Targets of Revenge (4 page)

While the plane was being put together under Raabe’s watchful eye, Bergenn and Sandor spent time in Carlton’s office going over the maps of the jungle area just south of the location where Adina was believed to be headquartered.

“So the bottom line is, once I set this baby down in the clearing, I’ll be within three miles of the target.”

“Exactly.”

Carlton, who had been listening patiently, leaned forward. “I haven’t heard a whole lot about how the hell you’re getting out of there.”

Sandor looked up from the maps. “We have several different scenarios. A lot depends on what happens when I get in.”

“You’ve already told me this action has no official sanction,” Carlton said. “If you get into a tussle, you understand I can’t be sending a chopper into Venezuela to pull your butt out. My hands’ll be tied.”

“You’re doing enough,” Sandor assured him. “Jim and Craig should be able to pick me up if I get myself somewhere here, along the shore.” He pointed at the map. “That won’t start a war, right?”

Carlton shook his head. “Knowing you, I wouldn’t be too sure.”

I
T WAS NEARLY
midnight when the four men conducted their final inspection of the sleek black glider inside the base hangar. They checked the newly assembled joints to see they were tight. Raabe went over the navigation options with Sandor. For the third time they looked to see that the towrope that would link the unpowered craft to the military transport was properly secured.

Constructed of carbon, aramid, and polyethylene fiber with reinforced plastic, the ASG 29 was an odd-looking craft with definite advantages for the intended purpose. The tiny cockpit had a bubble-shaped appearance, giving it enhanced visibility that would be crucial to the night landing. It had a glide ratio of more than 50:1, which would allow a gentle descent, but the optional wing-mounted air brakes—affectionately dubbed “terminal velocity”—could also bring her down almost as fast as a spin dive.

“Nice,” Sandor said. “You’re sure you didn’t leave any bolts sitting in the bottom of the crates?”

Raabe’s reply was a tired frown.

“You know what I’m talking about. Christmas morning, when you put together the train set and you forget one of the screws for the bridge. An hour later the whole thing is set up and the locomotive comes barreling down the tracks, then
boom,
the whole trestle falls apart. Hate to have that happen two thousand feet in the air.”

“Try not to hit any trestles then,” Raabe suggested.

“Ah. Good plan.”

Carlton was staring at them. “You’re out of your mind, you know that?”

Sandor nodded. “It’s been said.”

“I’m not kidding. You know the odds of making a safe landing in the dark? In the jungle?”

“Let me guess.”

“Don’t bother.”

“You have any idea what the odds are of my getting there in daylight without someone spotting me?”

“Zero,” Jim Bergenn said.

“Exactly,” Sandor agreed. “So this is my best shot.”

“What about a private chopper?”

“We’ve already been through that. Too easy to spot and too noisy. If they don’t shoot it down when we enter their airspace, they’ll spot us on the radar and launch a search-and-destroy operation before I even get close to their base. The glider is my best chance of getting in there undetected.”

“He’s right,” Bergenn admitted.

For a few moments no one spoke. Then Raabe said, “Come here, let’s go over the controls again.”

B
ERGENN HAD A
look at his watch. “Time to do this.”

Sandor strolled to the side of the tarmac, knelt down, and opened his backpack to check the contents one more time. He had a satellite phone with a GPS function; two compasses, one traditional and one digital; a Smith & Wesson .45 1911 automatic with two extra magazines; a MAC 10 with four extra clips; and a US M24 Woodland portable sniper rifle with silencer and scope.

Carlton watched as Sandor went through each item. “You going in there to start World War III?”

“We’ll see,” Sandor replied. Then he held up a pair of bathing trunks, a T-shirt, and black flip-flops. “I guess I’m ready for anything,” he said.

“Some disguise.”

Sandor smiled. “You’d be surprised. Now where are the night goggles?”

“In the cockpit with your helmet,” Bergenn told him. “Want to check them out again?”

