Pulling Strings
First published 2006
© 2006, Pedro Alberto Vera, Some Rights Reserved.
ISBN 1-4116-6884-7
This publication has been released under the following Creative Commons Deed:
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5
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To copy, distribute, display, and perform the work Under the following conditions:
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Any of these conditions can be waived if you get permission from the author at pedro@veraperez.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Foreword
Writing the first book was easy. Editing it was ten times harder and a lot more frustrating. The worst part of writing that first book was the hopeless procrastination that would kick in after just reading two or three pages.
A year later and I aimed to once again nailing National Novel Writing Month (http://nanowrimo.org) in three weeks or less.
I failed miserably.
After 10,000 words I was done. Not exactly an ego booster.
Another year passed and here I am: National Novel Writing Month 2005! And this time I did not chicken out! I wrote nonstop, and even had enough energy left to document my daily frustrations with my writing at one of my web logs.
The frustrations this time are a bit different. For example, procrastination is less of a factor than before. For the first time my problem is that my attention wanders and I waste my time in things that have nothing to do with the writing. For example, on my first day of NaNoWriMo 2005 I spent no less than two hours testing the layout and typesetting of the final book, and this was without having written the very first sentence yet!
On my first weekend I had planned to spend both days alone with my son PJ, him watching PBS and myself writing a few feet away (Ivette had to work both days). It did not happen. PJ is autistic, and he craves routine. Ivette had to come home halfway through her workday on that Saturday, and it totally threw off his schedule for the day. He spent the rest of the day trying to run away to find his mom, and I spent the rest of that day chasing him throughout the neighborhood and bringing him back home before he had an accident. I spent that Sunday childproofing all my doors and windows, but still I managed to write my quota.
On weekend two I had a rare migraine attack that cost me half the afternoon. I recovered and came out ahead by about two or three days, which let me take it easy for the next few days.
Week three came and went and I almost did not notice. By Thanksgiving I was pretty much done. It is much easier to enjoy the writing when there is no external pressure. I could afford to write 100 pages per day for the last week, knowing I had already hit my minimum. I also got my first volunteers to read the raw draft, something that was much harder the first time.
Overall the experience was very different from my first book. Shining Star went through at least three full revisions before I was happy enough to sell it, and it still went through four more minor revisions since I published it. Pulling Strings went through two revisions. Also, the procrastination element is almost completely absent, since I now understand the self-publishing process and I got a much better idea of what I want to do with my writings.
Prologue
Puerto Rico (“rich port”) is a clump of volcanic rock both blessed and cursed by geography. The island is a little over 100 miles long by about 40 miles wide, and it sits in the middle of one of the greatest riches in the world: the Caribbean Basin. The Spanish were smart enough to realize this, which is why they struggled to keep control of it until the very end of the Spanish American War of 1898.
The Spaniards understood that controlling Puerto Rico meant having the ability to control access to the sea routes to the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico. The Americans knew of this too, which is why they stuck around for as long as they did. It took them 50 years of foot dragging to let the naturals of the island to vote to approve a commonwealth with the United States.
It took another 60 years for an American president to screw it all away by opening a loophole that allowed Puerto Rico to become an independent republic for the first time in its history. What the "lame duck'' American president did not know was that Puerto Rico sits on huge reserves of sweet crude oil, which is much easier to refine than sour crude oil. The Puerto Ricans, led by democratically-elected president William Roth, were now sitting on a fortune. Even the most conservative estimates claimed that these fields (most underwater but well within the internationally-recognized water boundaries) were bigger than all of the Saudi Arabia and Alaska fields combined.
The Americans were not thrilled.
President William Roth was a popular self-made billionaire and philanthropist, and he quickly turned the tiny island nation into an economic powerhouse. He orchestrated strategic deals with the United States, Germany, Israel and Japan that revitalized the high technology manufacture sectors of the island, all in exchange for discounted oil. Roth invested these profits in socially progressive programs to improve the standard of living of all of his citizens.
Now on his second elected term, President Roth must find a way to share Puerto Rico’s newfound wealth with her sister nations in the Caribbean and Central and South America while at the same time keeping the United States from mistaking their goodwill with something bad, like for example, imperialistic intentions.
The Americans are very unhappy. They feel cheated for the way their rich former colony slipped away from them. They feel nervous as hell because of the way the Republic of Puerto Rico spreads its power base by throwing cash at pretty much anyone in the Western Hemisphere with little regards to politics.
This was of course bullshit.
What really made the Americans nervous was Cuba and Mexico. Cuba because they wanted to pillage her the second that Fidel Castro kicked the bucket. The Americans felt like they paid their dues for the “Bay of Pigs” fiasco, and it was time for their payback. With Fidel dead they could easily take over. Cuba would become another Puerto Rico literally overnight.
At this pace, there was no way in hell for Puerto Rico to pass on Cuba. It was reported that Fidel Castro and William Roth were on speaking terms, which was much more than what the current President of the United States could claim about either of the men.
The Americans felt that if Roth got his hands on Cuba, it would spell disaster for Florida, since it would take a nasty hit on one of their richest tax bases.
Mexico was a little different: The United States depended on Mexico for cheap (if illegal) labor. The worst kept secret in American politics was that the Southern United States economies were too dependent on “illegal” laborers from Mexico and elsewhere.
If the Puerto Ricans started to open factories in Mexico and paying a good competitive wage, suddenly Mexicans would stop immigrating to the north. Who the hell would want to go north to work three 4-hour part time jobs with no benefits, for minimal wage? The Puerto Ricans could afford to open factories all over Mexico, pay a decent, middle class wage with benefits and workers would have a 40-hour week. Puerto Rico makes a profit, and the median wages in Mexico suddenly mimic those of much richer countries.
1
Less than a mile from the center of Bayamón, on the western edge of the San Juan metropolitan area, there is a baseball stadium, dedicated years ago to a now almost forgotten athlete. Land was cheap when the stadium was built, so it was surrounded by vast parking lots. The parking lots were open to the public, and it was common to find all sorts of vendors peddling their wares: anything from chicharrones, trinkets for tourists and even panel trucks converted into mobile deli stands.
One of such panel trucks was usually found parked at the far end of the back parking lot. Anyone driving by during the mid morning would wonder what kind of genius would part a sandwich van so far from traffic.
Anyone driving by closer to lunchtime would find the back parking area completely gridlocked.
The panel van only sold one kind of sandwich, and you could wash it down with either Coca Cola or lemon juice. The sandwich was called a tripleta: half a pound of French bread (always baked at 5:30 AM the same day), stuffed with enormous mounds of steak, pork and pastrami.
$5 bought you a tripleta and a can of Coke.
It was common knowledge that it was impossible to eat the tripleta in one sitting, so the cook did not frown on any of his patrons sharing. His only problem was that he worked based on volume, so he rushed people to pay and move on. He also made a point of never keeping more than a few chairs around, and refused the continuous complaints from his patrons to at least purchase a couple picnic tables.
A young man was sitting in one of the beat-up folding chairs. He was devouring a tripleta as if he had not eaten in a week. The cook noticed him a few weeks ago: he would arrive right around 11:30 AM, devour a tripleta and disappear. He dressed like all the college students that frequented the sandwich van, but he was the only young guy he had ever seen eating one of his monster sandwiches in one sitting.
Today was no different: the kid (the cook was 57, to him most of his customers were kids) showed up at the same time as always, he almost swallowed his food and disappeared. The cook could not even tell if the kid drove or walked over from who the hell knows.
Right as the lunch crowd started to thin, an unmarked police car arrived. The cook happily sold to anyone in uniform, but he always noticed that cops (also firemen and paramedics) arrived in groups. It was not normal for cops to show up in pairs.
The two policemen were dressed in the standard uniform for plainclothesmen in most of the tropics: loose, dark slacks, dress shoes and light short-sleeved shirts with the tails hanging out. They did this both because it was too damn hot to do otherwise, and it also gave a nice bit of concealment for their service pistols (most of them also wore a backup piece strapped to an ankle holster).
Both men wore sunglasses, and both reeked of aftershave.
“You guys hungry?”
“Nah, we are here on business,” the taller of the two answered. He handed the cook a photocopied flier.
“Ever seen this guy?”
“Here? Are you kidding me? Ever been here during lunch? I sell hundreds of tripletas in less than two hours!”
“So you are telling us that you haven't seen that guy?”
The second cop asked.
Jesus Christ, that's the kid, the cook thought.
“I couldn't tell man. Like I said, we get a lot of people for lunch every day, and at least a third will look like your guy.”
The two cops looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“Would you at least call the number in the flier if you see that guy?” The taller one asked.
“Of course.”
Hell no, fuck you cop, the cook thought.
“Thanks for your help then,” the shorter one said as they turned back and got into their car.
The two “policemen” were actually commissioned officers in the Army of the Republic of Puerto Rico (ARPR), both on permanent detail with the Coordinador de Información (CDI). They turned into PR Route 2 and headed towards Fort Buchanan, the old US Army base now housing the main elements of ARPR, plus the CDI, which was considered an autonomous agency that reported directly to President William Roth.
Thanks to the new metro rail line, which ran parallel to PR 2, traffic was almost nonexistent so they were back in CDI headquarters within a half hour. Neither talked while in the car. They usually drove an armored Chevrolet Suburban but theirs was back in the shop and they were stuck with a fleet car for the rest of the day.
CDI hated fleet cars under general principles. A few years ago an overzealous FBI agent had managed to get his whole squad kicked out of the island because they were bugging cars and offices. Even if the situation had been under control since then, fleet cars were still assumed to be bugged beyond detection, so they never talked about work while in these cars.
There was no such thing as a CDI headquarters building; at least as far as the regular ARPR folks were concerned. The two agents returned their car to the motor pool, and then walked over to the old Navy barracks. These were tiny studio apartments in two or three story cinder block buildings. The cinder blocks were hollow, which trapped air that helped keep the apartments cool even in the most brutal days of the tropical summer. The roofs were made with thick cement reinforced with steel bars, which made the whole structure hurricane-proof (especially since the windows were aluminum blinds instead of glass panes) and also acted as a heat sink to help dissipate even more heat.
