COVERT WRITERS TAKEDOWN by Joe Bergeron (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

at this time what the
Vice President’s association was with the terrorists
holding McKenzie, but the political situation is cause
for some concern by President Santiago. He needs
outside support. Your contract will be something he can
hold up to help insure stability. Coming onto the island
with me, You’ll get a quick contract signing.”
But Kushima didn’t want a quick signing - he
wanted to stick the contract in the face of American
businessmen, especially the likes of Patrick McKenzie.
352
But he also wanted Orefice on the island so he
could silently dispose of him after it had occurred.
It was alright, there would still be time. He
could transfer one-half of the funds, still take out the
American official, and then recover his money. The
contract was most important now.
“Very well, Mister Orefice, I will make one half
the funds available to you immediately, and I will meet
you at the airport - just tell me when.”
“Thank you, Sir. We leave at ten tonight and
arrive at nine fifteen this same day, your time. We will
refuel in the Philippines, so when we land in Japan, we
will be able to leave immediately for Cuba. I suggest
you keep the people you bring to a minimum.”
“I will be traveling with two personals.”
“That’s fine, Mister Kushima - I’ll see you at
nine fifteen.”
“Thank you Mister Orefice - I look forward to
it.”
They disconnected.
Kushima redialed.
“Put one half the funds for the Cuban plan in
the Caribbean banks.”
Orefice redialed - he waited a little longer.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“He’s meeting me tonight - his time, about
nine, Sir.”
“Is the plane all set? What about the pilot, copilot
and flight attendant?”
“We’re using our own people. They’re highly
trained. They’ll be picked up.”
“And what do we tell the Press about these
people when they supposedly don’t come back?”
“They were government employees, lived alone
in large apartment complexes. People come and go all
the time. We used Tollman‘s personal computer at his
house to email his secretary telling her he wouldn‘t be
into work - was taking a short vacation.”
353
It all sounded well planned - he wanted
closure. “Let me know when it’s over.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Sunday, May 28, 12:00 noon
Allen Bates settled the Huey next to its hangar at the
far end of the Miami International airport. At Coverty’s
request, McKenzie had been blindfolded for reasons
most obvious to the Zero team. They didn’t care if he
knew what they looked like, but they didn’t want him to
know where they lived. Courtney had told the Snake
everything.
On the ground, they disembarked, guiding the
CEO to one of the GMC Jimmys where he’d sit in the
back alone. Coverty and Bates would drive him to a
small motel twenty miles North of the city on Route
1A. He’d be given five hundred dollars in fifties, and a
roll of ten dollars in quarters. Courtney and St. Croix
would wait at the compound. They’d shave, shower,
eat, and rest.
McKenzie would eventually call Wirtham and
make his way to Washington,
Wirtham would call Eisenberg.
Sunday, May 28, 9:08 p.m.
The huge Boeing banked from its base leg to a
final approach five miles out from Japan’s largest
airport, an air traffic controller identifying the flight as
diplomatic, U.S.A. coming in from Clark Air Force Base
in the Philippines where it had refueled.
Directed to a southeast to northwest landing
pattern, the pilot and co-pilot went to full flaps,
touching down just sixty meters from the edge of the
runway.
354
They were cowboys, trained to make short field
landings in jungles and on mountain tops.
Setting reverse thrusters, the jet came to taxi
speed in a distance that would normally be more
appropriate for a much smaller aircraft.
The plane settled into a holding area in the
northwest corner of the airport, its Pratt and Whitney
engines at idle speed.
Diplomatic meant secure. That meant no
customs, no inquiry regarding cargo, and no questions.
Arriving by private limousine, Kushima and
his guards could see the red, rotating beacon on the
plane’s underbelly turning slowly. They also noted the
tail fin, dressed out with a small official seal of The
President of The United States.
The front entrance stairwell was down - a
welcoming sign. In the plane’s doorway, a black-haired
woman waited to take on her passengers.
Kushima’s limo door opened electronically, a
small, electro mechanical system performing the simple
operation. Stepping to the tarmac, the Japanese
executive carried only his briefcase as he and his two
personals, each carrying two tan, leather suitcases,
mounted the plane’s aluminum stairwell. At the
aircraft door, they were greeted by the American
woman.
“Mister Kushima, I am Elizabeth Hendricks -
welcome aboard.”
Gesturing aft of their current position inside
the Boeing, she gave them initial instructions.
“ We’ll be leaving shortly, please, make
yourselves comfortable in the forward lounge while I
notify Mr. Orefice you’re on board.”
Kushima nodded, the three Japanese now
moving aft through the plane’s corridor.
Three minutes after the plane’s stairwell was
retrieved and doorway secured, the Boeing taxied to the
main runway.
355
Directed into the wind for takeoff, they were
airborne once again, heading southeast towards the
Pacific Ocean.
She appeared in the lounge.
“Mister Orefice is in the rear cabin on a call
with his office. He should be available shortly. If you
like, I can fix you a drink from the bar, or you can help
yourselves.
Kushima preferred the latter.
“Thank you Miss Hendrecks, we will entertain
ourselves until Mister Orefice is ready.”
“I’ll call you as soon as he’s available - it should
only be about five minutes.”
Five minutes turned into twenty-five.
