Running from the Devil Page 2

  Miguel fiddled with a laptop computer, replaced the mushroom-cloud photo with a large satellite map of Colombia, and began his presentation.

  “The first thing we did was look for any distress signals emitting from where we believe the plane landed. A satellite passing over Colombia returned a report of a cell-phone-based GPS transmission in this part of the country.” Miguel pointed to the northwestern mountains near the Colombia-Venezuela border.

  “Unfortunately, the satellite passed again approximately one hundred minutes later, and the ping was gone.”

  “Could it have been from a passenger’s phone?” the undersecretary of the navy said.

  Miguel nodded. “The GPS transmission code was registered to a phone owned by a passenger named Emma Caldridge. And Ms. Caldridge was kind enough to send us a note.” The photo behind Miguel shifted to a copy of Emma’s text message. The words army men taking hostages were highlighted.

  Whitter groaned. “This is awful.”

  Banner couldn’t agree more, but he was surprised at Whitter’s empathetic response. Perhaps the man had a heart after all.

  “I agree, sir. But at least we know that some people survived the crash. Better to be a hostage than dead,” Miguel said.

  Whitter slapped his hand on the table. “Hostages are a political nightmare! How many? There were two hundred and sixteen people on that jet. This administration cannot have such a breach of security under its watch.”

  What an asshole, Banner thought.

  Miguel shook his head. “Tough to know how many survived. Once the cell-phone ping disappeared, we looked for any other anomalies that could indicate a downed jet, and we found this.”

  The mushroom-cloud photo reappeared. Miguel pointed at it with a laser pointer.

  “We believe it was a large explosion that caused this actual cloud. If this is the plane, either it exploded on landing, or it was deliberately exploded.”

  “How long will it take to get a small troop to the location pinpointed by the cell phone transmission?” Banner said.

  “It’s done already,” Miguel said.

  “Excellent.” Whitter smiled for the first time that day.

  Miguel grimaced. “We requested that the Colombian military send a helicopter to verify that it was the crash site and assist in a search-and-rescue mission. They did, and they say that no crash exists at those coordinates.”

  Whitter’s face fell. “Could she have sent the message while the plane was still flying? Perhaps the plane continued on for a while?”

  Miguel shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  Whitter pointed at the screen. “What about your satellite? You got a picture of the mushroom cloud. How about a picture of the crash?”

  Miguel shook his head again. “This area is mountainous and covered by dense foliage. Once the mushroom cloud dispersed, all we saw was green.”

  “That’s FFOC territory, isn’t it?” Banner said.

  “Not just FFOC. Every guerrilla and paramilitary group in Colombia keeps a satellite force here. It’s one of the most dangerous areas in Colombia, if not the world.”

  “Why there?” Stromeyer said.

  “The Oriental gas pipeline is there. The pipeline pumps fifty thousand tons of oil a day. The groups bomb it regularly and then extort protection money from Oriental and the nearby municipal authorities.”

  Banner snorted. “I hope Oriental’s executives aren’t stupid enough to pay. They’ll never make a penny.”

  “They did pay, until six months ago, when the United States sent a special operations force of five hundred men to protect the pipeline.”

  Banner sat up straighter. “Why is the United States Army protecting a private corporation’s pipeline? Shouldn’t the corporation hire its own force to guard its property?”

  “You mean like your guys?” Whitter’s disdain for Banner’s men rang in the room.

  Banner stared Whitter down. He allowed no one to disrespect his men, especially a career politico in his college colors who had never fired a gun in his life.

  “I mean exactly that,” Banner said. “Deploying regular army to protect a corporation, even an oil corporation, is a waste of the taxpayers’ dollars.”

  “Mr. Banner, since 9/11 our new mission is to eradicate terrorism wherever it may exist in the world. If that means we send the military to protect an American corporation, then that’s what we’ll do,” Whitter said. Banner and Whitter glared at each other. Several people shifted uncomfortably in their seats as they watched the two men square off. The undersecretary of the army broke the stalemate.