The two agents stood in front of the door to apartment 3A on the first barracks building. Its Navy gray paint was peeling, and it seemed to have the constitution of cardboard.
Very thin cardboard.
The taller agent knocked twice and waited. The door opened without any challenge from the inside. Once inside, the door closed automatically. What seemed to be a flimsy cheap door was actually two inches of steel with an old sheet of Formica stuck to its outer surface and painted with the oldest can of navy paint that they could scrounge.
As soon as the door closed, a second door opened into a waiting area. The waiting area was empty except for an old metal desk, obviously scrounged from the same place as the old paint.
Sergeant Raúl Morales, ARPR (formerly Specialist 4, US Army Signal Corps) had the duty.
“Where the fuck were you two at?” He asked in mock indignation.
The taller “cop” was Warrant Officer Rubén Martínez (formerly Master Chief Petty Officer, United States Special Operations Command).
Everyone called him “Chief Ruby.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are talking to?” Chief Ruby replied in the same tone.
Sergeant Morales jumped up and assumed a terrible facsimile of the position of attention.
“Yes sir, chief sir,” Sergeant Morales said as he mocked a salute.
“I was referring to the two assholes that left one of our priceless Suburbans at the shop without escort, and then forgot to tell someone at the office, chief, sir.”
The other agent was Captain Carlos Arocho, ARPR (formerly Second Lieutenant, US Army Corps of Engineers, detailed to US Army Special Forces). Captain Arocho was having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“Holy shit Ruby,” Arocho said, “we forgot the damn Suburban.”
Sergeant Morales was wearing his “See? I told you” face.
“I'll take care of it,” Ruby said. “Can you handle the debriefing?”
In other words, fuck you, you are an officer, Arocho thought, you go and get your ass chewed while I check the Suburban for bugs.
“Sure, I'll do it,”
Arocho said, already suspecting he was the victim of a setup.
Sergeant Morales tapped a button concealed under his desk, and a door to his rear opened.
Captain Arocho walked inside. As soon as the door was once again closed, Sergeant Morales pulled out his walled and handed Chief Ruby a crisp $20 bill.
“Asshole, I can't believe he went for it,” Morales said admiringly.
“He's a good guy, but I don't feel like spending the next four hours getting reamed by Captain Vélez and maybe even The Admiral.”
ARPR Captain Vélez, formerly a US Army Sergeant assigned to the White House Communications Agency (WHCA, universally pronounced “Wacka”), ran CDI operations, and NRPR (Navy of the Republic of Puerto Rico) Admiral José María Baldorioty, formerly Rear Admiral (retired), US Navy, was the director of the CDI.
2
Human Resources retention specialists throughout the whole United States Federal Government were going through a few really rough months. And there were too many of these happening in a row. Why? Because of Puerto Rico’s specific status, or the lack of it.
Officially, Puerto Rico was an independent republic with a democratically elected government. The damage was irreversible. Things got a hell of a lot more confusing when the newly elected Puerto Rican government decided to not strip off US Citizenship from anyone born in Puerto Rico up to the day of the signing of the new constitution. Because of this, about 9 million (half in the island, the rest mostly scattered throughout he US Northeast) Puerto Ricans held dual citizenship, and the United States could not legally strip the citizenship from any of these 9 million.
Of those four million still in the states, many held jobs with the government at all levels. The National Security Council originally tried to simply kill the security clearance of anyone of Puerto Rican descent, but it couldn’t be done without triggering an avalanche of discrimination lawsuits.
After all, these people are still law-abiding citizens of the United States.
The Puerto Rican government damn well predicted that this would happen. They created a program that allowed skilled Puerto Ricans living abroad to move back to the island. The Republic of Puerto Rico recruited doctors, lawyers, intellectuals, policemen and soldiers. The soldiers usually transferred in grade, and quite a few received promotions soon after arrival. Former senior enlisted men were given the choice of either Warrant rank or a Commission in the ARPR.
The plan was never a secret, and the exodus drove everyone in DC crazy. Many enlisted military trainees finished their initial technical training, then took a taxi to the airport and took a direct flight to San Juan. Most of these arrived at their training bases already carrying their plane tickets to the island, courtesy of the Republic of Puerto Rico.
The main military service branches simply turned a blind eye. They saw this as a logistical problem, since yes, all these people are walking away, but the Republic of Puerto Rico had cordial diplomatic relations with the U.S., and there was no sense spoiling the flow of (ultra cheap) Puerto Rican oil just because some people decided to listen to their consciences and go back home.
The intelligence agencies saw this a strategic issue, so the better funded agencies like NSA, FBI, and CIA, started special surveillance programs. Every employee of Puerto Rican origin was subjected to a (for now) re-screening process, with special interest in any contact with the government of the Republic of Puerto Rico since the relocation program was announced.
Compared to New York City, the Puerto Rican population in the Washington DC Metropolitan area was virtually nonexistent, so none of the local agencies had much trouble enforcing their share of the new surveillance directives. Each Puerto Rican national in the area was assigned a small surveillance team, and all teams were coordinated from Langley (Homeland Security was still too interested in Arab nationals).
Team Five was currently tailing one Julio César Piccorelli, 25, currently working as a project manager for a government services company in downtown Fairfax. Piccorelli was born and raised in Puerto Rico, where he graduated with a bachelor’s in Industrial Engineering from the Colegio de Mayaguez. He was recruited by Northrop Grumman in Fairfax, Virginia, where he worked for the next three years. He switched to Dominion Federal, a government contractor, during the dot-com craze.
As far as Team Five could figure out, Piccorelli was working a dead end job and it was a matter of weeks until he made his move. Their main concern was that he would try to contact the Puerto Rican embassy and offer them classified information about his projects in exchange for help in returning back to the island.
The suspicion was not enough to justify wiretaps, but it did not stop the CIA technical services folks from figuring out a way to force Piccorelli’s Internet connection at home to run through a transparent proxy. This would allow the CIA to virtually tap into his Internet traffic without interrupting its operation, and it was literally undetectable.
Intercepting his work traffic was a bit harder because Dominion Federal had hardened network security (due to its government connections).
Not impossible, just a little bit harder.
By asking the right people it was possible to eavesdrop on Piccorelli’s network traffic while at work.
Piccorelli had never bothered with landlines, but eventually the agents found his cell phone provider and cloned his cell phone. Not that it did them much good; Piccorelli never used it. Not even to call for a pizza.
At least half of the members of Team Five came from technical backgrounds. None of them could recall ever knowing of a geek that never ordered take out food.
It just did not happen.
Every day they would follow him as he walked from his condo in Arlington to the Clarendon metro rail station, where he rode to the end of the Orange line in Vienna. There he hopped on the first shuttle bus that left, regardless of route. He was lucky to work close to the only spot (apart from the train station) where all shuttle routes intersected.
Again, it was too convenient that Piccorelli happened to work at the one spot where he was guaranteed a nice shuttle bus every 10 minutes. On top of this, there was no way for them to check if he had stashed an emergency car close by.
Once coincidences started piling up, Team Five started expanding. They had now taken over office space above Dominion Federal, which made it much easier to check on Piccorelli as he moved around the office. They debated contacting the information security officer for Dominion Federal, but they were not ready to go that far yet.
At lunch he walked across Main Street to a falafel stand, which eventually became Team Five’s favorite lunch spot. Piccorelli never spent more than 20 minutes out of his office building unless he went to the Border’s bookstore, about half a mile away. At the bookstore he usually alternated between the car aficionado magazines and the geek books section, and always ordered coffee on his way out.
He always left exactly at 4:10 PM, which made no sense since his worst-case scenario would be to wait 10 minutes for a bus. Team Five saw this bus trip as another suspicious opportunity for things like a brush pass or bug out call. Due to the overlap between the shuttle routes they would need at least a half dozen extra agents riding the buses just to maintain the illusion of randomness.
The operation was starting to run out of control, and management was starting to get antsy. A surveillance detail with more than two dozen agents (not including support personnel on call) pulled a serious budget, hard to hide even in an agency with a black budget.
This day was no different: Piccorelli arrived at work right on schedule. He took his lunch break at 1:15 PM, and ate a falafel. He was out exactly at 4:10 PM.
This time he did not walk over to the bus stop, which was the first time in one month that he strayed from his daily routine since surveillance had started.
Instead of walking out front to Main Street, he turned into a side street that bordered the rear of Pope John XXIII High School. He walked along the fence of the school, stopping a couple of times to watch the male soccer team practicing. He kept walking towards the front edge of the school and routes 29/50 (the two highways merge while crossing most of downtown Fairfax, then split off a few miles east). At routes 29/50 he turned left and walked along the front of the school.
The surveillance team had prepared for the contingency, so they never lost contact with him. A foot team followed him from both sides of route 29/50, and they even had people sitting at the bleachers in the high school soccer field. The only thing they did not have was a chase vehicle, since it was rush hour. The cars that had been tasked for chase duty were staged at the split of routes 29 and 50, at the high school parking lot and at the shopping center parking lot across from the street.
Piccorelli walked past the school and the McDonald’s, then turned into a dilapidated motel close to the split of 29 and 50. He walked the open stairs to the second level and walked to the far end. He unlocked the door and went in.
Team five issued a collective “oh shit.”
3
Captain Carlos Arocho was left to cool his heels for 45 minutes before Captain Vélez opened the door to The Admiral’s office and motioned him to get his ass inside. Arocho marched until he was 18 inches away from the front edge of the desk, assumed the position of attention and started to salute and report, but The Admiral waved him off: he had never been a fan of the whole report-and-salute ritual.
“What the fuck happened this morning?” The Admiral sounded annoyed.
“Sir, I think it was a misunderstanding, we didn’t mean to leave the Suburban unattended," Arocho replied.
The Admiral looked at Vélez.
“What the fuck is he talking about? What Suburban?”
Vélez looked at Arocho and shook his head.
You’re way off, dumbass, Vélez thought.
“This is the last time I am going to ask you: what the fuck happened this morning?"
The Admiral was starting to sound irritated.