Sandor shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m good to go.”

————

Doug Carlton was going to pull the ASG 29 with a C-47. It was a military variation of the DC-3, one of the most reliable warhorses in air travel, but not an obvious choice for this purpose.

“Not exactly the ideal way to tow a glider,” he admitted as they prepared.

Sandor smiled. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“You just hang on,” Raabe said as the three men watched Sandor climb into the glider.

“Roger that,” Sandor replied.

Carlton was going to pilot the twin-engine transport himself, directing his second in command to make a log entry listing the flight as a “nighttime takeoff and landing exercise, IFR.” There was to be no mention of the black glider he was towing or the two passengers he was carrying for the short trip.

It was after midnight, but Carlton ordered that the runway lights remained shut down until after takeoff, then turned on later for his return. Inside the C-47 he went through the preflight checklist with Raabe, who had settled comfortably in the copilot seat, prepared to assist. Bergenn was buckled in the seat behind them.

Once Carlton confirmed that all systems were operational, he revved the two engines, radioed his second that they were ready to go, then flashed a thumbs-up.

Less than an hour later Sandor’s glider had been released over the Lago de Maracaibo, where he piloted it inland, south of Barranquitas, and crash-landed at the end of the clearing.

A
FTER THE CRASH,
Sandor did his best to rouse himself. The reinforced harness had kept him in place. Now his training instinctively led him through an ingrained sequence of personal checkpoints.

First he took a few deep breaths to ensure he had not cracked any ribs or suffered chest injuries. Next he confirmed that his vision was clear, pulling off his goggles and moving his head slowly side to side to loosen his neck muscles. Then he moved his fingers and toes, finally uncoupling the seat belt so he could confirm his other extremities were intact.

He looked at his watch. It had only been a few minutes since he last checked the time, before he spotted the clearing and hit the ground.

It was just before 2:00 A.M.

Sandor climbed out of the seat and stood beside what was left of the mangled cockpit. His eyes had adjusted to the unremitting darkness, and he had a look around. He could make out the pieces of the demolished glider that were scattered across the entire field. Come sunrise the evidence of the crash would be evident from the ground, and possibly the sky, reminding him again that time was short. Reaching behind his seat he lifted the knapsack. He grabbed the night-vision goggles and digital compass and tossed both into the pack, then hurried off into the trees, just in case anyone had been near enough to see or hear the crash and might be coming by to have a look.

Safely in the thick of the jungle, he sat against the wide trunk of
a large, gnarly kapok, pulled out his canteen, had a drink of water, then took out two 800 mg ibuprofen gelcaps and washed those down with a second gulp. The real pain he would feel was a couple of hours away and he wanted to head it off if he could. He placed the manual compass in his lap and had another quick look at his watch. He figured he had less than four hours before sunrise. In that time he would have to make his way through almost three miles of dense jungle, find Adina, send him to hell, and then make his escape.

Sandor nodded to himself. He was thinking clearly and ready to get started.

He removed his earpiece and zipped it into a side pocket of his vest. He was going to maintain total radio silence until the mission was complete—he didn’t want to risk the chance of anyone intercepting even a one-word message letting them know he had touched down.

His Mark II combat knife, popularly known as the Ka-Bar, was in place on his right thigh. He reached into the knapsack for the S&W .45 1911 automatic in its holster and strapped it on. He placed the two extra magazines in another compartment of his vest.

He stood and hoisted the pack onto his back. When he put on the PNVGs the entire jungle became illuminated, as if a hazy, green-tinged light had been turned on. Then, compass in hand, he set off in a northeasterly direction.

————

The information developed by Jim Bergenn indicated that Adina’s base of operation was southwest of Barranquitas. It was a typical choice of hiding place for a man like Rafael Cabello.

