Plausible Denial (6 page)

“Hmmmm,”
said Mac, flicking perspiration from his forehead, the after effects of his
workout, “no telling what Ed may have told him. Never mind, we’ll find out soon
enough. When can he see us?”

“He
said to arrive late in the day and plan to stay into the evening,” said
Maggie.  “He wants to show you some night vision gear after it gets dark.”

“Okay,
let’s figure on heading on down right after lunch then,” suggested Santos.
“That’ll give us time to eat, get our alias docs together and rent a car at the
airport.”

“Always
thinking about lunch, Culler,” chided Mac. “Let’s get some work done before we
take off for the Keys. Have you got the address, Maggie?”

“It’s
just ‘Islamorada, mile-marker seventy-two, turquoise gate, ocean side.’ He says
you can’t miss it.”

“Did
you get a chance to check him out, Maggie?” asked Culler. “We’d kind of like to
know what the guy’s background is before we go traipsing down there.”

“Sure
did, Culler. He’s got quite a reputation. And except for a lot of allegations
of arms smuggling—nothing concrete, no arrests or convictions—which we already
know, he’s quite the marksman. He’s got a ton of awards and certainly knows his
weapons. It says here he’s a founding member of the Fifty Caliber Shooters
Association, and that he’s a leading competitor in both regional and national
‘extreme caliber’ competitions, whatever that means.”

She
flipped through a stack of pages fresh from the printer. “Also, he seems to be
persona grata with the Navy SEALs because he is an annual invitee at their Seal
Team Eight .50 caliber qualification shoot at Camp Atterbury. They shoot out to
2500 meters at that match.”

“Twenty-five
hundred meters!” exclaimed MacMurphy. “That’s like…what…a mile and a half!”

“That’s
what it says, and there’s more. According to press reports he’s a co-developer
of the ‘ceramic barrel’ M2HB program, whatever that is, for the Defense
Advanced Research Projects Agency.”

“Pretty
heavy stuff,” said Santos. “That’s a first class outfit. High speed, low drag.
I’ve worked with those DARPA guys a lot in the past.”

Maggie
pushed her glasses back up and continued: “He’s also been a shooting instructor
for several police departments, a range master, a legitimate automatic weapons
procurement officer for the Colombian Secret Service, a consultant to the Naval
Surface Warfare Center and to USSOCOM on combat assault rifles. Whew, the list
goes on and on.”

“Sounds
like we’ve got a winner,” said Mac. “I’m ready to rock ‘n roll with this guy.”

Chapter Thirteen

Islamorada, Florida Keys

A
fter
a quick lunch with Maggie at their favorite sandwich shop, Culler and Mac rode
together to the Ft. Lauderdale airport in Mac’s new 6 series BMW coupe. They
parked the car in the short-term parking and headed to the Avis counter in the
terminal building and Mac used a Florida driver’s license and Amex credit card
in the alias Robert T. Humphrey to rent a car. If anyone spotted him meeting
with Bill Barker and ran the plate on the vehicle, it would not lead back to
MacMurphy.

The
drive to Islamorada in the nondescript white Chevy Impala rental took a little
over two hours. They drove west to the Ronald Reagan Turnpike, known in the
state simply as Florida’s Turnpike, and then south through Miami where the
turnpike turned into US Route 1, running along the entire east coast all the
way from Maine to Key West.

They
drove through the Keys on a two-lane road that was often clogged with traffic
and slowed by mom and pop campers, heavy trucks and trailers carrying large
boats and yachts. Mac drove silently while Culler chilled out listening to
classical music on his I-Pod.

It
was just after three in the afternoon when they reached mile marker seventy-two
on Islamorada Key. At a divided road, they took a u-turn and came back on the
ocean side of the Key for a block until they reached the bright, turquoise
gate.

They
turned into the drive, honked, and the automatic gate slid open. They drove up
the gravel drive to a sprawling flat roof, modern glass-and-stucco home, built
typically high on concrete stilts to protect it from hurricane tides, and
pulled into the shade on the south side of the house.

A
big, heavy, middle-aged man—dressed in olive shorts and matching short-sleeved
safari shirt—stood on the second level balcony waving down at the arrivals.