“Admiral, we went to check him out as ordered. The cook claims he can’t tell who’s who.”
“And you believed him?”
“Not really, it is obvious he recognized him. What I can’t tell is if he is just covering for him out of stubbornness or if he is actually involved in this mess," Arocho explained.
“Are you going to stake it out tomorrow?” Vélez asked.
“Yeah, it’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?” Arocho replied, knowing the answer.
“Get the fuck out of here and find that kid. And if you figure out that the cook is lying, scare him up a little bit. Just make sure you buy some sandwiches first, that sonofabitch is too good at what he does to throw him into a cell." All three men laughed at this.
Arocho came to attention and again tried to salute. The Admiral replied with an obscene gesture.
Piccorelli spent 35 minutes in the motel room, then left. He did not look around, or even look over his shoulder. He just simply locked the motel room, walked downstairs and out to the nearest bus stop and took the next shuttle bus that arrived.
Team five had agents in the bus and in all six cars in his train. They had people outside the train station every few yards up to the lobby of his condo building.
They did not even have to walk after him, since after they found out about the motel room management freaked out and sent every warm body available out to the street.
Within the hour CIA technical services had full plans of the motel and had cracked into the motel’s registration databases. By now upper CIA leadership had heard about the situation and the operation was upgraded.
One of the nice things about the upgrade was having preferred access to real time photo satellite data through the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), just a few miles north in Reston. An imagery specialist was dispatched to NRO to act as a team liaison until real time links could be arranged between NRO and the field ops headquarter on the floor above Dominion Federal.
CIA technical operations dispatched a prepackaged field operations center to the Dominion Federal building. Everything they needed in order to setup a headquarters in a hurry was already packaged in Pelican crates, and a dedicated team was trained to unpack and setup everything in less than two hours.
A relief team was brought in. After the new arrivals had been briefed, most of the day shift agents headed for their homes. The team supervisors quickly put in place rotating schedules, to make sure nobody burned out right as the operation was starting.
The surveillance teams were already on a rotating schedule, so burning out was not an issue. A plan was set in motion to enter Piccorelli’s condo sometime in the morning to do a light search and to plant some sensors.
The surveillance teams had heat scopes aimed at Piccorelli’s condo. They noticed he stopped moving around 10 PM. The laser microphones aimed at the glass panes in his windows only picked up his TV and the continuous clatter of a computer keyboard.
Surveillance checked with technical operations, and they could not detect any network activity on Piccorelli’s broadband Internet connection.
The surveillance technicians guessed that maybe Piccorelli was tapping into the wireless network based at the coffee shop across the street. To them it made a lot of sense, especially since it was free and it was strong enough to be picked up from Piccorelli’s condo unit.
Technical operations scrambled to figure out how to monitor the Internet traffic from that wireless access point.
4
Warrant Officer Rubén Martínez and Captain Carlos Arocho were back in the parking lot behind the baseball park. This time they had their assigned vehicle: an armored Chevrolet Suburban, black and with tinted windows. It was the worst vehicle choice for a covert assignment: it pretty much screamed “Hey! We work for the government!”
And they both knew it.
The truth is that both Chief Ruby and Arocho liked to be overt about their duties, at least as long as they were working within the territories of the Republic. Overseas was a completely different manner.
“The smell of all that grilled meat is killing me,” complained Chief Ruby.
“Tell me about it. We should have eaten something before coming here, since it was obvious that we could not just walk over and buy a couple of his monster sandwiches.”
Chief Ruby used a hand signal to tell Arocho to shut up and look in that direction.
The kid was stepping out of a beautifully maintained 4-door 1981 Toyota Corolla.
“Shit,” both men muttered at the same time.
The Toyota Corolla was the most popular car in the country. Not even the new generation of super-hybrid cars had been able to convince people to get rid off their pristine old Toyotas. Chasing that car anywhere in the metro area would be close to impossible, so they had maybe 10 to 15 minutes to place an electronic tracker before the kid was done with his lunch.
Arocho speed dialed CDI.
“Vélez, you are not going to believe this shit.”
“Let’s see,” Vélez replied. “ The kid drives a 1981 Toyota Corolla.”
“How could you possibly know?” Arocho asked.
“Easy, had you driven to the college and looked at their parking lot you would have seen that at least half the kids drive those Toyotas." Vélez explained. “He wants to fit in, and they are cheap.”
“Do we bother bugging it?” Arocho asked.
“You don’t have a choice. We got a van down by the mall, do you want us to send it to you?”
An olive branch.
“Sure, send them in, we are the only idiots parked in a bullet-proof blacked-out Suburban.”
Both Vélez and Chief Ruby chuckled.
“They’ll be there in five minutes, they were already rolling.” Vélez said before hanging up.
“Well shit, at least the tech services guys stand a better chance at bugging the car without getting caught." Chief Ruby offered.
Exactly five minutes later a battered delivery van rolled by the Suburban. The driver nodded, then drove over to the sandwich van and dropped his front passenger, telling him he was going to drive the van around to find a parking spot and to order food for both.
The kid noticed them but immediately returned his attention to devouring his tripleta.
The van drove slowly towards the far end of the parking lot, and pulled by the kid’s Toyota.
Arocho did not even bother to look; he knew the technician was extremely skilled at what he did. Chief Ruby tried to watch him through his rear view mirror, knowing he was wasting his time.
The technician appeared less than 15 seconds later. As he walked over to the sandwich stand he pulled out his wallet as if to count his cash.
That was the signal that the sensor drop was completed properly. Had he failed he would have combed his hair.
The technician walked over to the sandwich stand to join his buddy. They carried their food and sat right next to the kid, who was oblivious to them. They talked shop (their cover was that they were cable television contractors) while they ate.
Right as the kid stood up to leave, the cook poked his head outside of the sandwich van and bluntly told them to hurry the hell up so his other customers could use the chairs.
The two men shrugged, grabbed their food and carried it to their van, where they spent enough time finishing eating in case the “kid” had counter-surveillance in place.
Once they drove out of the parking lot, the driver called CDI to report that the bug had been planted successfully.
While CDI in Puerto Rico was preparing a possible counter-espionage operation, CIA agents in Vienna and Arlington were sharing a collective headache.
Sure, they were almost positive that Piccorelli was a “player” and not an innocent bystander. The problem is they did not know yet if he was a lone wolf type or if he was part of a bigger network.
Nailing a single agent was useless if the rest of the network was left intact.
CIA agents were still struggling with the public wireless access point that Piccorelli was using to access the net, instead of using the broadband connection in his own condo. They did break into the wireless network, but it wasn’t enough: Piccorelli was super-encrypting his wireless network connection.
The motel room was also a problem: it was too early in the investigation to tell if Piccorelli had someone keeping an eye on the room. Unless they could prove that someone else was not checking the room, they had no choice but to try to sneak into it at night.
Piccorelli resumed his normal routine, so the surveillance team returned to their normal tempo of operations. All the additional personnel was assigned to deal with the efforts to crack Piccorelli’s multi-layered encryption and in trying to figure out what the hell was the deal with the motel room.
Team five was split into three sub-teams. Five-A tagged Piccorelli wherever he went. Five-B dealt with his wireless network connection and any possible incursions into his condo. Five-C dealt with the motel room problem.
Management was pushing to have the motel room become its highest priority and to shift the wireless network issue to the NSA, since it was their cup of tea. Team Five-B resisted at first but they did not really have a choice but to accept the outside help.
5
William Roth, democratically elected president of the Republic of Puerto Rico, was in a foul mood. Very little was known about him except that he was a self-made billionaire and he had helped orchestrate the transition of Puerto Rico from a second-rate territory of the United States into the major politico-economical player of the Caribbean basin. Not much could happen in the Caribbean unless Puerto Rico explicitly agreed to.
Venezuela’s president, Hugo Chávez, did not like that a hell of a lot. Hugo Chávez was a madman bent on driving the Americans crazy. Roth saw this as a strategic challenge, since Chávez was messing with his biggest oil customers.
Hugo Chávez was the reason for President Roth’s foul mood.
Roth was trying to control his temper. One of the reasons for his huge success in business was his ability to keep things in perspective. This unnatural coolness unnerved his rivals and earned him a reputation as a cold-blooded bastard.
After a few more minutes, and now much calmer, Roth asked his secretary to fetch The Admiral.
15 seconds later, she walked in without knocking and announced that The Admiral was ready to report to the President.
Roth signaled for her to let him in.
Admiral José María Baldorioty was slightly older than President Roth, and of similar build.
The Admiral’s job was to be the Republic’s premier Spy Master. He single-handedly ran the consolidated intelligence operations for the country, under the umbrella of the office of the Coordinator of Information, or CDI. The Admiral made no secret that his inspiration for the naming and overall structure of the agency came from American intelligence activities in the earlier months of WWII. He was supposedly a retired Admiral from the United States Navy, but nobody dared to ask him. Only Roth knew his true background.
The Admiral did not report formally. The two men had known each other for over twenty years, and neither had much patience for formalities.
Instead, he dropped his gold-braided flag officer’s cap on the nearest table he could see, and then walked straight out to the terrace that faced the 500-year Old Spanish fortifications of Old San Juan. Roth followed and both men sat down in a forged iron bench that was at least 300 years old.
Almost new by Old San Juan standards.
“Hugo Chávez is making a nuisance out of himself and is starting to piss off the Americans." Roth said.
“Yeah. And I bet the Americans are going to whine about the oil deal, right?” The Admiral replied, not expecting an answer.
“Of course. The way they see it, it is our fault for convincing them to buy the oil from us, and of course, for taking over the area." Roth explained. “So yeah, this madman moron asshole is our problem.”
“Here’s an idea,” The Admiral’s eyes lit up. “Let’s bump it up a notch or two. Call the Dominicans and tell them we are willing give them a 2% cut on sweet oil.”
Roth smiled.
“The Dominicans counter-offer with 5%, which means we still make a killer gross margin on the sale. Venezuela takes another hit on their foreign trade, and they shift their bullshit rhetoric to us instead of the Americans.“ Roth elaborated. ”We are still in as much deep shit as before, but we distract Chávez from bothering the Americans, and we open up a new market for our oil. And yeah, we stick it to Chávez again.”
