PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (13 page)

Chapter 14

KINGSTON, JAMAICA

Flash
yawned as he studied the link analysis chart the team back in the Bunker had sent him. It showed all the intel they’d gathered on MVI and GES, including the tenuous links to the CIA. He expanded the dollar bill icon that represented MVI's activities in Venezuela. The icon had no links other than the few emails they had pulled off the security company’s network. The emails hinted GES may have some involvement in the anti-government movement but there were no specifics.

He grunted with frustration and left his desk to stand in front of the fan that was spinning in the corner of the makeshift office. The air conditioning unit installed in the hangar had failed and the place was hotter than hell. What he wouldn't give to be back in the Bunker with his own desk space and a fridge filled with cold drinks and chocolate bars. Not to mention the chance to take his motorbike for a blast down the runway.

He’d spent the better part of the day trying to hack Kurtz's Skype account and identify the IP address of the computer he had used to access it. With it he could pinpoint the exact location and vector Bishop in when he arrived. He was very close, a matter of a few more hours work. But he needed a break, hence the sidebar with the Venezuelan link-analysis chart.

The trill of the secure phone on Chua's desk pulled him out of his thoughts and he reluctantly dragged himself away from the fan to answer it. “Hey.”

“Hello.”

“Hey, it's Flash, who’s this?”

“Is Chen there?”

“No, he's getting some sleep. Do you want to leave a message?” Flash glanced at the screen of the phone. There was a key flashing in the corner. It was secure, which meant whoever was on the other end of the line was part of PRIMAL, possibly a source.

“Perhaps you can help me.” The voice sounded English and very proper.

“Sure, but I'm going to need your name first.”

“My name is Ivan.”

Flash almost dropped the phone. Ivan was one of Chua's Blades; a deep cover operative who frequently laid the groundwork for PRIMAL operations. The former
FSB
operative was almost legendary within the intelligence team.

“What can I do for you, Ivan?”

“I've made contact with a member of the Venezuelan student resistance. He says his group was attacked by the
colectivo
last week. His girlfriend was raped and a member of the opposition party was murdered. I want to know if it’s possible for them to be tracked through social media. It's the only way they communicate.”

“Who are the
colectivo
?”

“Gangs, thugs, criminals hired by the government to break up the demonstrations.”

“Got ya. Yeah, possibly, but it would be a little sophisticated for regular thugs. I mean, they could probably pull metadata off photos but if they've disabled those functions then we’re talking cell phone triangulation and that takes serious resources. I don't even think the Venezuelan security forces have the gear to do it.”

“So they may have help.”

“Yeah, someone else could be providing the tech and the skill.”

“I'm sending you through a sketch. It's a tattoo worn by one of the attackers. I need you to find who it belongs to.”

“Right, that could be a long shot.”

“The tattoo belongs to an American, no doubt in my mind. Let Chua know. I don’t think GES are trying to take down the government. I think they’re helping the government target the students.”

“OK, so… hello?” The call was dead.

Flash walked back to his computer and sat down. Ivan's information, if it was accurate, could have unlocked what GES and MVI were doing in Venezuela. Had Jordan Pollard traded specialist counter-revolutionary capability for an energy deal?

Chua's phone beeped and Flash glanced down at the message. It was a file. He sent it via encrypted Wi-Fi to his computer and opened it. It was a photo of a sketch. Whoever had drawn the dragon clutching a trident was skilled. It was clearly based on the SEAL insignia but a dragon had replaced the usual eagle. He'd seen the SEAL trident plastered all over books and movies ever since the Bin Laden raid had brought the group into the limelight. That by itself wasn't much though. He had no way of searching for the owner of the tattoo. There was no database of military ink.

Flash slumped back in his chair and sighed. Then it hit him; he had the personnel files of a significant number of GES employees. Less than a week ago Mitch had used a drone to enable him to hack an isolated server and download a bucket-load of information. It had all been dumped in a custom database. He opened it and typed in the words tattoo and SEAL. Five files matched. Two of them were emails containing nothing of value. The other three were personnel files. He opened the first one and scrolled down to the identifying features component.

Member has sleeve tattoos on both upper arms and shoulders that include Gaelic patterns and Sanskrit text.

He opened the next file.

Member has a tattoo of a dragon clutching a trident.

Jackpot! Flash read the rest of the document. James 'Jimmy' Scott was a former
DEVGRU
team leader who’d left the SEALs after ten years of service and twelve operational deployments. His specialist skills included counter-terrorism, counter-insurgency, close protection, and advanced force operations. They finally had a lead in Venezuela.

***

CARACAS, VENEZUELA

The
Venezuelan hadn't offered a name and Jimmy knew better than to ask. The bearded official had arrived at the old sugar warehouse with an entourage of heavy hitters at exactly the time agreed. The man refused to do business over the phone. Smart, thought Jimmy, considering the
NSA
was all over the country’s communications like Fox News on a government conspiracy.