Bill
Barker was once a powerful weightlifter, but now in his mid-fiftys he’d gone a
bit soft. His hands were large and callused, with dirty, broken nails from
working with weapons. The hands of a working man.  He looked like a former
Sumo wrestler and smelled faintly of gun powder and lubricating oil. He flashed
a ready smile and spoke with a soft, slow South Florida drawl, not what Mac
expected from a covert arms supplier.

Beside
him stood his wife, a pleasant looking woman dressed in shorts and a tee shirt.
She had short dark, wispy hair and a broad smile. Bill Barker greeted them
warmly with friendly eyes. “How y’all doin’ guys. This is my wife Ruth. Did
y’all have any trouble findin’ the place?” They mounted the stairs and he held
out a large hand in greeting.

“None
at all,” said Mac. “We’re the friends of Tom Willet you’ve been expecting. I’m
Bob Humphrey and this is Ralph Callaway.” They mounted the stairs and shook
hands.

“Pleasure
meetin’ y’all.” He turned to his wife, “Sweetpea, would you be so kind as to
fetch us some of that fresh brewed tea of yours? These guys look parched.” He
turned back to Mac and Culler. “It’s a lousy drive down here from Miami. Come
on inside fellers. It’s hot out here.”

The
back of the house was floor to ceiling glass with a wide porch that extended
the length, overlooking the sparkling blue-green ocean beyond.

At
a long, white rattan bar inside the living room, Ruth served tall glasses of
iced tea with fresh key limes and then excused herself to leave the men to talk
business.

“Tom
didn’t tell me very much other than I could trust you fellows and that you
wanted to purchase some arms and other equipment for an operation in the
jungles of Southeast Asia. That about it?”

“Yep,
that’s it,” said Mac sipping his iced tea. “He spoke highly of you, too, saying
we could trust your discretion one hundred percent. He also said you had a good
contact in Northern Thailand who could receive the stuff we purchase and get it
delivered to us securely in Thailand.”

“Yep,
sure can. Gotta fellow out there who used to be a police general. Very well
connected. Knows just about everyone out there, including the drug dealers and
smugglers and politicians. Works for a lot of them too, but one thing is for
sure, he never crosses wires. If he does a job for you, he’s yours—for that one
job anyway.” He laughed. “One hundred percent discretion. That’s how he stays
in business. So what is it exactly you guys are looking for?”

“We’re
going to be in the jungle up there for a few days, and there may be some bad
guys in the same area.We need survival gear and weapons. Tom said you were one
stop shopping. That true?” asked Mac.

“Oh
yeah,” replied Barker. “I can fix ya’ll up with just about anything you need,
top-of-the-line stuff. I don’t deal in any crap. And every gun I sell I’ve
personally sighted in and fired at least a hundred rounds through. A lot more
on the automatic weapons. Now, Tom said you’d by paying in cash. If so, I can
give you a good discount.”

Mac
nodded. “It’ll be a cash deal. We can wire the money anywhere you like or give
it to you in a sack. Whatever you want.”

“Wire
transfer will do just fine,” Barker giggled in a high-pitched way that didn’t
fit his large frame. “I’ll give you wire instructions for my bank in the
Bahamas.”

Santos,
who had been sitting quietly at the bar nursing his iced tea during the
conversation, asked bluntly, “I need a SAW. Can you get me a SAW?”

“Well,
Ralph, you certainly look strong enough to lug a big, heavy Squad Automatic
Weapon around in the jungle, but I wouldn’t recommend it. How long have you
been out of the military?”

“More
than ten years. Army Special Forces.”

“What
about you, Bob?”

“Me?
I led a Marine sniper platoon and later a Marine Security Guard detachment, but
I’ve also been out a long time. Why do you ask?”

“Because
a lot has changed in ten years. Sure, they still use SAWs in the conventional
forces, and they still use the M40A1 sniper rifle, which is probably what you
were trained on, Bob.”

“Yeah,
that’s right, I love the M40. When fitted with a night vision scope and
suppressor, it’s absolutely deadly at night. I used one on an operation in
Africa. It’s sweet.”

“Of
course you love it. It’s a great rifle, just like the SAW is still a great
weapon, but I’m gonna show you fellers some guns that’ll knock your socks off.
Go ahead and fill up y’alls drinks and take’em with you.”

Barker
led them into his ocean front office. The cluttered L-shaped desk faced sliding
glass doors that led out to the porch. Barker pointed out three fishing pole racks
loaded with poles and baited lines leading out to the ocean. “That’s so I can
fish and work at the same time. Life’s laid back here in the Keys.”