“I am guessing that you are going to do this, not just use it to threaten Chávez?" The Admiral asked.
“The deal happens first, then we tell Chávez. After he tells me to go fuck my mother I’ll tell him the next time I am going to offer 10%. We can afford to take a hit on the gross margins if it means fucking him up." Roth was starting to feel pleased with the way his chips always fell. Sometimes he felt like he should be doing something to reward The Admiral, but the man was a patriot, plus he was already rich: money meant nothing for him.
Roth was already a billionaire, and now with the oil production in full blast, and all the manufacturing ventures in place, he no longer needed to spend his own money to get things done in his government.
The Republic of Puerto Rico was self-sufficient.
President Roth was about to offer The Admiral to have lunch together, when his aide-de-camp walked over and handed a Blackberry device to him. The Admiral read the message, handed the device back to his aide and excused himself.
Roth did not bother asking, The Admiral’s job was to worry about these things so Roth did not have to.
Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby spent most of the day driving around Bayamon and Guaynabo, never getting more than ten cars close to the kid’s Toyota. The car had been bugged with a passive monitoring device with less than 100 yards of effective range. One of the most interesting secrets of the new government was that the new traffic flow management system installed throughout the island nation also worked as a sensor array that could be used to track distinct vehicles at will. As long as the car was driving on a public road, it could be tracked within ten feet or so.
Their Suburban was equipped with a GPS receiver connected to a DVD-based mapping system, and it had been modified to also receive a tracking signal from the traffic analysis network. As long as the kid did not switch cars without the tracking teams noticing, they would always know where he was.
Both Arocho and Chief Ruby thought that it was great that they had this technology available, but it did not help them make sense of the kid’s movements around the western San Juan metro area.
He simply drove around.
Tracking teams in alternating cars and in check points along the road reported the kid was not using a cell phone, and he did not seem to be wearing a “hands free” ear piece for a cell phone.
Chief Ruby was not especially thrilled about spending the day stuck in a car. Arocho, on the other hand, did not really give a shit. He would rather be out in the field than back at headquarters processing security clearance paperwork or whatever clerical bullshit Vélez could come up with.
“Why don’t we just pull him over?” Chief Ruby asked.
Arocho was left speechless.
“I mean, we don’t know shit about him,” Chief Ruby elaborated. "He drives around all day for no reason. He doesn’t have a cell phone.”
“And?” Arocho asked.
“We pull him over, we check him in the prints database. If he is not a resident of the island and there is no entrance visa, we deport the sonofabitch.”
“Ruby, if we do that then we kill any hope of grabbing the rest of his network.”
“Captain, sir, you are assuming there is a network. What if this is a false flag op and he was sent here just to fuck with us?”
Shit.
Arocho called Vélez. Chief Ruby could easily tell there was much cursing on the other side of the conversation.
6
Over the previous two days Team Five-C (Piccorelli’s motel room surveillance) had managed some progress. The rooms to the left and underneath Piccorelli had been rented by CIA administrative services employees posing as traveling salesmen (and thrilled about being part of a real field investigation).
The CIA technicians orchestrated a block-wide electrical power blackout. As expected, most of the motel guests that were still awake walked out and started complaining. The technicians used this mess to sneak into the two rooms to setup their gear. 15 minutes later electrical power was restored and the “techies” were already drilling tiny holes through the walls so they could route fiber optic cameras through them and into Piccorelli’s room. The actual opening for these cameras was nothing but a pinprick, so it was nearly impossible to spot with the naked eye.
Or so they hoped.
They also installed thermal and acoustic sensors and hooked into the phone wiring for the building, just in case. The techies and management argued about jamming wireless access around the building, but it was agreed that it would do more harm than good, especially since they still could not guarantee that Piccorelli was not using counter-surveillance.
The NSA had already cracked the second layer of encryption at the wireless network access point across from the condo, but now it was up to CIA to sift through all the data recovered. This could take days or maybe even weeks.
The Admiral was having a good day, especially since the move towards discounting sweet crude oil to the Dominican Republic, which fit pretty nicely into their strategic plans for the next couple of years. He was also enjoying how easily Hugo Chávez was fooled by this move and had correspondingly shifted his crazy rhetoric towards the Republic of Puerto Rico and away from the Americans.
Business as usual.
The Admiral was already considering calling it a day and going home early. If he got lucky he might even be able to play with his 3-year old grandson.
Then his phone rang.
God dammit.
“Admiral, El Presidente is on the line.”
For the hundredth time in as many days, The Admiral cursed the day he hired his secretary. What he really needed to do was to find himself an old battleaxe like Roth did. An old hag that knew what the hell she was doing, not like the idiot bimbo that The Admiral had hired to be his, mostly because she would look good at the desk.
“Alejandra, for the hundredth time, when the President of the Republic calls, you pass me the call immediately. Don’t ask me if I can take the call!”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, you do that. Connect him before he fires me for incompetence.”
The line clicked.
“William, I am terribly sorry. I don’t know how to get into her thick skull that your calls are to be passed through, not put on hold.”
“Don’t sweat it, we got bigger things to worry about.”
Here comes the headache. I knew I was not going to be able to go play with my grandson.
“Like?” The Admiral asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“The oil deal went well, but you already know this. What you don’t know is that Haiti, Cuba and Jamaica now want in.”
“Mister President, I would guess these are wonderful news. What is the catch?”
“The catch is that Chávez has already started to bitch about it before we even sit down with their trade delegations, he is going to raise a stink.”
“Sir, he always does that.”
“The Americans are paying attention. They have this idea that they get to control over what happens to Cuba,” President Roth explained.
“While we respect our friends from the north, we are a sovereign republic, and we have not signed any kind of treaty that forces us to not trade with Cuba," The Admiral replied.
“Exactly. I need CDI to have people ready to deal with the ramifications of any deal with Cuba. Haiti and Jamaica can be run through normal channels.”
“Yes, Mister President. And what about Chávez?”
“Chávez is a big boy. If he wants to play rough, we can play rough too. I am sending you my file on Chávez; read it call me once you think you can put it into work.”
Roth hung up before The Admiral could acknowledge the order.
7
Julio César Piccorelli had a normal workday. He arrived at the usual time, had his falafel around 1 PM, and then went back to work.
At 3:05 PM he wrote an email to his quality assurance technician explaining the bug fixes he had just submitted to their code repository. He sent a copy of the email to his manager, so he would be aware that the code fixes were undergoing testing and that Piccorrelli was now available for new tasks.
Piccorelli knew that it would take his inept manager about half an hour to figure out what other work to send him. He logged out of his workstation and instinctively reached for his backpack, then realized he had almost screwed up. He took out his wallet and pulled out a plastic card. The card was identical to a cell phone SIM card. He opened a compartment in his backpack and plugged the fingernail-sized card into a concealed slot. He closed the compartment, then carefully stepped away from it.
Piccorelli walked out of the office suite, took the elevator to the basement and got into the back of a FedEx delivery van, where a change of clothes and facial prosthetics were awaiting for him.
Three minutes later he looked just like the driver of the FedEx van. The original driver walked to a Mercedes that was waiting close by. The Mercedes sped off immediately and headed over to the Puerto Rican embassy a few miles away.
Piccorelli, now in disguise, drove the FedEx van to the Federal Express sorting facility in Herndon, just a mile or two away from Dulles International Airport. He turned in his hand-held package-tracking computer, and then stepped outside for a cigarette.
A second Puerto Rican embassy Mercedes pulled by and Piccorelli got into the back. He would be sneaked out of the country in a Puerto Rican flagged Learjet within the hour.
The surveillance team that was monitoring his office did not notice him as he fiddled with his backpack, or that he was no longer in the office.
At 4:05 PM, a device inside of Piccorelli’s now discarded backpack was activated. The card that Piccorelli had plugged into the device had programmed its activation time and duration. The device created an electromagnetic pulse that effectively fried the electronics of every computer within 50 feet of Piccorelli’s desk, including the master server room. It also killed phones, pagers plus of course most of the surveillance electronics on the CIA suite above of Piccorelli’s office.
At 4:07 PM similar devices were activated in both the motel room and at the condo. By the time CIA had decided to screw it all and enter both units, the computers found at both places were useless. All information had been lost.
Forensics teams were dispatched to process all three scenes, without even bothering with warrants.
By the time CIA, Homeland Security and Transportation Security Agency got their acts together; Piccorelli was dozing off 40,000 feet above the Atlantic and out of US jurisdiction.
Worse, they still did not know a thing about him or what was his purpose.
Captain Arocho, Chief Ruby and Major Vélez observed as elements of FURA surrounded and stormed the small house where the “kid” had been staying at for as long as they had been tracking him.
The FURA assault troops blew both front and rear doors with shaped charges, threw flash-bang grenades inside and easily overcame the now dazzled kid.
The kid (nobody knew his name yet) was cuffed with flexible cuffs on both wrists and ankles, and he was blindfolded but not gagged. A FURA medic checked him to make sure he was not wounded. Once the medic nodded to signal that the kid was not hurt, he was strapped into a stretcher and carried aboard a FURA helicopter (built in Puerto Rico under license from Eurocopter). As soon as the helicopter took off, the rest of the FURA troops dispersed, leaving the scene to CDI.
CDI had already brought in their forensics team to comb through the house, so Major Vélez left to report to The Admiral.
Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby stayed until their relief showed up, desperately hoping he arrived before the press did.
“Are they going to take him to Salinas?” Chief Ruby asked.
“Yup.”
8
Almost overnight most of the American mainstream news media started paying attention at the lack of noise coming from Venezuela, and at the increased interest that Hugo Chávez was showing to the Puerto Ricans. It did not take long to find out about the oil discounts for the Dominican Republic.
Probably because it was a slow news day, everyone took it and ran. Editorials ran accusing the presidential administration of allowing its former commonwealth to become an empire that threatened to swallow most of the Caribbean, Central and South America.
The 24-hour news networks started to bring in their “experts” who theorized on the consequences of a Puerto Rico suddenly turning Communist. Or on the American reliance on Puerto Rican oil and what would happen if the Puerto Ricans decided to not honor their deal.
