Collateral Damage (34 page)

“Shit. Are you sure?”

“Matt, J.D. had already talked to each of the cops I spoke to. They'd looked into this thing for her. They were kind of curious as to why I was calling them.”

“When did J.D. talk to them?”

“Sunday. The day before she disappeared.”

The islands lay like brown amoeba floating on an ocean of ever-changing hues. Dark blue over trenches, light green covering the sandbars and shallows, brown where the reefs poked toward the surface. Puffy clouds dotted the horizon, cotton candy daubed on a cerulean backdrop. A kaleidoscope of pastels imprinted on a tropical canvas. This was the Bahamas from twenty thousand feet, a country of seven hundred islands and twenty-five hundred islets and cays covering a hundred thousand square miles of Atlantic Ocean.

We landed at the Marsh Harbour Airport and checked in with the customs officer stationed there. Like most things in the Bahamas, the arrival procedures are relaxed and cursory. Logan had been apprehensive about bringing our weapons to the Bahamas, but Jack had assured him that the authorities were not likely to examine our bags. They didn't really care what we brought in as long as we paid the fees. Jock was right.

We showed the man our passports, paid the arrival fee in cash, got a signed document attesting to the fact that we'd cleared customs at a government port of entry, and were told to enjoy our stay. Our pilots were headed for a hotel they knew that catered to executive aircrews laying over while their bosses enjoyed whatever it was they did on the island.

Jock, Logan, and I retrieved our bags from the plane and took a taxi to a marina that rented boats. I'd made a reservation online before we left my house.

J.D.'s interest in the other dead children of Team Charlie members was another anomaly in our theory of what was going on. We'd only gotten the information on Team Charlie from the director that morning. How did J.D. find out about it before we did? How did she know to start making
calls on Sunday? Did she have a source that she wasn't sharing with us? The facts just kept getting fuzzier. One minute I thought we were on the right track and the next minute the fog of doubt rolled in and obscured the picture that was taking shape in our minds. It was maddening, like a jigsaw puzzle that was beginning to come into focus and suddenly some of the pieces changed shape, causing me to rethink what I'd begun to accept as truth.

Our plan wasn't well formed. We were going to take our time surveilling Doc's house on the island, seeing what level of security he had in place. We were going to storm the property just after dark, rescue J.D., and get back to the plane. It wasn't much of a plan, as Jock pointed out. But we couldn't come up with anything better.

We were anchored about three hundred yards off the little island that contained the house Desmond had built. A dock ran out from the front of the place about sixty feet. Two go-fast boats, each at least thirty-five-feet long with big twin Yamaha outboards hanging off the transoms, were moored on either side.

We were decked out for fishing, large floppy hats covering our heads and shielding our faces, trying to look like three guys spending a day doing not much of anything. Our boat was a twenty-three-foot center-console Grady-White, a fishing platform. Jock, Logan, and I sat with rods and reels, casting now and then. I had a pair of binoculars and checked for activity at the house every few minutes. It was quiet.

Our guns were stored on the floor of the boat in the duffels we'd used to transport them. We had three M4 military assault rifles and three nine-millimeter Glock 19s. The bags also held camouflage paint, black clothing, and extra rounds for the weapons.

We were waiting for dark, hoping to get a better idea of what was on the island before we launched our attack. I didn't expect to see J.D., but I thought Doc might be roaming around, checking his security. Old habits don't die, and an old soldier in hiding would make sure he was secure.

The sunlight was fading when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw that the call was from a blocked number. I answered.

“Matt,” J.D. said, “you guys come on up to the house.”

“J.D.,” I said, “are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Look at the dock, the one right in front of the house.”

Shit. I held the phone away from my mouth, said in a whisper, “They're on to us.”

“Matt,” J.D. said, “I can hear you. I'm fine. I'm standing on the end of the dock. Bring the boat on in, and I'll help you with the lines.”

I picked up the binoculars and looked toward the dock. J.D. was standing at the end of it. Alone. She was dressed in shorts and a golf shirt and seemed relaxed. If she was under duress, there was no sign of it. “She wants us to bring the boat to the dock.”