“I trust your accommodation has been suitable for your needs,” said the security operative.

Jimmy assumed the man was an officer from the government’s top intelligence service, or maybe a private security contractor. Either way he was the government representative who had provided them with the warehouse and their operational mandate. This was the first time they had seen him since King had made the introduction.

“It does the job.”

“Yes, you've been very successful so far. We've seen a steady decrease in both the intensity and regularity of the demonstrations.” The man scanned the warehouse as he spoke. His eyes lingered on Pete's computer setup in the corner.

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

Jimmy coughed. “Hey bud, you going cut to the chase or are we just gonna keep finger banging?”

The man frowned. “An interesting choice of phrase.”

“I'm not here to fuck around. You got something to say, spit it out.”

The Venezuelan nodded. “There's someone that needs to disappear.”

“That I can do. What's the name?”

“Dante, Dante Otero.”

Jimmy took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled the name down. “You got a phone number? It would make this a hell of a lot easier.”

“Yes, I have a cell number.” He turned to one of his assistants who wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. He passed it to Jimmy. “This needs to be unattributable.”

“Do I look like a fucking moron? It'll be clean and it'll be blamed on the
colectivo
dead shits. What's the time frame?”

“As soon as possible.”

He stroked his mustache. “That'll cost extra.”

“I will take it into consideration with Mr. King.”

Jimmy spat on the concrete. “No, you'll take it into consideration with me. Mr. King isn't the one putting his life on the line. I want twenty-K US each. All six of us. Cash.”

The intelligence operative’s eyes narrowed.

“Or, get one of your people to do it.” He gestured to the heavies standing by the door. “But, they look a little simple. They'll probably screw the pooch.”

“The terms are acceptable. Get it done.” The man turned and made for the exit.

“Nice doing business with you, cockbreath,” muttered Jimmy as he paced across to Pete's intel setup. He dropped the two scraps of paper on the desk. “New target, numbnuts! Find this fucker ASAP.”

CHAPTER 15

LASCAR ISLAND

Vance
stood under the rusted roof of the dilapidated hangar that butted against the cliff. The doors were wide open and a cool breeze caressed his face as he watched a Lascar Logistics
C-130
pivot on the tarmac. The back blast from the four turboprops replaced the breeze as it stopped with the ramp facing him. The reek of jet fuel filled the hangar and he grimaced as a final blast of exhaust and prop wash nearly tore his Hawaiian shirt from his bulky frame. If he had hair it would be streaming out behind him like a windsock.

Kruger, the massive blonde-haired South African, and the two other operators from the Critical Assault Team were waiting with him. Dressed in civilian clothing, they stood alongside a pallet stacked with black nylon drag bags and rugged Pelican cases. Next to it were another two pallets. Each had a huge black bladder of fuel strapped to it along with what looked like a bulky green backpack. Another of the PRIMAL team was sitting on a forklift behind the pallets.

The white C-130's ramp lowered with a whine. The transporter was one of four in the Lascar Logistics fleet and the only one piloted by a Priority Movements Airlift crew. The veteran pilots usually flew missions in support of aid workers, however they occasionally flew contracts for discrete government agencies. Today they knew they were supporting a clandestine operation but had no idea who PRIMAL was or that Lascar Island wasn't just a transit location. The false cliff face to the rear of the hangar was shut to maintain the deception.

Vance approached the loadmaster with a broad smile. “Yo, these cats arrived this morning. Glad you made it on time because we're kind of limited for accommodation.” Vance was playing the part of an ignorant caretaker, as opposed to his actual role as Director of Operations.

The loadmaster gestured inside the cargo bay of the aircraft. “I've got a crate here for you. Once it's off we can load up and get going.”

Vance thrust the manifest he was holding into the loadmaster’s hands. “I'll get my boy to take care of it.”

The loadmaster gave him thumbs-up and Vance waved at Frank, who was operating the forklift. He watched as Frank unloaded the single crate then loaded the three pallets. When it was done he walked over to where Kruger was waiting with the others. “Give ‘em hell, bud.”

Kruger gave a solemn nod. “We will.” Then the three-man team walked up the ramp and disappeared inside. Vance gave the loadmaster a nod and the ramp whined shut. The four turboprops increased power with a roar and the aircraft lumbered onto the runway.

Vance walked out of the hangar and watched as the C-130 accelerated along the tarmac and lifted off.

Frank pulled the forklift alongside. “Kinda like sending your kids off on their first day of school.”

His brow furrowed. “Do you even have kids, Frank?”

“No. But if I did, I think you'd run a great daddy daycare.”

He laughed. “What’s in the crate?” He reached inside his pocket and activated a remote control. At the back of the hangar the rock wall split and a gap appeared.

“Well, judging by the manifest it's the spare parts Mitch needs for the Pain Train.”

Vance strolled inside as Frank drove the forklift beside him. He sighed, now he had most of his force deployed forward to Jamaica. Perhaps it was time he too got back in the field.