Most infuriating to the press was the American president’s lack of concern about these developments so close to their south. Most attempts by the press to get a reaction from the White House were simply blown off as not worthy of a reply.
To add insult to injury, somebody had orchestrated a public relations campaign attacking the Venezuelan oil interests within the United States. It was not widely known that Venezuela owned 15 refineries throughout the southern states, and owned at least 20,000 gas stations under the CitGo brand plus many regional semi-generic brands.
Everything got hit at the same time.
There were daily, well-organized, demonstrations in front of all of the refineries, and people simply stopped buying their gas at Venezuela-owned gas stations. The TV and paper ads said that Venezuela was using the money from the oil sales to help terrorists. This was greatly enhanced by well-edited video clips of the many anti-American rants of Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez.
This is the last thing that the Americans wanted. They had already assumed that Chávez would leave them alone because of the oil deal with the Dominicans, and they could not figure out who was orchestrating the media blitz.
Chávez actually went as far as to try to call President Roth personally. Roth put him on hold for half an hour, and then told him to go fuck himself.
This was not the first time that President Roth had used this kind of language against President Chávez.
Fort Allen, in Salinas (or Ponce, depending on whom you ask), Republic of Puerto Rico, used to be a training base for the US Army Reserves and National Guard troops from the island. It was also used as a refugee camp for a few years, but it was mostly deserted by the time of the creation of the Republic.
Thanks to its remote location, the Army of the Republic of Puerto Rico immediately took over it and used it for whatever it is that they wanted that required a certain degree of privacy. For example, it was used as a secure location for interrogations and other things better kept discrete.
Fort Allen guarded one of the greatest secrets of the Roth administration: the capture of Filiberto Ojeda Ríos, the head of the Macheteros and one of the most wanted criminals in the United States. He was never formally arrested, he was never read his rights and he had not been granted access to his lawyer, if he even had one.
Nobody outside of a very small circle knew that Ojeda Ríos was under custody.
Now the small compound in a remote corner of Fort Allen was going to be used for the second time for similar reasons. The kid was flown directly to Fort Allen. His clothes were removed and sent back to CDI headquarters for analysis. The guards hosed him down with cold water from a garden hose and threw him, still naked and wet, into a stark cell.
Every surface of the cell was covered with 1/4-inch thick steel plate. The edges were welded and the plates were affixed to the concrete floors, walls and ceiling with 1/2-inch diameter rivets. The door seemed to be solid enough to be used for a bank vault.
Everyone thought that these cells were overkill, but Major Vélez from CDI had insisted because of the psychological effect of getting locked into such a cell.
The kid was left wet and naked in one of these super cells for 24 hours. Optical fiber cameras were used to avoid weakening the walls. Every time the prisoner tried to fall asleep, a guard walked-in and dumped a bucket of cold water on his face.
After 24 hours the first effects of fatigue settled in and the cold water buckets stopped working. Time to start the show.
The prisoner was handed a bright orange jumpsuit and shower shoes. He was taken to an interview room. The room was twice as big as his cell, and it had a metal picnic table welded to the floor. The table had iron rings welded into it.
Before the prisoner could ask what was the point of the iron rings, the guards ran a pair of cuffs through one of the rings and re-cuffed him. He sat down in one of the benches, not knowing why he would be there.
Major Vélez walked into the cell; he was carrying a laptop computer and a one-inch thick manila folder. He did not introduce himself.
Vélez sat down, opened the laptop and turned it around so the prisoner could see its screen. A video was playing.
The video showed an old man in shackles being led out of a building, then walked over to a tree. The old man was blindfolded. While two men held him firmly, a third man, dressed in a business suit, walked over, pulled a pistol and shot the old man on his left knee.
The old man screamed.
The two men that were holding on to him forced him to lean in a way that more weight would be carried by his wounded leg. He screamed even worse.
The shooter stepped around and pulled his blindfold. The old man was Filiberto Ojeda.
The prisoner started crying.
Vélez closed the laptop computer and pushed it aside. He pulled glossy photos from the manila envelope and laid them side-by-side.
The photos showed an old couple playing with a cute little girl and a puppy. The old man was wearing a traditional guayabera and dark slacks. The old lady was wearing a dress that went out of style some time in 1974.
The prisoner stopped crying.
“Yeah, we know about them,” Vélez said. He placed the photos back into the folder, grabbed the folder and the laptop and left the interrogation room. A guard brought the prisoner back to his cell, ordered him to strip and left with the jumpsuit and the shower shoes. A second guard pulled a hose into the cell and once again soaked the prisoner in cold water.
Vélez had been very specific: they would keep him awake (and soaked) for another 24 hours, and then he would be ready to talk. A doctor would check him every 12 hours to make sure the strain would not kill him.
9
The first Venezuela-run refinery was shut down the next day. The press had their field day, with live feeds of demonstrators celebrating at the front gates of all of the other refineries still under control of the Venezuelan government. As for the gas stations, they fared worse. Many had already filed for bankruptcy since antitrust laws forbid them from just picking a different distributor.
Chávez denounced it as “an organized attack on the peoples of Venezuela by the imperialist pigs to the north.” The White House, finally breaking the silence, asked Chávez why should he expect to make money in the United States after so many months of nonstop vicious verbal attacks against the country?
This eroded into a continuous back-and-forth war of words between Washington and Caracas, and somehow everyone forgot about the new oil sales deal between Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. That was Puerto Rico’s hint to approach Haiti with a similar deal. Haiti was strapped for cash, so they were more than happy for the discount. In exchange they established a commission to study other ways in which both nations could help each other economically. The Dominicans were of course invited to join this group.
Major Ramiro Vélez, CDI, freshly showered and shaved, and for the first time in a while out of uniform, was flown to Salinas in the newly-acquired CDI Eurocopter.
Anywhere else in the world this helicopter would have been assigned to the boss. This is the one place where they give their first helicopter to the guys that actually need it the most.
Vélez walked into the orderly room, which had been turned into a combined guard office and lounge. One guard was asleep in a couch, which was normal practice since some times the remote location of the holding facility forced the guards to pull long shifts. Half of the shift was making rounds, and the rest was scattered through the orderly room, some eating or reading, and one pair were playing cards.
Nobody looked up when Vélez arrived.
Vélez waited 15 seconds, but still nobody bothered to look up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cylinder with a grenade fuse attached to one end. It was a training version of a flash bang grenade.
Vélez pulled the pin, let the clasp fall then threw it in the middle of the room as he closed his eyes and whispered “flash bang.”
The grenade was nowhere as powerful as the real deal, but it was loud enough to make everyone jump. The guard that was asleep, who was pretty much the only innocent party, fell off the couch and banged his forehead.
The two card players rolled on the floor and started drawing weapons. Vélez gave the all clear.
The shift leader straightened his shirt, then walked over to the Mayor.
“May the shift leader ask the Major what the fuck was that?”
“Not really. But think what would have happened if that were a real frag grenade. You people are guarding our two most important prisoners, the least you can do is look like you are doing your jobs," Vélez explained.
“Yes sir.”
“Did you keep him awake like I asked?”
The shift leader smiled.
“Yes sir, and we made sure he has been hydrated properly.”
“What about his health?”
“The doctor says he is about to pass out for good, but mostly he needs to get some sleep.”
“Good, let’s do this.”
Julio César Piccorelli had arrived at the former Ramey Air Force Base in Aguadilla, on the western coast of Puerto Rico. The field had been re-commissioned as a government airport since it was much more private than the Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport.
On his arrival, he was driven to a safe house a few miles south. He was provided with a very comfortable suite, including a wide screen television with 400 channels of digital cable. His only instructions were to not talk to anyone until CDI personnel arrived for his debriefing.
The safe house was fully stocked with food and drinks (alcohol was not allowed) and most of the guards were very good cooks. Piccorelli was free to eat until he burst.
The next day a CDI briefer arrived and gave Piccorelli a broad explanation of what his next few weeks would be like. He would be moving between secure locations, spending 10 to 15 hours a day talking to expert interrogators. Since Piccorelli’s entrance was due to his connections with special projects connected to American defense interests, the interrogations were a necessary evil. Everyone involved understood what was at stake.
Piccorelli of course was in the best of spirits. On the days leading to his departure he had managed to route most of his work files from his office to his condo, and from there to secure servers in Sea Land, a tiny principality founded on an abandoned WWII fortification six miles off the eastern shores of England. From there his files propagated to anonymous servers in Norway, India and The Maldives. Had the Americans managed to trace the files to any of these destinations it would take them months to iron out the diplomatic deals needed before they would be allowed access to any of these servers.
The data had been downloaded to CDI upon Piccorelli’s arrival at the safe house, and it had already been used for the briefings.
Major Vélez had a special interest in the process, since he had gone through a very similar experience when he had stolen files from his White House job as US Army sergeant, copied them to his Apple iPod and flew straight to Puerto Rico, where he was immediately commissioned as a Captain in the Army of the Republic of Puerto Rico. Since he was tied up elsewhere on CDI-business he had called Piccorelli to welcome him back home and to assure him that they would have a chance to meet as soon as possible.
10
It was not widely known that just because the Americans were gone, that did not mean that everything would change. One of the better ideas that the Americans had in many years was the creation of a radar barrier comprised of small and cheap radar systems mounted on inexpensive blimp balloons. These were anchored along the coasts of the island, providing great coverage for drug shipments (both air and sea) arriving from the south.
The radar picket barrier was augmented by surveillance aircraft. These airplanes were similar in design to the aircraft typically used to track down submarines. These planes, the size and range of a typical turboprop airliner, had MAD sensors, sonobuoys and surface search radar.
The Cessna had been detected about 45 miles away. Southern Command, who had authority over the southwestern coasts plus Mona Island, had queried it constantly until it was within 20 miles of the coast.
The small plane kept a steady heading but started to lower its cruise height from 10,000 feet to less than 2,000. And they refused to reply.
It was considered to call in the interceptors that were patrolling the Mona Canal, but it was considered overkill. Plus the maritime patrol aircraft (with four turboprop motors) where already twice as fast as the Cessna.