  “We’re there for training purposes only,” he said. He raised an eyebrow at Banner.

  Miguel cleared his throat. “That mission, however, actually increased terrorism.”

  Whitter shot a look at Miguel. “Explain that statement.”

  “The special forces have been in a pitched battle with the FFOC and the cartels since they landed. We’ve been dropping tons of herbicide on their coca fields and intercepting their saboteurs on the pipeline almost nightly.”

  “Who’s winning?” Whitter said.

  “It was a stalemate. While the attacks on the pipeline diminished and some coca fields decreased, the cartels adjusted quickly. They’ve ordered the farmers to begin moving their crop to the base of the mountains, where the planes can’t spray, and this hijacking could be payback.” Miguel turned to Stromeyer. “Major Stromeyer, do you have any information on Emma Caldridge? Is she on your manifest?”

  Stromeyer riffled through her many sheets of paper. She pulled one out with a passport picture at the top. A pretty young woman with brown hair and vivid green eyes gazed at the camera with a hint of a smile.

  “Here she is!” Stromeyer waved the page at the others. “Emma Caldridge. Thirty years old. She’s a chemist working for Pure Chemistry, a laboratory specializing in formulating products for some of the top cosmetic companies in the world. Her supervisors say she’s one of the best chemists they’ve ever hired. She has an expertise in plants and herbs. She studies them for any special properties they may have in a cosmetic application.”

  “You’ve spoken to her supervisors?” Whitter looked impressed.

  Banner could have told Whitter that speaking to a key target’s supervisor would be the minimum Stromeyer would do. She had been working so long at her manifest lists that he suspected she had each person’s shoe size and preference in wine cataloged as well.

  “A good dossier requires contact with someone with personal knowledge of the target,” Stromeyer said, sounding every bit the bureaucrat.

  “All right,” Banner said. “What about boyfriends, husbands, lovers? Anyone she could have teamed up with to assist in this hijacking?”

  Stromeyer looked startled. “You think she’s a player?”

  Banner shrugged. “She survived and sent a text message, didn’t she? I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

  Stromeyer nodded. “I see your point. She’s single, lives in Miami Beach, and travels for business. She was going to Bogotá to meet with a local scientist, and then was headed to Patagonia for an endurance race. No current boyfriend, although a secretary at the lab had heard a rumor that she’d previously been engaged to marry a man who died suddenly. I’m still working on that, as well as her family connections.”

  “What does she do with her time? Does she belong to any questionable activist groups or have political affiliations?”

  “Not at all. She works. And when she isn’t working, she runs ultramarathons.”

  “What the hell is an ultramarathon?” Banner said.

  “A marathon of thirty-five miles up to over one hundred.”

  Banner couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Are we talking one hundred miles or one hundred kilometers?”

  “Miles. I know it sounds crazy, but she literally runs one hundred miles at a time.”

  Banner ran five miles every other day at five in the morning. He used a treadmill and watched the Early, Early show. It t
ook him an hour and he was always happy to be finished.

  “Hell of a way to spend your time,” Banner said.

  “It is. And Ms. Caldridge ran the Badwater 135, one of the most grueling runs in the world.”

  Miguel looked intrigued. “Why so?”

  “It’s also known as the Death Valley run. The competitors run one hundred thirty-five miles through Death Valley. When Ms. Caldridge ran it last year, it was so hot that the rubber on the bottom of the competitors’ shoes melted to the pavement.”

  Banner whistled. “Tough lady.”

  “She had better be,” Miguel said, “because she’s going to have to outrun this man.” The photo behind him shifted again and a picture of a ferret-faced man in faded army fatigues filled the screen.

  Miguel placed a laser dot on the man’s forehead. “This is Luis Rodrigo, head of a small band of paramilitary losers whose home base is in the mountains near where the mushroom cloud occurred.”

