“Thanks, CAG,” Weed replied. He then turned to Mongo and said, “Mongo, why don’t you take a walk?”
“I need his tapes, sir.”
Weed raised his hand. “I’ve got it, Mongo. You can go now.” With a scowl, Mongo followed CAG out the door and closed it.
Wilson spoke first. “Is he really a naval officer?”
“Yep.”
“Could’ve fooled me. I don’t want him flying my jets. I don’t want him to even set foot in my ready room.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
Wilson looked at Weed as if to say Really? Considering what he had seen, Wilson was still skeptical — and worried about the implications for his friend and his country.
“Where do I start?” Wilson asked him.
“Why don’t you let me begin? Do you know how much the cartels make each year on the cocaine trade? Total?”
“A gazillion dollars.”
Chuckling, Weed said, “You know, that’s about right. It’s eighty-six billion a year. Do you know how much of that is overhead?”
“No.”
“One billion. The cartels are making 98.8 % profit, numbers that would make Amazon and Apple blush. And they are using old, beat-up, twin turboprops; cigarette boats; nondescript fishing boats; and, yes, as you saw today, submarines. They have fucking submarines, Flip, not low radar cross-section submersibles. Submersibles are so last century. Their subs can carry 10 tons of product that they take to Mexico where it walks across the border, or they can take it to the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, or even right up to our gulf coast and transfer it to a waiting cabin cruiser offshore. And they ditch the vessels or aircraft, no need to reuse them, and if two out of four shipments are intercepted by law enforcement, they are still making a mint. And that’s just cocaine, not pot, not meth, not heroin. The stuff then gets into the distribution network in the states or Europe, wherever, and it’s no longer the cartels’ problem. They’ve long been paid. That’s all this is, Flip, one big and very well oiled production and distribution machine. You gotta hand it to these guys.”
“They can abandon all that?”
“Hell, Flip, they’ve flown damn airliner packed to the gills into a dirt strip, unloaded it within minutes, and abandoned it to the desert. They don’t need it again. They’ve made their billion off it.”
“So what is this? You guys are going out there, with tipper info from someplace, to find a go-fast and blow it away just like that? And it’s all covert, even as you hide with your bogus cover story in plain sight aboard the ship. Do I have it right?”
Weed’s eyes held no expression as he mulled his answer. “In so many words, yes.”
“Lying to me and everyone else?”
“A bodyguard of lies, Flip. We need to keep this black to deny the enemy any intel for as long as possible as we attrit as many of their on hand transportation assets as possible.”
“Come upon them with no warning? Shoot with live ammo? Shoot survivors? Is this what we’ve come to, Weed? Is this how far we’ve devolved?”
Weed’s face turned dark as he leaned forward in his seat and growled. “Don’t give me your Marquess of Queensberry bullshit! These guys are sending poison into our society each month. It is a fucking deluge and law enforcement can’t handle it. Decades of interdiction have barely made a dent in the trade, and the cartels’ networks are stronger than ever. Dollars are washed with increasing sophistication. Look at Panama! It’s the financial capital of Central and South America, and it ain’t from collecting fees from banana boats going through the canal. If we don’t stop these guys, or at least slow them down, they are going to become a major power right on our front porch. Are we supposed to just watch that happen? Do we have to just sit back and go through the farce of this endless ‘drug war’ while our inner city kids kill each other, generation after generation of them unemployable. The suburban kids grow up wasted and useless, and even the country kids have figured they can make meth themselves and eliminate the middle man. Everyone acts rationally except us, and you want to see no evil?”
“I just saw you commit murder, and you are telling me it is officially sanctioned? Fine, let’s march the cons on death row to the firing squad tomorrow. Let’s send the damn lawyers home if we have no more rules of engagement. I mean… I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, Weed. What have you gotten involved in?”
“What did you see out there? A U.S. Navy warplane catching a smuggler in international waters and taking it out. What is the difference between that and a UAV blowing away a terrorist in any number of sovereign nations? Happens all the time, doesn’t it? How about a sniper defending a company of soldiers. No warning, bang, here comes a Hellfire or a high caliber bullet. Precise and quick. Would you rather we waste the coastal village from where they started? The poor farmers who are growing this stuff and still live in squalor? The bottom line is everyone gets screwed but the kingpins down here and the dealers back home.”
“No survivors! Why? Just tell me why?”
“The gloves are off. It sends a message when Juan and the boys go over the horizon and are never heard from again. Before, the Coast Guard would capture some guys after they tossed everything overboard. They would then do some amount of time, then it’s ‘Back, Jack, do it again.’ I’m thinking, after this month, the recruiting offices will have a tougher time making their quota of mules if the mules know there’s a pretty good chance they’ll disappear forever. That fear is another weapon, asymmetric at that. If those guys want to play without rules, we can do that.”
Wilson was still struggling to understand. “How did you get involved in this?”
Weed’s familiar smile returned.
“After I left the Ravens, I was ‘approached.’”
“Approached? I wasn’t ‘approached.’” Wilson regretted his words, and Weed didn’t disappoint.
“Yes, you, the hero of Yaz Kernoum! Navy Cross, two air-to-air kills — never mind that one of them was mine, you dick. Then, boy-skipper. I guess the CNO aide job took you out of the pool, and they had to approach little-old-me with my measly Silver Star.”
Wilson knew he deserved it and knew Weed had to get this off his chest.
“You know, that Silver Star… people notice it. You are King Kong, instant credibility, but when your freakin’ roommate has a Navy Cross….” Smiling at the incredulity of it, Weed shook his head and exhaled. “I mean, you’re the guy the CNO wants. Everybody wants you on their team. You get command of the Firebirds early; you’re on your way. Me? I’m the perennial second-banana to Flip Wilson, Tonto to Kemosabe. I’m out of the limelight — and that’s why I was approached.”
“Are you still in the Navy?” Wilson asked.
Weed chuckled. “Yes, currently hanging out with Mongo and other fun personalities in a dark cyber-locked dungeon on the Fleet Forces staff. We’re the Atlantic Fleet operational test guys. The land of the misfit toys, I like to call us. We are everyday fleet knuckleheads involved in some programs — so we have cover stories — and we just read you in to one of them.”
“One of them?”
“One of them.”
Wilson pressed him. “You’ve done this before?”