Southern Command decided to send one of the sub hunter planes to chase the Cessna.
As it approached the 10-mile mark, and since the plane refused to answer air control or Southern Command, it was time to try something new.
The sub hunter plane was armed with an experimental weapon, courtesy of the geeks at the Caribbean Center for Technology (CCT), the government-sponsored research and development center on the grounds of the Colegio de Mayaguez.
The weapon was simple: it consisted of a metal alloy dart that was shot from a compressed air cannon mounted under the nose of the aircraft. The dart carried only enough energy to pierce the outer skin of an aircraft and stay inside. A time delayed fuse activated a device that generated an electromagnetic pulse. This pulse barely strong enough to fry the electronics aboard the aircraft and hopefully would disrupt the operation of the engine.
If the aircraft had non-electrically actuated control surfaces it would still be able to fly, but without any instruments.
After a last warning, Southern Command approved the use of the pulse dart. The sub hunter plane had been flying port side, so it slowly slipped behind the Cessna and lined up for its shot. The Cessna did not budge.
The sub hunter shot the pulse dart. At first the Cessna did not show any effect, but then it started to wobble a bit. As soon as it started veering to the left it was obvious that the port engine had shut down first. The starboard engine would follow soon.
The Cessna started a slow counterclockwise spin, but eventually the pilot managed to regain control and started a glide path that would hopefully get him to the beach.
FURA had been alerted, and two of their helicopters were circling the most obvious areas for the crash landing. When the Cessna was down to the last mile of its glide path, they assumed (correctly) that it was headed for the salt flats just north of the Cabo Rojo lighthouse. One of the FURA helicopters dropped a squad of troopers on the edge of the salt flats, and then dropped their sniper team by the lighthouse, since at the pedestal of the lighthouse they had a great observation platform.
The snipers would provide security and close surveillance.
The pilot of the Cessna was obviously skilled. He did not bother retracting his landing gear, instead went for a belly-up landing. The Cessna lost lift as it reached the edge of the salt flats. It then dropped like a rock and slid for about a hundred yards. The second FURA helicopter circled around it while the FURA troops proceeded to surround the plane.
Amazingly, the Cessna was pretty much intact. The pilot stepped outside, hands up in the air. He was quickly frisked and cuffed, then led away.
The passenger was not so lucky; he broke his collarbone and had a nasty bruise on his forehead. After a quick checkup by the FURA combat medic, the passenger/copilot was strapped to a stretcher and carried aboard the second helicopter.
The airplane was crammed with cocaine, but the FURA squad leaders, veterans of the war on drugs, thought that the cocaine bricks felt kind of funny.
One of the squad leaders pulled a small Gerber knife and sliced open one of the cocaine bricks. He was not surprised to see another brick crammed inside. The inner brick was probably pure heroin. The smaller bricks of heroin sold for just a little bit more than the cocaine, but for some reason freelance pilots want to charge more for transporting heroin than cocaine. Because of this some “importers” try to hide their heroin inside cocaine bricks.
The squad leader flipped open his secure cell phone and dialed a number from memory:
“Chief Ruby?”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Did you hear about the airplane interdiction down by Cabo Rojo?”
“Yeah. You on that?”
“Yup. They called us at the last second. The plane was crammed with double bricks, cocaine outside, gold heroin inside.”
“What about the crew?”
“The pilot did not get hurt, I don’t think this was his first crash landing. The other dude got banged up, FURA-2 is flying him over to Centro Médico.”
“Attaboy, that was a good call,” Chief Ruby commended the squad leader. The squad leader did not know he had been added to a very short list of candidates to be recruited to work for CDI.
“Anything else you want to know Chief?”
“What do you think? Was the second guy part of the shipment, or do you think he was hitching a ride?" Chief Ruby asked mostly to test the squad leader.
“Well, his clothes were too nice for a dope smuggler. No farmer calluses, and he was a little slinky, so he was not there to help carry the dope." The squad leader explained.
“Good catch sergeant, we’ll talk more later. I’ll make sure that there is CDI personnel waiting to meet your chopper.”
It took the squad leader (a corporal) a few seconds to realize that he had received an on-the-spot promotion. Chief Ruby did not have promotion authority, but he was known to reward quick thinkers by whispering the right word in the right ear.
The FURA flight never made it to the Centro Médico. As soon as Chief Ruby hung up, he called FURA flight operations (at the Ribas Dominicci airport) and ordered the flight diverted to the old Sabana Seca Naval Base, on the western edge of the San Juan Metro area.
Since Major Vélez was still in Salinas, it was up to Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby to drive to Sabana Seca and interrogate the passenger/copilot, that is, if he was either of these.
11
Major Vélez prepared his prisoner for the upcoming “interview” by sending him a full weight American style breakfast with eggs, bacon, ham, coffee, steamed milk and fresh orange juice. Once the prisoner was done eating, a guard arrived to clean the table. He did not cuff the prisoner again.
Vélez walked in and sat in front of his prisoner.
“I just want to get this out of the way,” Vélez started. "The reason for whatever we did to you is for putting my guys on that god damn wild goose chase for half a fucking week. I don’t have the time or resources to waste them on petty bullshit like what you did.”
The prisoner did not reply.
“We are professionals, and we are proud of the job we are trusted with doing. Don’t fuck around with us again and we’ll treat you better than at Club Fed.”
“That’s fair.”
It was the first thing that the prisoner had said all day. He did not even say thanks when his food was delivered, probably because he was afraid they would either poison him or lace his food with a strong laxative.
“OK, explain this to me. We know who you are, and we know what you do. Why the fuck would you risk all that to come here? Did you honestly think we would not catch you?" Vélez asked.
“Do you really think you know everything?”
“Sure I do. I know you are really Cuban, not Puerto Rican. I know you were Filiberto’s control officer in Tallahassee, and I know you are about to get in a hell of a lot of trouble for disobeying the orders of your boss. Yeah, your real boss, the old guy with the beard and the cigars.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, shit. You are in deep shit. We already knew. Just because we did not release everything to the tracking teams it doesn’t mean we did not know for sure." Vélez was enjoying himself.
“What else do you know?” The prisoner asked.
“Well, the little girl is not really your daughter. Her mother already paid for the DNA tests herself just to be safe, probably with the money you send her every month. And yeah, while you are here she is still seeing the real father.”
“Liar.”
“The test is legitimate. The hospital had taken DNA samples when she was born, as a security measure. Her birth sample matches the samples used for the paternity test.”
“How did I get ruled out?”
“She kept your old hair brush, and some hairs still had skin tags. Piece of cake."
“That fucking whore!”
“Hey, calm down. That’s none of our business, I am only telling you to prove you how well informed we are.”
“So what happens to me now?”
“Easy. Talk to us and cooperate. Don’t ask us about Filiberto, that video that you saw doesn’t exist.”
“In the news they said that the FBI shot and killed him in front of his wife.”
“I never took you for the kind of guy that would believe everything he saw on the news.”
Julio César Piccorelli had finished his debriefing. He was wondering when he would get to meet the mysterious Major Vélez from CDI, but his handlers had explained that things had flared up a bit and Vélez was a bit busier than the norm.
Right as Piccorelli was wondering what the hell was going to happen to him, one of the handlers walked in and handled him a cell phone.
Piccorelli raised an eyebrow: it was the first time he had been explicitly allowed to use a phone since his arrival in the island.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Major Vélez, ARPR.”
“I was starting to think you were some kind of ghost.”
Vélez chuckled.
“Nah, I am a regular guy just like you. We are almost the same age and all, the main difference is our lines of work are a little bit different.”
“So what happens to me now?”
“Easy. You got four choices.”
“I am listening.”
“One: you come work for us at CDI. I am ready to offer you a non-rated commission as a First Lieutenant, ARPR.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you carry officer rank but you cannot command. You will be a staff officer.”
“What’s the second?”
“You work for us as a civilian. We’ll send you to CCT to stay busy, and we’ll pull you in whenever we need you. We’ll name you the liaison officer to the CCT to explain your absences.”
“Sounds interesting. What’s three?”
“Quiet retirement. We pay you a modest pension, and we’ll give you title to a family-sized home anywhere in the island. In exchange for the pension we reserve the right to call on you in very rare occasions.”
“Uhm. What’s left?”
“Nothing,” Vélez replied. If you don’t take any of our three very generous offers, I am afraid you will disappear.”
Piccorelli almost replied “bullshit” but decided to hold it at the last second.
“I would love to take the retirement, but I am too young and ambitious. I would get bored to death.”
“Yeah, you will.”
“I have never been too big into the whole discipline thing, so I’ll go with the CCT gig.”
“Good choice, we knew you were not cut for the Army. You’ll love CCT.”
12
The traditional Puerto Rican home is based on a simple and proven design. The foundations are concrete reinforced with steel bars and there is no basement. The floors are marble or very polished granite tiles. The walls are hollow cinder blocks with steel-reinforced columns and covered with a thin and smooth layer of cement. Most people opt for aluminum blinds but some actually use tempered glass blinds. The roof is flat reinforced concrete. There are thousands of variations, but most of the times the basic design is followed.
This traditional construction technique was perfect for an island cursed with terrible hurricanes. Only the poor built with wood and used corrugated tin sheets for the roofing. Hurricanes easily shredded these houses.
That is, until the breakthrough.
The most popular supplier of pressure-treated construction wood decided to experiment with prefabricated homes. His initial prototypes looked modern and were extremely sturdy. Just for the hell of it he sent a few crated houses to be assembled in the islands of Vieques and Culebra, east of the island of Puerto Rico and right on the path of most hurricane tracks. When Hurricane Hugo struck Puerto Rico in 1989, it almost razed every wooden house in Culebra Island. The two test houses were left untouched. The new design worked.
When William Roth became the first president of the Republic of Puerto Rico, he put into action a series of social programs aimed at providing fair housing to all Puerto Rican residents. Shantytowns were razed and the residents moved to new houses where they would not pay rent or mortgage. After 30 years the title would pass on to the owner. Selling the property or using it as an investment property was enough evidence for the owner to lose any hope at gaining title of the home.