Barranquitas was a village of barely ten thousand people, but in medical circles it was famous for all the wrong reasons. Barranquitas has the highest per capita concentration of Huntington’s disease in the entire world, with more than half the population testing positive for the fatal gene. Studies have been made, scientific expeditions undertaken, and the inevitable result, in the end, is that the small town has gained a reputation akin to a leper colony. Although there is no evidence that the misfortune of these inhabitants is in any way contagious to outsiders, people from surrounding areas simply stay away.

A perfect place for Adina to set up shop, seeking cover behind the misery of others.

Sandor moved as quickly as he could through the dense vegetation, but progress was slow. The ground was uneven and covered with a network of large twisted roots. The trees themselves were not a problem but the thick vines were. He would frequently have to reverse course and find alternate routes around these hanging obstacles.

The enhanced vision afforded by his goggles was invaluable as he avoided ditches and small ravines he might otherwise have plunged into, as well as fallen branches and dead roots he would have tripped over. It also helped him steer clear of the occasional curious snake that warily eyed this nocturnal interloper marching purposefully through its domain.

The backpack was heavy and his protective clothing too thick for the tropical humidity; although the night air was cool, he felt the clammy perspiration cover his skin beneath the microfiber shell he wore. He frequently wiped his face with the back of his gloved hand.

As he pressed on, Sandor continually checked his compass—he knew how easy it was to move off course on this sort of trek, and that would cost him precious time. After more than an hour of pushing himself through nature’s unrelenting obstacle course, he saw a glimmer of light several hundred yards ahead.

He stopped at the edge of a small clearing, placed his pack on the ground, and sat. He drank some water, then reviewed his coordinates on the digital readout of the electronic compass.

This was it.

The satellite photos they received did not reveal much about the layout of the compound. Under the cover of so much large vegetation there was almost nothing visible from above. The entire area was a thicket of tropical trees with enormous trunks and wide, spreading canopies that blocked out aerial surveillance. This was thought to be Adina’s retreat, a home away from the mainstream of the Venezuelan capital. However, the satellite heat sensors revealed a larger amount of activity than Sandor and his team had anticipated—perhaps this was also a base where Adina would plan and even equip his terrorist plots.

He checked his watch. It was just past 3:00 A.M.

Sandor opened the backpack and readied himself for the assault. He took his time assembling the US M24 Woodland portable sniper rifle, silencer and scope. Then he loaded the MAC-10, pocketed some extra clips and stood up. With the rifle strapped across his back, he left the backpack behind the tree, picked up the submachine gun, and moved out.

H
OWEVER CAREFULLY
A
DINA
laid out his secret home in the jungle, Sandor was certain it would also be carefully guarded, even in the dead of night. There might even be trip wires or land mines outside the perimeter, so his progress became even slower. He circled back using the trees for cover, moving with extreme caution until he saw another clearing just ahead.

He stopped and took out his night vision binoculars, removed the PNVGs, and crawled toward a wide jungle cedar to have a look around.

He saw that the light he had been following was one of four low-intensity halogen floods that sat atop metal posts at the corners of a large rectangle. There were no fences, which confirmed his suspicion there might be traps or some sort of laser sensors in place. The floodlights were stationary, each directed outside and down, leaving the interior space almost completely in the dark. He could make out a few small buildings within the rectangle, each situated alongside a stand of the large trees that had blocked a clear satellite view. Most important, for the moment, he spotted a sentry off to his left.

The guard was leaning against one of the tall metal stanchions smoking a cigarette. He had an assault rifle slung across his chest and wore the look of a man doing a thankless job in the middle of the jungle in the middle of the night.

The trees would not provide much cover if Sandor chose to come at the man from here, leaving him exposed for too long when he emerged into the clearing. Charging from this angle would force him into the open for more than forty yards.

He could take the man out with a silenced sniper shot, but he preferred to get some answers first.

He had another look through the binoculars to see if other sentries were posted, but the trees and buildings made it impossible for him to see the other end of the compound. He decided he would circle all the way around to his left and then come at the guard from behind.