“I don't think we have much choice,” said Jock. “We sure as hell didn't surprise them.”

“She looks okay,” said Logan. “J.D. wouldn't let a little thing like the threat of getting shot make her throw us to the wolves.”

Logan was right. J.D. would not let herself be used as bait. I put the phone to my mouth. “Okay. We're coming in.”

I closed the phone. “Get the weapons out of the bags,” I said. “Don't let them show above the gunwales. They've probably got glasses on us.”

I used the windlass to raise the anchor, cranked the engine, and moved toward the dock. J.D. waved at us as we came closer. Jock and Logan were at the bow and stern with lines. I eased the boat into the dock and J.D. caught the bowline from Logan. Jock jumped off the stern and wrapped his line around a cleat. I shut down the engine and climbed off the boat.

J.D. hugged me and then Jock and Logan. She looked at the floor-board of the boat and smiled. “You won't need those,” she said, pointing at the guns.

“What the hell is going on, J.D.?” I asked.

“Come up to the house. Doc's there with some other people you'll want to meet. He's got one heck of a story to tell you.”

“How'd you know we were here? I thought these floppy hats would hide us.”

She laughed. “I'd know you guys anywhere. Besides, Doc had a GPS beacon hidden on his plane. He could follow it on the Internet. We knew
the plane had landed at the Marsh Harbour Airport, and we were pretty sure you were aboard. I thought you'd get my hints.”

“I figured them out, but why? If you're here voluntarily, why didn't you just tell me that?”

“Come on up to the house. Doc will tell you everything.”

I was a little steamed. She'd worried the hell out of me and now she was telling me that the hints as to her whereabouts were part of some kind of game. “I don't find any of this very amusing,” I said.

She hugged me again, put her mouth to my ear, and whispered, “Matt, I'm so sorry to have worried you. It was necessary, and I knew you'd find me.” She kissed me on the neck, just below my ear. “Thank you.”

I was still a little pissed, but the kiss, the first one ever that was more than a friendly peck on the cheek, was quickly washing away my anger. I hugged her back. “I'm so glad you're okay,” I said. “These have been the longest three days of my life.”

“Come on. Let's go up to the house,” she said and led the way.

The house was large and rambled over most of the little island. There was a tennis court on one side of the structure, a guesthouse on the other, and an infinity pool in the rear, the boat dock in the front. J.D. led us through the front door into a large entryway and on back to a great room overlooking the pool and Abaco Sound. The room was filled with middle-aged men. Doc was there and so was George Brewster, and to my astonishment, Paul Galis, a Key West detective I'd met the year before when I was trying to find my former wife's stepdaughter. There were four other men whom I'd never seen. Doc introduced them to me as Don Lemuel from North Dakota, Conrad Dixson from California, Ben Wright of Kentucky, and Harrison Fleming.

I'd brought the duffel containing the weapons with me. I didn't think leaving them on an open boat was a good idea. I set the bag on the floor.

“These are the remains of Team Charlie,” said Doc. He looked at the group arrayed in a semicircle of stuffed chairs and two sofas. “I used to work for Matt, back when he was a Special Forces shave tail running our A team out of Camp Connor. He's tougher than he looks. He took a bullet in the leg and later a gut full of shrapnel while earning the Distinguished Service Cross, the army's second highest award for valor. He's also a lawyer, but he doesn't take it too seriously.”

Doc pointed to Jock. “This has to be Jock Algren, a guy you don't want to know much about, but I'll vouch for him because Matt and J.D. do. I don't know this other gentleman.”

“Logan Hamilton,” I said. “A Vietnam airborne Ranger grunt who did a second tour flying helicopters. Owns a Silver Star. He's okay.” I looked at Galis. “Good to see you, Paul.”

“Same here, Matt.”

I could see a visible relaxation on the faces of the men in the room. We'd passed the first test. We were soldiers who'd tasted combat and acquitted ourselves well. That made us part of the brotherhood.

I'd met Paul Galis in Key West and was aware that he'd been a Special Forces trooper in Vietnam toward the end of the war. We hadn't talked about his experiences there, because that's not what old soldiers do. Still, it was a shock to see him with this group.