President Roth paid for the first 500 homes out of his own pocket, since the oil drilling had barely started. His contractor of choice was the owner of the biggest pressure-treated wood plant in the island, the same one that had designed the hurricane-proof prefabricated houses.
President Roth was so impressed with the concept that he commissioned the company to build him a middle-sized house on the hills of Aguas Buenas. On a clear day it was possible to see all the way to the Old San Juan fortresses. The “house” was used so the Roth family had a nice and quiet place to spend their weekends. During the week it was used for official functions and for special meetings. The area was so densely vegetated that it was nearly impossible to spot the house from the distance. Its private driveway curved around a mountain so the house could not be seen from the road. A team of former US Secret Service agents plus a few FURA and ARPR personnel provided security. CDI was in charge of protecting the location from electronic eavesdropping.
The location was perfect for the economic summit talks between Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Jamaica. Cuba had asked for non-official presence at the meetings. After some haggling and a bribe consisting of very fine Cuban cigars (Roth loved to smoke cigars), the Puerto Ricans sneaked in the deputy of Castro’s Ministry of Finances. When asked about the quiet character, the state department personnel explained that the man was an economics theorist from the University of Puerto Rico.
On the day of the meeting the Prime Minister of Haiti, the President of the Dominican Republic and the Prime Minister of Jamaica arrived in identical unmarked (and heavily armored) Range Rovers. Neither had a police escort to avoid unnecessary attention.
President Roth arrived two hours later, in a CDI Suburban driven by Chief Ruby and with Captain Arocho riding shotgun. President Roth and The Admiral rode in the back.
While it was understandable for the Prime Ministers and President to bring their security details, President Roth convinced them that their security was not in question. The chiefs of security of each delegation were allowed to stick around with Roth’s own security detail. All other foreign security personnel were assigned to ride along their Puerto Rican counterparts.
The agenda was simple: the four heads of state would meet in a relaxed environment, which is why the meeting was being held at Roth’s country house instead of a more formal setting. Puerto Rico was a new nation as far as the visitors were concerned. There were no bad memories or betrayals and any differences between the visitors were not Puerto Rico’s business.
As for Cuba’s representative, since he was passing as a Puerto Rican delegate he was not invited to the actual talks, only to the side briefings.
The heads of state talked for five hours straight and without any outside interruptions. They had a small buffet with fresh fruit, pastries, bread, fruit juice and coffee. They also had a bathroom with no exterior walls, and CDI had installed cell phone jammers. Roth did not want his guests to have any external assistance.
The talks went as predicted by Roth’s staff. Puerto Rico was giving, and it was up to their neighbors to take it. The oil discounts were just the beginning.
After the five hours, the four men shook hands, hugged and simply parted ways. There were no press announcements or follow-up talks.
As soon as the last car had left the house, Roth heard shouting. He looked at The Admiral (who had listened to all five hours of talks from a separate room) and Major Vélez (who had stayed with the staffers outside.
Both shrugged their shoulders, so neither had a clue about the commotion. After a few seconds, the source of the ruckus was evident: the Cuban delegate was throwing a fit.
Roth signaled for Vélez to check what the hell was going on. After a couple of minutes Vélez was back, with the Cuban delegate in tow.
“Mister President, let me introduce Rogelio Sáenz, of the Cuban Ministry of Finance. Mister Sáenz, the President of the Republic of Puerto Rico.”
“It’s an honor, Presidente.”
“It isn’t. Your name is not Rogelio Sáenz, and you don’t work for Finance. You are Antonio Landrón, and you work for Internal Security.”
“Mister Presidente, I am awed.”
Busted! thought Vélez.
The Admiral cursed to himself.
“Tell Castro that everything went according to plan.”
“Mister Presidente, I am confused. You know Fidel Castro?" Sáenz/Landrón asked.
“Who the hell do you think gave me your real identity?”
13
President Roth was a firm believer in the concept of the media blitz. Hit them hard and hit them with everything you got.
President Roth started the press conference by announcing that the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Jamaica had signed open trade agreements with the Republic of Puerto Rico. The first item in the agreement: oil. Haiti and Jamaica would enjoy the same discounted rates as the ones negotiated by the Dominican Republic just a few weeks earlier.
In addition, Roth announced the creation of the first satellite campuses of the CCT in each country. These satellite centers would act as clearinghouses for technologies created and patented by the Republic of Puerto Rico. Each of the three countries had signed bulk-licensing agreements that allowed any of their citizens to use a Puerto Rican technology patent for one dollar per year.
The press room erupted. Roth let them made as much noise as they wanted. After about ten minutes he asked them to shut up so he could continue.
On cue his press secretary started handing out information packages that described the new economic deals in great detail.
Roth refused to answer any questions on the patent licensing. At least two reporters tried to ask about rumors that a deal had been made with Cuba. Roth again refused to answer.
Then Roth dropped the bomb. He announced a ten-year engineering collaboration between the four nations. The target? New high-speed rail networks crisscrossing the Dominican Republic and Haiti. Jamaica and Puerto Rico would get the same kind of network at a smaller scale. The right-of-way for these rail lines would also include buried optical fiber, power lines and cell phone towers, effectively making sure every resident of these countries would have access to electricity, telephony services and high speed Internet access. All paid by the Republic of Puerto Rico. Residents of these countries in the lower 95% income bracket would receive these services for free.
The press room erupted even worse. Again, on cue, the press secretary handed out more information packages.
In the rear, The Admiral and Major Vélez, both with their fingers crossed behind their backs, wondered how the hell they were going to pull it off.
The world had very varied reactions to the announcements, but so far the overall reaction was good. Puerto Rico was taking its economic leadership to new levels, and this kind of generosity towards other nations (outside of the occasional natural disaster relief aid) has not been seen since the reconstruction plans after WWII.
Germany and Japan had enthusiastically endorsed the plans, and promised their own very generous support packages. Both Germany and Japan committed to send engineering students to the satellite CCT campuses for one-year apprenticeships, plus metric tons of electronic gear including cell phones, laptop computers and electronic rail control systems.
The Americans were not as enthusiastic. They felt a little embarrassed at their reaction because they felt almost as if they were jealous of the success of their former territory. Plus the torture of knowing they had been sitting on all that oil for over 100 years and never even suspected it.
The oil deal was a strategic problem. It gave all these countries a lot of cash to spend on other things. It also put Puerto Rico in too good a position, a position that only an idiot would pass on. The Americans had no delusions about Roth: they knew he was not stupid.
The infrastructure and patent issues were also strategic, but only from a perverted angle. It was as if Puerto Rico wanted to tell everyone else that they had plenty of hard cash to spend and was not afraid to use it. At this pace Puerto Rico could easily buy the favor of most of the Caribbean basin before the end of the decade.
If Puerto Rico were to extend just the patent licensing to Mexico, it would create an economic boom that would probably slow down illegal migration into the United States. A good thing for Mexico, but a bad thing for the Americans that were too used to a steady supply of cheap labor.
And of course, Venezuela was having a fit. Things got worse when President Roth ordered his staff to stop taking phone calls from President Chávez of Venezuela. Venezuelan journalists were given free access to the Roth administration, and these reporters went back home to write about how great things were in the island paradise.
Hugo Chávez replied by throwing them in jail, hoping Roth would try to meddle by asking him to release them from jail. This is exactly what Major Vélez had predicted, to The Admiral’s mild annoyance. Roth did not say a word, and eventually Chávez ordered the journalists released once he figured out that Roth would not take the bait.
14
Officially, nothing stopped Puerto Ricans from traveling to Cuba. In reality, Puerto Rico had to pay lip service to the Americans longstanding blockade on Cuba, so they could not simply hop on a plane and fly to Havana without at least some bullshit excuse.
Because of this Puerto Rico had not yet attempted direct commercial flights between San Juan and Havana. And that was a problem for both Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby.
President Roth wanted them to run an errand for him.
The real problem was the air search radars at the US Navy Base at Guantánamo Bay, and at the Florida Cays. It would be impossible to sneak a conventional aircraft into Cuba without the Americans knowing about it.
Chief Ruby came up with a simple solution: Arocho and Chief Ruby would fly to Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, to help setup the first CCT satellite campus. Ruby expected the Americans to tail them, so at the very last second they would sneak out across the border into Haiti. Elements of the Haiti security service would meet them and fly them into Cuba aboard a Haitian military cargo plane on a training mission.
The return trip would be much simpler: a commercial flight to Yucatán, Mexico, then a direct flight to San Juan.
At the last second The Admiral insisted on sending three pairs of decoys. To both Arocho and Chief Ruby’s amusement, they actually managed to find enough people to act as these extra decoys. They even had plenty of time for a standard security briefing.
The decoys were spread across the three flights that would carry the initial delegation from Mayaguez, Puerto Rico to Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby took separate flights to try to spot any kind of external surveillance.
The flights went without a hitch.
Captain Arocho arrived on the last flight. By the time he had finished clearing customs (he was carrying a diplomatic passport and his briefcase was considered a sealed diplomatic pouch) he saw that the rest of the delegation had not been picked up yet. Chief Ruby was talking to one of the flight attendants, probably trying to get her phone number.
Arocho walked across the terminal, looking around while he tried his best to act like a lost passenger. And then he saw it.
The doors were dark polished wood, with brass accents. No signs or numbers to be seen anywhere. The door itself was beautifully carved in a floral pattern. Upon close inspection Arocho noticed a tiny camera lens embedded into the door.
He could not see a buzzer button, and right as he was about to knock on the door, the most gorgeous woman that Arocho had seen in ages opened it. The goddess (he had no other way to describe her) seemed to be talking to him, but he was too concentrated on the way her lips moved.
“Are you deaf or just stupid?” She asked.
“Uhm, what? Sorry, it was a long flight.”
“Captain, you flew for 30 minutes, what the hell are you talking about?”
Great God, what a babe!
“Never mind. I guess you already know who I am, but I have no clue who the hell are you."
“I am Agent Lucy Ramos, Internal Security Service.”
“Funny, you don’t look Latin.”
“My mom was German.”
Thank you, Jesus!