Barker
sat behind his desk and motioned for Culler and Mac to take the two chairs in
front of it. He leaned back in his executive chair and studied his large
fingers. “Now I don’t need to know exactly what you guys’ll be up to there in
Northern Thailand, but I do know that the Golden Triangle’s up here. That’s a
pretty dangerous area, especially if you’re goin’ to be runnin’ around in the
jungle like you say. So, I’ll give you my unsolicited philosophy about things
like this—Go light, use the darkness, be silent and be invisible. If we can all
agree to that, I’ll fix y’all up real good.”

Mac
and Culler nodded their agreement.

“Now,
Bob, you said you were a Marine sniper at one time, and you’re familiar with
the use of night vision gear and suppressors, right?”

“Yeah,
that’s right,” said Mac.

“I
am too,” said Culler. “The Army Special Forces isn’t that far behind the
Marines.” He glanced at Mac and smiled.

Barker
pulled out a pen and yellow pad and slipped a pair of reading glasses low on
his nose. “As long as we’re on the same page, let’s get started making a list
of the gear you’ll need for this here junket.”

Chapter Fourteen

L
et’s
get y’all started with the simple stuff. Then we’ll get into the guns. You need
to be invisible in the jungle, so you’ll need Ghillie suits. I’d go with the
standard Marine sniper Ghillie which you can adapt when you get in the field by
adding some foliage and leaves and such. I’m sure you guys are familiar with
them.” Barker glanced over at Culler Santos. “We’ll order one for you in extra
wide, Ralph,” he snickered.

“Yeah,
about your size except wider in the chest and smaller in the
belly.”      

“Touché,
touché.” Barker laughed.

“Then
y’all are going to need a couple of handheld GPS devices with maps covering the
Burma, Laos and Thailand area. And about a case of granola bars and power bars.
We don’t want you to starve, but we also don’t want you to be pooping all over
the place out in the jungle. You guys know the drill, right? Leave nothin’
behind and travel light. ‘Specially if someone is lookin’ for y’all. And I
suspect that might just be the case. I’ll also throw in a couple cans of my
special concoction that erases the odors of poop and pee. Use it faithfully and
even a good hound dog won’t catch the scent. Do y’all need boots?”

“No,”
said Mac. “We’ll bring that kind of stuff with us. But we’ll need a couple of
Camelbacs and some purification pills just in case we run out of water.”

“Of
course.” Barker looked over his glasses. “I was comin’ to that. I wouldn’t let
y’all go into the jungle without plenty of water.” He looked down at his yellow
pad. “That’s about it for the personal gear. I’ll throw in some camping gear as
well, shelter sheets and that sort of stuff to make y’all comfortable. Now
let’s git down to the important stuff.”

He
dropped his glasses on the desk, pulled himself out of his chair and walked across
the room to a closet. Spreading open the bi-fold doors, he pushed hangers of
shirts and jackets to each side and stepped into the closet. Once inside he
unlatched a panel in the rear wall and revealed a hidden, four-foot by
eight-foot room filled with racks of rifles and pistols and knives, boxes of
ammunition, and a small desk loaded with gun cleaning gear.

Culler
gave a low appreciative whistle. “You’ve got a bloody arsenal in there.”

“Just
a few of my favorite things, and this is my absolute favorite.” He took a rifle
from one of the gun racks and held it out to them, beaming. “It’s a thing of
beauty, a Noreen 338LM Lapua sniper rifle with an 8 x 32 variable power
day/night scope. I can drop rounds in a four-inch bull at fifteen hundred
meters with this baby. An average sniper can do it at one thousand meters. It’s
the finest sniper rifle ever made, and this model’s a semi-automatic to boot.
Never know when that might come in handy.”

MacMurphy
took the rifle and sighted it toward the ocean. “Fifteen hundred meters?”

“Sure,
that’s normal for the best snipers. Nothin’ strange about that. She’ll take out
a target at twenty-five hundred meters. I mean, you can take a guy out at that
range—a far cry from that old sniper rifle you’re familiar with. Check out the
sights.” He held the gun out to MacMurphy.  “You zero the gun with the
‘day’ eyepiece. At night you just push the release button on the eyepiece, pull
it off and put on the light intensifying ‘low light’ eyepiece. Easy as one,
two, three, and bingo, you’ve got night vision.”