***

ATLANTIC OCEAN

Torrential rain buffeted the two
nine-meter Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats
that bobbed in the choppy swell. The early morning sun wasn’t visible through the storm clouds that had gathered overhead.

The rain would not impact the mission. The RHIBs were purpose-built and equipped for all-weather maritime interdiction. They had a center console with a canopy that housed a radar dome, twin three-hundred horsepower engines, and a forward mounting for a medium machine gun. Four contractors manned each high-powered vessel, all of them wearing personal floatation devices and carrying side arms.

“The Coast Guard aircraft has just gone off station, Mike,” the man behind the console of the lead boat yelled over the wind.

“OK, let's lock and load.” Mike Peters was a middle-aged former Navy Warrant who ran MAROPS, a private firm that occasionally subcontracted to GES. Average height with sandy blonde hair, he'd spent his entire military career operating
SWCC
boats for SOCOM. The heavy rain and the poor conditions didn’t faze him.

At the bow of each boat a crewmember unsnapped an equipment case and hefted a M60E machine gun onto the pintle mount. Once slotted in place, they loaded a belt of ammunition from another crate.

Mike stood next to the helmsmen of his boat and studied the radar screen. A single blip appeared at the far edge. He grabbed the radio mike and transmitted, “Contact. Let's get rolling.”

The machine gunners grasped their weapons and slid their feet into the loops attached to the floor. The other men, the boarding party, grabbed the handholds on the gunwales and braced themselves.

Each boat’s six hundred horses roared as the helmsmen pushed forward on the throttles and the two boats accelerated crashing through the waves leaving a violent wake behind them.

Mike grinned as he gripped the side of the console. He lived for this.

***

KINGSTON, JAMAICA

Mitch unlocked the rusted door on the hangar and was hit by a blast of humidity and musty stench. “Bloody hell.” He’d parked the Gulfstream in front of the hangar in Jamaica, having arrived from Miami International mid-morning. Once he pulled back the main doors he would move the business jet inside.

He dropped his backpack next to his stretcher and strode across to the industrial air conditioner he’d fitted in the far corner. He tried powering it up but nothing happened. Suspecting an electrical fault he traced the power cable back to the wall where it was plugged into an old three-phase point. He disconnected it and pried the rubber cover from the plug. Sure enough one of the wires was loose. A single twist with a multi-tool resolved the issue and soon the unit was humming again. Happy the system was fixed he walked across to the office that was functioning as PRIMAL’s forward headquarters. “When did the aircon blitz out?” he asked as he pushed open the door.

“Thank god you're back,” exclaimed Flash from behind his desk. The portly intelligence specialist’s T-shirt was drenched in sweat. “Please tell me you've fixed it.”

“Yeah mate, she's humming along nicely.” He gave Chua a nod. Unlike Flash, PRIMAL’s Asian American chief of intelligence didn't seem fazed by the heat.

“Mitch, welcome back,” Chua said. “Good work on the intel grab at King's residence. Did Bishop get away OK?”

Mitch dropped into a chair. “Yeah, no problems. How are Saneh and Mirza going?”

Chua checked his watch. “We've got a morning call with them in a few minutes. If you hang around you'll find out. Fuel is still an issue.”

“Was Vance able to put together what I need?”

“Yes, the CAT and the fuel will arrive this afternoon. I’m planning to deploy the boys to Brazil so they can respond rapidly if Bishop needs them. Aleks was due to fly in around the same time but his flight out of Hamburg has been delayed by heavy snow.”

“Any updates on Kurtz?”

“No, Aleks left him a message but there's been no response. There’s a chance GES or the CIA have got to him first.”

Mitch shook his head. “Nah mate, that slippery kraut’s way too good for them.”

“I hope you're right.”

A ringing sound emanated from Chua's laptop.

“It’s Saneh and Mirza.” He activated the secure call and kept it on speaker. “How’s it going, team?”

It was Saneh who replied. “Hello Chen, things are tracking well. The boat is running smoothly and Wesley has been very cooperative.”

“Good news. How's your fuel situation?”

“Not bad, we've backed off to twenty knots. The onboard computer is telling me that's the optimal speed.”

“Hey Saneh, it's Mitch here. Do you have enough fuel to get all the way to Jamaica?”

“At this stage it's going to be tight but I think we'll make it. Worse case scenario we can refuel at an outlying island. Maybe Cuba.”

Mitch glanced at Chua who shook his head vigorously. “Chua is telling me that's not workable. But don't worry, good old Mitch has a redundancy plan in place should the need arise.”

“That's good to know...” Her voice trailed off. “That’s weird.”

“What's up?” asked Mitch.

“I've got two contacts ahead of us. They're closing fast. I'm going to change our course.”

Chua frowned. “Has anyone hailed you?”

“Negative, I'm going to push further offshore.”

Seconds passed and everyone in the command center was deathly quiet.

“Damn, they're tracking right for us.”