  “What’s their role in all of this?” Banner could see from the picture that Rodrigo looked like a rodent and had the brains of a single-celled creature.

  “We’re not sure, but his group camps in the vicinity of the mushroom cloud, and the location alone suggests he’s a player in the hijacking. If he is, we are dealing with a very bad guy.”

  “Worse than your average guerrilla leader?”

  Miguel nodded. “Much worse. Rodrigo is insane. He makes the leaders of the drug cartels look respectable by comparison. He governs a band of outcasts that have all been ousted from the more established organizations. Rodrigo, though, is able to control them. When one messes up he simply maims or kills the offender. He cuts off ears, tongues, and plucks out eyes. The really incompetent assholes he shoots. Lately he’s been said to have taken a page from the Afghan playbook and beheaded two particularly stupid soldiers.”

  “If they’re so stupid, how did they plan and execute this hijacking?”

  Miguel shook his head. “There is no way he did it alone. He must have had help. Either from the cartels or the FFOC, or both.”

  “Do you think this man has control of the passengers?” Whitter said. He looked appalled.

  “Anybody wandering around that location will have to deal with him eventually, so we need to extract any survivors quickly. This man is volatile and could kill them all in a fit of rage.”

  “Suggestions?” Banner said.

  Miguel nodded. “Wait until they make contact and then send them whatever ransom they demand. It’s the best plan for getting those people out alive, and the price demanded will pale in comparison to the cost of a rescue mission.”

  Whitter shook his head. “Absolutely not. The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Actually, we already have negotiated. There’s a tacit agreement between the United States and Colombia to allow the far-right guerrilla leaders immunity from extradition to the U.S. if they agree to lay down their arms. If that’s not negotiating with them, I don’t know what is.”

  Whitter bristled like a porcupine under attack. “That deal was not cut by the United States. It was cut by the president of Colombia with the guerrilla leaders.”

  “And the United States didn’t argue with it.”

  “It’s still not the same as negotiating with kidnappers.”

  Banner put a hand in the air to silence the men. “Miguel, help me out here. Did these paramilitary groups take the Colombian president up on his offer and lay down their arms?”

  “Thousands did,” Miguel said.

  “Then why do you think we’re dealing with a paramilitary group in this hijacking?”

  “Because the president has been negotiating only with the far-right paramilitary groups. The far-left guerrillas, the FFOC, have not been approached by the Colombian government.”

  “So you think this kidnapping is a bid to force the president of Colombia to begin negotiations with the far left,” Banner said.

  Miguel paused. “Perhaps. It could also be an attempt to derail the peace process entirely. The process requires that the paramilitary groups return control of the country to the government. These guys may not be too keen on giving up that kind of power.”

  “Or it could be unrelated and we are drawing the wrong conclusions.” Whitter stabbed a finger at Miguel as he said this.

  “That is also correct,” Miguel said.

  Banner liked that Miguel conceded the point to Whitter. It showed him that the man would not proceed on assumptions blindly.

  “Alternative suggestions to negotiating?” Banner said.

  “Pull twenty special forces personnel off the pipeline detail and gather them for a reconnaissance mission to find the crash site. From there try to determine the location of the passengers. Track them through the jungle, if that’s what’s required.” Miguel sounded determined.

  Whitter shook his head. “No. It’s a waste of resources. Why go to an area that the Colombian military has already canvassed?”

  “Because I don’t believe them,” Miguel said.

  The undersecretary of the air force snorted. “You think these guys are lying?”

  “There are those who say that the Colombian army has been hand in glove with the paramilitary groups for years. Even Colombia’s own special forces unit in charge of rescue operations has been implicated in a massacre of the Colombian police. I don’t think we can take anything for granted in an area as rife with corruption as this one.”

  “I won’t go along with this,” Whitter said. He turned to Banner. “If we go there anyway, it looks as though we don’t trust the Colombian government. This country is an ally.”