“What's going on here, Doc?” I asked.

“This thing runs deep, Matt. It started coming to a head over the weekend, and I had to make some quick decisions. I left you out of the loop on purpose. You were part of my misdirection strategy.”

“I'm not sure I like the sound of that,” I said.

“Take a load off,” said Doc, pointing to four empty chairs. “I'll rustle up some drinks. What do you want?”

We all ordered water and in a few minutes Doc returned with bottles for all of us. “Okay,” he said. “Let me start with Team Charlie's last operation.”

The story was as old as war, and as necessary. There have always been bands of assassins tasked with taking out the leadership of the opposing forces. The theory was that if the leaders were killed, chaos would ensue and the killers' side would have the advantage for at least a short time. Often that is all that's needed in battle. It was a good theory and had been a part of the American war machine since the Colonial sniper Timothy Murphy killed British General Simon Fraser in 1777, a death that led directly to the American victory at Saratoga.

“We were a band of killers,” said Doc. “I don't think any of us would ever have robbed a bank or stolen a loaf of bread, because we saw ourselves as honorable men. But we believed that by killing the Viet Cong leadership, we were shortening the war and saving American lives.”

Team Charlie had drawn from all the military special ops groups, Army Special Forces, Marine Force Recon, and Navy SEALs. There was a team leader and an assistant leader, both civilians, both Central Intelligence Agency operatives. The other ten men were military, and though
they wore no rank insignia they were given the courtesies of noncommissioned officers.

The team had been operating for about six months without any losses. They'd hunted and killed Viet Cong leaders targeted by intelligence operatives sitting in Saigon. On the night when it all fell apart, they were sent to the village of Ban Touk near the Laotian border. The word came down that there was a meeting of high-level Viet Cong cadre and the commanders of North Vietnamese Army units hidden just across the border.

“It was the treasure trove,” said Doc. “The plan was that we'd take out a lot of the enemy leadership, maybe wounding them so deeply that they'd head back north. But it didn't go that way.”

The names of the CIA personnel assigned to Thanatos were kept secret. The operatives were known only by a nom de guerre, each one a gemstone. The Team Charlie leader, known to the men as Opal, issued the orders just before the operation began. The team was to surround the village and open fire on his order and then move in and set the huts on fire. Nobody was to leave there alive. That was important, he'd said. One hundred percent casualties. All dead. No exceptions.

The men crept through the dark. They were in heavily forested mountainous terrain, moving quietly, staying away from the trails that traversed the area, humping it through the woods, silent as the night. They came to the village, if you could call it that. It was just a cleared area with five or six huts, formed into a tight circle. An area of flat ground served as the centerpiece of the community. There were four black-pajama clad men standing around in front of the huts, shifting nervously from foot to foot, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Team Charlie fanned out, surrounding the small assemblage of huts and setting up intersecting lines of fire.

Opal, the team leader, ordered the men to open fire. The soldiers in the clearing were cut down immediately and the rifle and machine gun bullets began to cut into the huts, chopping them to splinters. No fire was returned. Not a single round.

“Get in there and fire those huts,” Opal ordered.

The men moved in, one carrying a blowtorch. “What about documents?”
he asked. “Shouldn't we check that out before we burn the place down?”

“No. Fire the fucking huts,” said the leader. “Now.”

The man with the torch, a Marine named Brewster, stopped over a dead VC soldier, shined a flashlight into his face. He shrugged and moved toward the second hut, blowtorch in one hand, rifle in the other, pointing ahead. He went to the door of the hut, used his rifle barrel to push aside a curtain, shined a flashlight inside. A foolhardy move, and one that surely would get him killed. Nothing happened.

“Doc,” Brewster said, “look at this.”

Desmond moved swiftly up behind the man, looked over his shoulder. Inside were women and children and two babies, all dead. He went to the shattered bodies to see if his medical skills could save any of them. They were all dead, killed by American bullets. The worst part was that they were gagged and tied to stakes driven into the ground. They could not have ducked had they tried. They were set up.