Although the Japanese executive understood how easily
that could happen, especially in the arena where
Orefice performed, he didn’t like it.
There was something else bothering him. The
plane had taken off, but had not seemed to climb
appreciably. Kushima had thousands of flight miles in
his history, and he knew that, on takeoff, the plane’s
angle of climb in relation to the ground was quite steep.
The Boeing had not achieved an angle anywhere near
what it should have to accomplish a climb to thirty
thousand feet, where the most economical flight path
would take place. He’d ask Orefice about this
immediately when he saw him.
Fifteen more minutes passed.
She appeared again.
“Mister Orefice is finished with his call, and
he’ll see you now. If you’ll walk straight back, you’ll
find him in the last cabin.”
Closing the curtain to the lounge behind her,
she calmly walked to the refrigerator in the planes
forward kitchen.
Opening its door, she reviewed the placement
of C2 explosives set in place near the door’s hinges by
counterparts in the states.
356
Her hands moved deftly, taking hold of two
copper wires that terminated inside two blasting caps.
Inserting them into each pack of the clay-like material,
she continued her procedure by opening a small black
box and setting a timing device which would send
twenty-volts of electricity to the caps in four minutes
and thirty seconds. Closing the appliance, she checked
its position, and moved quickly to the cockpit door.
Two knocks - short pause - two more.
The door was opened.
Inside, a man dressed more like a Navy
frogman than a pilot stepped aside to allow her entry.
She gave him a critical piece of information.
“All set - about four minutes.”
“Let’s move.”
He closed and locked the entrance.
In the middle of the cockpit floor, a metal
hatchway had been left open. Climbing down a ladder,
she was greeted by the co-pilot, he also was dressed
like someone who would soon be in the water. Holding
out a wet suit and goggles, his three words expressed
speed.
“Dress fast, Liz.”
Helping each other into short-jump parachutes,
the three CIA agents fastened harnesses and headed aft
to the Boeing’s open cargo hatch.
At the doorway, the pilot pulled a preset radio
transmitter from the door’s trim section.
“Delta Water, Bright Beacon - we’re out.”
A response came from a radioman on a CIA allweather
chase and recon boat five thousand feet below.
“Bright Beacon, Delta Water, we have you
visual and electronic, fax will send in sixty-five
seconds.”
Signaling a thumbs up, the pilot swung his arm
toward the hatch indicating the jump. She went first,
the draft from the aircraft sending her into a rapid
descent.
357
The pilot and co-pilot threw out a rubber raft
attached to its own chute, and followed their already
exited counterpart. All parachutes, equipped with
altimeter-controlled opening devices, deployed
successfully at forty-five hundred feet.
Kushima’s mood was just short of totally pissed
off.
He and his two bodyguards had come to the
last cabin noticing its door slightly ajar.
Knocking, he announced his intention to enter.
“Mister Orefice, we have many items to discuss
before reaching Cuba.”
It was immediately apparent there was
something wrong. A strong odor hung in the air, almost
like sulfur, but worse. The cabin, at first glance was
apparently empty. On its starboard and port sides,
bookcases held an assortment of electronic gear, fax
machines, books, manuals, newspapers and periodicals.
Recessed lighting in the ceiling had been set at max,
and brightly illuminated the entire room.
A black, leather high-back chair behind a desk
was turned around. Kushima could see a left arm of
someone sitting in it from his angle, but could see no
more of the person occupying the chair’s space.
Walking around the back, he turned the chair
toward him.
George Tollman had been packed in ice in the
states and then shipped to Clark Air Force Base in the
Philippines where he was later transferred to the chair
just after refueling.
His head was decaying faster than his torso.
The sight of the corpse caused the Japanese
executive to step quickly back, his hand reaching for a
handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Both of his
personals immediately drew weapons from their
shoulder holsters.
358
One of the fax machines in a bookcase on the
plane’s starboard side began its warbling sound,
indicating an incoming fax. The three men moved
closer to the sound and the machine.
Coming out, a faxed photo clearly indicated the
sun reflecting off the end of a young Japanese
Lieutenant’s sword as it met the neck of an American
soldier. Written across the bottom of the photo were
seven words,
He rests in peace
You will not
Kushima’s eyes were on fire.
Crumbling the paper and throwing it to the
floor, the CEO began a sprint to the front of the aircraft,
his two men following, weapons still drawn.
Nine hundred feet over the Pacific, the moon’s
reflected light illuminated the calm sea below. An
altimeter in a homing device connected to one of her
chute straps kicked into place, causing the tiny radio to
send out a tracking and positioning signal that agents
on the chase and recon boat would use to locate her, the
pilot and co-pilot when they touched down.
It wasn’t necessary. Their final descent was
being visualized by agents on the boat using highpowered
night scope binoculars. They would be in the
water no longer than two minutes.
As Liz Hendrecks passed through eight
hundred feet, Kushima was just reaching the cockpit
door. To his right, and unknown to him, the timing
device connected to the blasting caps was passing
through its final ten seconds.
Finding the cockpit door locked, the former
Japanese Lieutenant turned to his men glaring. He
was about to issue an order for them to fire into the
door’s handle assembly just as two contacts were
meeting in a small black box that sent a charge of
electricity to two blasting caps. 359
The explosion blew off the refrigerator door,
propelling parts of it through the skin of the aircraft.
All three men were