  For the first time, Miguel looked aggravated. “Mr. Whitter, that’s why I suggest that we use the men already posted in the area. We save valuable time and we avoid the questions that would arise from sending a wave of new military manpower.”

  So that’s why I’m here, Banner thought, to provide unofficial muscle if Miguel’s plan fails. He glanced at Miguel and kept his voice mild. “Did General Corvan approve the mission?”

  “He did, pending your input. He said that no one knew better than you how to run a search-and-rescue mission in hostile territory.”

  “I’m flattered.” Banner and General Corvan went back to the early days, when they had taken turns saving each other’s hide.

  “Who would be in charge of the mission?” Banner asked the question, but he figured he could guess the answer.

  “I am. I leave tonight,” Miguel said.

  5

  LUIS RODRIGO STOOD IN THE BAKING SUN ON THE SCORCHED AIRSTRIP and watched his soldiers shove the airline passengers into a small circle. One man moved too slowly, and a guerrilla hammered him with the butt of his gun. The man dropped like a stone. Rodrigo’s first lieutenant, Alvarado, came to stand next to him.

  “They are stupid and slow,” Alvarado said.

  “Each is worth more money than you’ll see in ten years. You tell Jorge I see him hit another without my permission and I’ll cut off the hand he used at the wrist.”

  Alvarado stepped back. “They are arrogant Americans. They need to know who is in charge.”

  “I am in charge. I will decide who lives and who dies.”

  “We made more money with the coca. This”—Alvarado swept his arm to take in the passengers—“this does not pay the same, and the risks are large.”

  “Coca is dying every day. I don’t need to remind you of this, Alvarado. You see the herbicide-dusting planes flown by the Americans. The fields are withering. In two years coca won’t pay enough to cover the plane fuel to transport it.”

  “Coca will always be profitable,” Alvarado said.

  “For the cartels, yes, but not for us. We need to show the cartels that we can be profitable partners for them.”

  Alvarado stared at the passengers. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack rolled in his sleeve and lit it.

  Luis analyzed the hostages as he watched the plane get stripped. Most had the soft, obese, a
nd overcivilized look of Americans. One drew Luis’s eye. He stood six feet three inches and weighed about one hundred eighty pounds. Seven inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Luis, he had dark hair and an athlete’s body. He moved easily, sweating in the heat, his mouth set in a grim line. This man smelled like danger to Luis. He made a mental note to watch him.

  Luis swept his gaze over his men. Alvarado looked hung over, Juan’s pupils were the size of quarters, and Manzillo gulped from a bottle of aguardiente and stumbled over something that only he could see. The mental state of the rest was always suspect. If they weren’t armed, they couldn’t have subdued a fly. Armed, they were ticking time bombs waiting to explode.

  “How many do we have?” Luis said to Alvarado.

  Alvarado shrugged. “Fifty. Maybe sixty. Is this enough for the FFOC?”

  Luis counted sixty-eight. “They expected more. Especially given the risk.”

  “Then they should have let us land on a longer strip. I don’t like it, Luis. The gringos won’t take this lying down.”

  Luis felt his irritation rise. Alvarado was right, but lately he’d been sounding like a broken record, always negative, always warning. This job was a joint effort of the FFOC and the northern drug cartels, and the first time they’d given Luis any role in one of their operations. The FFOC provided the expertise and detailed planning needed to hijack the jet, and the drug cartel provided the planes within the country that would transport the passengers to the exchange location once they were ransomed.

  Luis’s role was to deliver the hostages and any valuables to a secure location in the mountains to await ransom. The FFOC and the drug cartels considered Luis’s small group of paramilitary losers to be expendable, and so gave them the most grueling and dangerous job.

  Luis knew the majority of his men were morons, long past stupid and incapable of any thought beyond their daily hit. Still, he was proud that he had been able to turn them into some semblance of a military group. The FFOC had finally responded to his repeated requests to be given a job that would prove his value as a leader. He intended to make the most of it.