Every two months Caldera would make clandestine trips to Texas, meeting with his contacts, and always crossing the border with one or two bodyguards during the dead of night. His biggest mistake, and eventually his downfall, was killing a DEA agent.
He’d been on the run and in hiding for almost six months. The killing of the agent put him on the Most Wanted list. The CIA and the NSA started “listening.” Their break came when they picked up a conversation between Caldera and Sentiva, pinpointing Caldera’s location in the town of Amparo.
Grant Stevens and his new team of covert operators were sent in. They found Caldera, then all they had to do was deliver him to agents waiting in Virginia.
Without taking his eyes from the stocky-framed Caldera, Grant said to Adler, “Joe, get rid of the tape.”
Adler had his fingers on the edge of the tape, just as Novak leaned over the back of Caldera’s seat.
Novak swiveled his head, sniffing the air. “I’m beginning to detect a slight odor in here.”
“I smell something, too.” Diaz squeezed his nostrils as he stood in the aisle. “Damn!”
“You’re both right,” piped up James, as he pointed toward Caldera’s pants. “Say… you aren’t sportin’ any ‘skid-marks’ in those skivvies of yours, are you?” The term referred to streaks of poop.
Caldera was too freaked out to respond to the question, or he just didn't understand.
“Okay, guys,” Adler said. “We get the picture.” The three men laughed as they sat down. Adler motioned toward the galley. “Get everyone something to drink, Doc.”
Stalley got up. “Even him?” he asked, tilting his head toward Caldera.
“Yeah. Even him.”
Adler finally pulled off the tape. Caldera winced, then immediately rubbed his bound, dirty hands across his mouth. Taking in short, quick breaths, his dark brown eyes went from man to man before settling them back on Grant.
Caldera started calming down, finally getting his wits about him. He began to return to the conniving, masterful drug dealer he was. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes focused on Grant’s. “I’ve got money in a U.S. bank. More than enough for you and your men. If… ”
“Look!” Grant shot back. “We don’t give a ‘flying fart’ about how much ‘dirty’ money you’ve got. We just came to pick you up. So I’d suggest you sit back and enjoy the ride. The last thing I wanna do is hurt you.” The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up, as he added, “But it’s still high on my list.”
Doc Stalley stood next to the aisle seat, holding a small bottle of orange juice, offering it to the drug dealer. Caldera didn’t even look up as he swung his bound arms against Stalley’s hand.
Novak reached over the seat, and roughly yanked Caldera back, as he warned, “We’ve been known to hit back — and mighty hard. So I’d watch my manners if I were you.”
Grant loosened his seat belt, and rested his arms on his knees. He and Adler locked eyes, giving a short nod of approval to each other.
The two of them made good choices when they selected these men. Each had been hard-core SEALs, “snake-eaters.” They were dedicated, willing to sacrifice everything for their team members, for their country.
Exhaling long, slow breaths, the men glanced at each other with relief on their faces. After five days, they could finally relax. They completed their first mission as a team: Cal “Doc” Stalley, corpsman; Mike Novak, sniper; Ken Slade, pointman/navigator; Darius “DJ” James, communications; Frank Diaz, EOD.
When the aircraft reached cruising altitude, Grant took one more drink of juice, then rested his head against the backrest. Giving Caldera one last look, he finally closed his eyes.
His thoughts drifted back to the day his new life, his new “career” began, when four very wealthy men came into his life, extending to him an intriguing proposition. Equipment, transportation, salaries, money in offshore accounts. Every mission would be sanctioned by the President of the United States. All that was requested of him? Organize a team.
Nicaragua had been their first mission, a very successful mission. For seven men — all former Navy SEALs — this was just the beginning.
Grant smiled to himself. Team Alpha Tango had become a reality.
Chapter 2
Two miles off the East Coast of China, with the lights of Shanghai bright on the horizon, six men, dressed in wetsuits, paddled a Zodiac silently, positioning it between two islands.
Using NVGs and Starlighters, they confirmed the area was clear. The coxswain raised the engine’s props out of the water, as the six others continued paddling toward the smaller island. Their route was along a desolate, narrow inlet, formed by high ridges on either side.
Entering shallow water, the seven men eased themselves off the gunnel. Grabbing hold of the rope circling the boat, they lifted it, then splashed through the shallow water. They hurried farther off the beach until they had some cover behind low dunes and shrubs. The straps of their rifles were slung over their heads, keeping their weapons close to their chests. The weapons were cocked and ready.
There they’d remain hidden for two more hours. Then it would be time to head toward their ultimate destination. A ten minute window was established for the intended “package” to signal it was safe to make the extraction. Without that signal, and not within the allotted time, the mission would be scrubbed, and the men aboard the Zodiac would head back to international waters.
Lifting the Zodiac, the men carried it down the sandy embankment. Their wetsuit booties splashed the water as they shoved off from shore. Then one by one they climbed into the rubber boat and straddled the gunnel. Picking up paddles laying in the bottom, the six men started stroking in unison. The coxswain lowered the engine slowly until the screws disappeared underwater. With one hand wrapped around the tiller, he rested the other on the gunnel.
When they were finally within sight of land, the men aboard the Zodiac slowed their pace. They maneuvered the rubber boat, keeping it within the designated coordinates. It was nearly time.
Keeping their eyes focused toward the shore, they finally spotted a small light flashing International Morse Code, signaling the code word: STAR. There wouldn’t be any response from them, no further signal from the man on shore.
Without any hesitation, the men started paddling, leaning as far forward as possible, making themselves less noticeable, smaller targets.
Coming into view was a long pier, jutting out into the sea at least two hundred feet. According to the operative, the pier was used by fishermen, and only during daylight hours. The area surrounding it was remote.
Slowing their strokes, they stayed perfectly on course, perfectly on time. One of the men toward the bow lifted a Starlighter, aiming it toward the pier. He finally spotted their “package.”
The man was stretch out on his stomach near the edge of the pier, ten feet from the end. He raised his head just enough to be able to look for any sign of the Americans.
Suddenly, a rubber boat seemed to come out of nowhere. He was surprised at how quietly it moved across the water. Men aboard were stroking with paddles, hardly making any sound, hardly disturbing the water.
The man put the flashlight in his burlap sack, then drew the string tightly around it. Glancing down at the water, he was grateful he wouldn’t have far to jump, since it was high tide.
“Clear,” the wetsuited figure at the bow whispered to the team. He stashed the scope in a rucksack, then moved to midships. Kneeling in the bottom of the Zodiac, he balanced himself as the boat floated closer to the pier.