had been a recovery point during the Cold War for nuclear-armed bombers. It was located in a small, out of the way, unimportant no-name town in Washington state, the idea being that in the event a nuclear war did break out, the bombers would deploy. If they actually succeeded in their mission and deployed the nuclear weapons, they would recover to Moses Lake, Washington. The assumption was that the base of origin would be obliterated in a first wave retaliatory strike. In the early eighties, during the height of the Cold War, an entire wing of nuclear loaded B-52s had been deployed to Moses Lake while their home station runway was being hardened and improved for a heavier nuclear load. The deployment was miserable for the support staff required to protect the nuclear loaded B-52s. Posted in a small town with little or no civilian amenities, the ground forces referred to the deployment as “Moses Hole”. Since the site was a recovery point for the ancient aircraft and their crews, the bare bones mission infrastructure and technical requirements had to be met for the military. This meant the runway refueling and maintenance assets would be required to be excellent. Moses Lake has one of the longest civilian operated runways in the United States for this reason. After the Cold War ended, the site was made into a civilian runway.

  Today, the United States Forest Service uses the site for fire suppression of the drier eastern parts of Washington and Oregon state. The airport is also now a training facility for heavy jets, both military and civilian, and additionally is used by NASA. Because of the frequent aircraft arrivals and departures from so many different agencies, no one had reason to notice the camouflaged C-130 when it landed. There was nothing remarkable about it as the brief puffs of black smoke erupted from the twenty-six-inch Goodyear tires as they gently kissed the hardened and reinforced concrete runway. The plane arrived on the “04” end of the runway and taxied to the pre-designated parking spot on what had been referred to as the twin Christmas trees by security forces in the nineteen-eighties. This was on the “32” end of the runway. There, the flight crew was picked up by a white Chevy Tahoe after they had completed their engine shutdown and post-flight checklists. They were transported to a small building, which would house the entire flight team. The aircrew would be on the top floor, while when the tactical team arrived, they would be housed in a hangar, sleeping on cots and in sleeping bags in an abandoned office. It was viewed to be a necessary part of keeping them edgy and mentally hard. The “wild card” and the reporter were to be individually billeted in the same building as the flight crew, but on the main floor. Jay would be taking a room on the second floor, along with Pat. She had been apprised of her role as an observer and the boundaries of what her role would be before the team departed. She had accepted the role with a detached, cold acknowledgement that sent chills up Jay’s spine. The director was correct: he felt like he needed a shower after just momentarily being in her presence.

  Five hours after the flight crew arrived, another group arrived on the airfield. They walked with a confident swagger as they too exited a pair of white Chevy Tahoes, a third Tahoe followed with their gear. They would be bringing the equipment they were familiar with to avoid any possible malfunctions or accidents. Familiarity was a requirement in combat; you had to know your equipment by its feel and texture. It had to be a part of you, an extension of who you were. Anyone who was watching their activity would have recognized the cockiness of a well-trained and self-assured team. Their exact purpose would have been a mystery, however, with no logos, insignias, or rank visible on their clothing or the vehicles that transported them. This was by design; no one would remember the team a few days later, nor would they be able to recall anything noteworthy. Even the Tahoes were rentals from a local car company. That paper trail would die in the 1s and 0s of the Internet with no trace. The team was comprised of all men, approximately of the same age and physical build. None were much larger than any of the others, and contrary to the Hollywood version of a tactical team, the real thing is made up of athletically gifted men and/or women who are not overly muscular. The real “A-Team” was not full of bodybuilders and muscle necks; instead, it was front to back filled with normal looking, average built men and women who were exceptional in talent and skill sets, not testosterone-pumped freaks who could never fit into the uniform. Each member had been chosen for a reason. Each had been a veteran of several deployments in the military, and all had seen combat in the Middle East. That too was a requirement of the director’s many financial sponsors. The team had to be gifted and experienced in combat and hostage extraction operations. They had to be battle tested.