“Interesting, so what do we do now? Can I buy you lunch?”
“It’s not even mid morning!”
“Breakfast then?”
“You are terrible! Come on in, we reserved one of the dining rooms in the club.”
Chief Ruby was not as lucky. His briefing officer was a 75-year old grandmother type that reminded him too much of President Roth’s legendary secretary.
The briefer even brought him home baked cookies.
Right around lunchtime each of the delegation teams was driven to undisclosed locations around the airport. The CCT teams were reconstituted and taken to the CCT campus outside of Santo Domingo, minus Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby, who were then driven to the Haiti border by Lucy Ramos in her beat up Volkswagen Beetle.
Agent Ramos greeted her Haitian counterpart by first name. Obviously the security services of the neighboring countries were in good terms.
Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby were driven away in a Mercedes sedan with government license plates. They drove a few kilometers in country to a clearing, where an ancient Sikorsky H-19 helicopter was waiting to transfer them to the military airport in Jeremie, on the lower Haiti peninsula. From Jeremie they transferred to a Pilatus PC-12 that usually flew to Havana and back on a bi-weekly schedule.
The Pilatus landed in an abandoned airfield that had been built by the Russians more than 30 years ago.
“I thought we were going to land at the international airport,” whispered Chief Ruby.
“Shit, that’s what I thought too.”
The front hatch was opened from the outside, and as they were unhooking their safety belts and reaching for their briefcases on the overhead storage bins, they heard heavy steps climbing up.
Chief Ruby and Captain Arocho slowly turned around.
“Hello,” said Rogelio Sáenz of Cuban Internal Security. “Welcome to Cuba, you two are under arrest.”
15
During the commonwealth years, Mona Island had been designated as a natural reserve and it had been declared off limits except for officially sanctioned scientific activities. After the creation of the Republic, the status had not changed, but its strategic location was too good to pass. Mona Island was soon turned into a secret research and development facility managed by CDI and staffed mostly by CCT personnel and engineering students from the Colegio de Mayaguez.
It was from Mona Island that CDI had the proper long-range detection gear that was sensible enough to pick up the signals broadcast from the transponders carried in both Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby’s briefcases. The transponders read their GPS location and broadcast it as an encrypted burst, which was then picked up by the long-range sensor array in the island.
CDI did not suspect that there was anything wrong until the very last minute, when the Haitian airplane started its landing procedures a few degrees off the approach to the international airport at Havana.
The shift leader immediately called the CDI operations center in Fort Buchanan, where Major Vélez was running the operation. The Admiral was at La Fortaleza with President Roth. Vélez elected to break protocol by not calling The Admiral with the news. After all, he could not bring himself to trust his encrypted cell phone as much as the CDI nerds expected him to.
Vélez told his assistant that he was going to be out for a few hours, then drove his assigned ARPR Humvee to his on-base housing unit, a nice little house that 20 or so years ago would have been part of Colonel’s Row. Now most of the houses on his street were assigned to Lieutenants and Captains working for CDI. Almost everyone else had taken mortgages in the suburbs of San Juan.
Vélez changed out of his uniform and less than 10 minutes later he was back on the road, this time on his personal car, a 1980 Toyota Corolla. He drove north to the Cataño coastline, and parked close to the aqua bus pier. He paid for his ticket and took the boat to the cruise ship piers. From the piers it was a short walk to the White House.
The guards knew him by sight and waved them in. He replied by giving them a forceful lecture on proper security procedures, and that nobody, not even Roth himself, was to be waved across a security checkpoint without the proper credentials.
As he made his way to the presidential apartments he felt like maybe he had been too harsh with the guards, but at the same time Vélez had always shown very low tolerance for incompetence.
Vélez used his own pass card to activate the entrance to the apartment. The guards on the other side had already checked him through the concealed video cameras so they just waved him in.
Major Vélez knocked on the door to the president’s private office.
“Come,” Roth said, his voice sort of booming.
Vélez stepped into the office.
“Mister President, Admiral, we have a problem.”
“Did your guys get arrested?” Roth asked.
“Yes sir, they did.”
Roth stared at The Admiral, who did not budge. Then he raised his eyebrows, but The Admiral stood his ground.
“Jesus Christ, would you grow up?” Roth asked him.
Vélez was clueless.
The Admiral stood up, pulled out his wallet and handed President Roth a crisp $5 bill.
“OK, you win. I don’t know how the fuck you did it, but you won it fair and square.”
Both Roth and The Admiral stared at Vélez, then at each other and ended up laughing.
Roth waved him to sit down.
“Son, I knew this was going to happen. It is part of the plan. I bet you can even guess who arrested him.”
The Admiral nodded, go ahead son, say something stupid, blow it for good.
“Sir, I think it is Rogelio Sáenz.”
Roth stood up and handed Vélez the $5 bill. The Admiral was beaming.
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“Mister President, as you know we have some of the country’s greatest intellectuals on call just in case we need somebody to bounce ideas off.”
Roth nodded.
“After the incident at the summit, I called in some of our international politics experts and had them write a white paper on Cuba. When I read the results I found the highest security classification rating I could find and I buried it until we needed it.”
“You did not think we would be interested in it?” The Admiral asked. He sounded irritated.
“The initial paper was my excuse for the real investigation, which is still underway. I wanted to make sure that my control group, a second group of political experts, did not read it. I sent sealed copies of the paper to be hidden at both of your personal safes.”
“Attaboy,” the Admiral commended Vélez. “Do we need to read that now or can you give us a quick summary?”
“The short story is that some far right elements in Cuba are not happy with whatever is it that is going on between us and Cuba. These people are under the illusion that Castro is weak and that they can get rid off him and force us to deal with them instead.”
“If they think Castro is weak, then they are both dangerous and stupid,” Roth replied. "That old goat is probably in better health than any other head of state in his age bracket.”
“Do we agree that Rogelio Sáenz is acting on his own?” The Admiral asked.
Both Roth and Vélez answered yes.
“Do we deal with this on our own? Or do we cut him in?”
“I would try on my own, but it won’t work,” answered Vélez,
“Why?” Asked Roth.
“We have no expertise on Cuba.”
“Is that it? What else?” Roth asked impatiently.
“Because we can use this situation to solidify our relationship with Castro.”
Roth smiled.
“You are correct. We could do this ourselves, but it would pay off better if we help Castro deal with it.”
Captain Arocho and Chief Ruby were taken to a small police station, not too far from Guantánamo Bay. Both men were placed in the same holding cell.
Both Arocho and Ruby had interviewed Cuban refugees while pulling duty at SOC Headquarters at MacDill Air Force Base, and they still remembered their horror stories about the Cuban jails.
The first thing that did not make sense was that they were never cuffed. Instead they were escorted by armed guards that were at all time respectful, almost as if they were embarrassed of having to keep them in custody.
Every few hours an orderly brought them warm food. They guessed it had been ordered from a restaurant, or had come from an officer’s mess somewhere in the area.
The guards left a crate of water bottled in small plastic bottles right outside of their cell but still within their grasp. They were instructed to retrieve one bottle at a time and to place the empty bottles back in the crate. If they failed to follow these simple instructions they would have to drink water from the sink faucet.
Both men expected the cell to be wired with microphones and fiber optics cameras, so they tried to stay silent for as long as they could. If they got bored they would talk about movies and television.
The Cubans made no attempt at interrogating them.
President Roth dismissed The Admiral and Major Vélez, and then asked his secretary to place the call on an unsecured line. He wanted to make sure the Americans would intercept it, even if only to drive them insane.
“Mister President, your call is ready.”
Roth grabbed the phone.
“President Castro, how are you feeling today?”
“Very good, thank you so much for asking. How about you? Your family?”
“Everybody is great, thank you. Willie is going to graduate early, then I am betting he’ll shoot for an Army commission.”
“You must be very proud.”
“I am. President Castro, it is happening as we speak.”
“Oh yes? Was it Rogelio Sáenz? Or should I call him Landrón?”
“For all we know, neither is his real name. But yes, it was him. He had people with the Haitians; they waited until the very last second to divert the flight.”
“Do you know where?”
“Both men were bugged, if they are still wearing their clothes then we know where they are.”
“Why don’t we leave this to the professionals? Have your task force call Cuban Army Directorate 12, they have the number already.”
“We’ll do President Castro, thank you so much for your understanding.”
“No, thank you William. You are doing a good thing. We need to get rid off the banana republic mentality if we want Latin America to pull itself out of poverty. I am impressed with how much you have managed in so little time. What a shame that you won’t consider Communism.”
Castro hung up.
Roth used his encrypted cell phone to call The Admiral.
“Cuban Army Directorate 12,” Roth said.
“Shit.”
“Shit what?”
“That’s the one Vélez predicted. Our guys are ready to talk to them, we were waiting on you.”
“The sonofabitch is more times right than wrong. How long before you can promote our Major Vélez?”
“Immediately, if you want me to. I would like to wait until we are done, that way it won’t distract him.”
“OK, approved. Vélez is a Lieutenant Colonel as soon as this mess is sorted out.”
16
MacDill Air Force Base was the long time home of the United States Special Operations Command (SOC), the umbrella organization that controls all “irregular” forces in the United States, like the US Army Special Forces, the US Navy Seals and US Air Force Air Commandos. It was also an operational base, and many times it was used as the launching point for operations that spanned the globe.
As soon as President Roth had announced all of his economic policies in cooperation with the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Jamaica, the powers-that-be started cranking out intelligence estimates requests on the whole intelligence community. The Special Operations Community does its best to maintain cordial relations with all intelligence agencies, since once everything is said and done, their lives depended on the reliability of the Intel weenies. The feeling was mutual, so the special operators could always count on a friendly heads up whenever they felt trouble was stirring.
Less than a week earlier, the word had come from CIA, NSA and NRO that there was an increased interest in anything they had going around the Greater Antilles area. SOC G2 (operations) proceeded to dust off all of their old plans for Cuban operations. They also called the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions for any plans they had that could apply to Caribbean operations.
SOC increased their training tempo, which immediately meant canceling all classroom time and sending everyone out to the field. Everyone knew it was bul