First was the proximity to the coast of Venezuela. Second, an old friend was stationed there as commanding officer. Third, when he told Byrnes that Curaçao was the spot he had chosen for some R&R, it at least provided a credible story.
After spending the night on St. Barths, Sandor grabbed the early flight to St. Maarten and made the connection to Curaçao. He didn’t bother to check into a hotel, instead taking a taxi directly to the air base. At the gate he asked for the man in charge.
When the CO got the call that Sandor was at the perimeter checkpoint, he jumped into his Jeep and drove out to meet his former platoon mate.
“Sandor, you old pretender.” Captain Doug Carlton was a tall, muscular black man, with a personality to match his size, a deep voice, and a warm Georgia accent. He turned to the sentry. “Let this boy through,” he ordered.
“Commanding Officer, pretty impressive,” Sandor said as he climbed into the passenger seat of the jeep. “What’s the real deal with getting yourself stationed down here? You working on your tan?”
Carlton laughed. “Glad to see nothing’s changed. You’re still not funny.”
During the short ride back to Carlton’s office they caught up on a lot of names from the past, at the end of which Sandor said, “Bergenn’s on his way here.”
“I know, heard from him yesterday. When does he blow in?”
“Couple of hours. With Craig Raabe. Don’t think you’ve met him.”
Carlton shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He pulled to a stop outside the squat rectangular building that served as headquarters for this small outpost. Before he climbed out he said, “I heard about what happened in Louisiana. That was nice work, guy.”
Sandor shook his head. “Lost some good people there.”
“Always the price we pay,” Carlton said. “Always.”
Inside the air-conditioned office Carlton handed Sandor a Coke. They sat facing each other across the captain’s steel desk.
“So,” Carlton said, “I’ve got these crates with your name on them inside the hangar, left it alone just like Bergenn asked, but I have several questions to go along with the delivery. The first, obviously, is what devilish sort of business brings you to my part of the world?”
“You want this on or off the record?”
Carlton gave him a hard, military stare, then said, “I think we’ve got enough history that I should get it both ways.”
“Fair enough. Officially I’m taking some personal time. Unofficially, I’m going to track down the sonuvabitch responsible for all those deaths we just talked about.”
“I see.”
“Those crates contain the glider you’re going to tow for me.”
Carlton laughed. “We gathered that much, Jordan. You don’t really think we stand out in the sun all day here, do you?”
Sandor smiled. “I’m going to pilot the thing into the jungle in western Venezuela. From there I’m going to hunt the guy down.”
“And you expect me to have my men help assemble that paper airplane and then use one of my aircraft to tow it?”
“I do. And I expect to leave tonight.”
“Which means, all things considered, you’re as crazy as ever.” Carlton nodded slowly. “Can’t wait to hear what Bergenn has to say.”
The captain did not have to wait long. Bergenn and Raabe arrived at the base a couple of hours later. After greetings and introductions were concluded Sandor got down to business.
“Those phone numbers Vauchon and I faxed you last night, were they any help?”
“They certainly were,” Bergenn told him. “We triangulated the various coordinates and pinpointed Adina’s location. It confirmed the intel we had.”
“Hope he’s home when you come calling,” Raabe said.
“Where else would that weasel be hiding?”
“Caracas?”
“No way,” Sandor disagreed. “He’s still got to be lying low. Chavez is not going to risk having Adina seen anywhere near him. Not now, not so soon after the attacks. Chavez talks a big game, but he’s as yellow as Adina. He’s never going to give us an excuse to take his head off.”
“Funny,” Bergenn said, “I thought he already had.”
“I agree,” Carlton chimed in. “The way that bastard talks about our country, I reckon we’ve got reason enough already. I just wish someone’d give the order. Remember, I’m right here, staring across the water at that ugly sumbitch every day.”
Sandor smiled. “You see why I love this guy, Craig?”
“But remember,” Bergenn interrupted, “Craig may be right. Adina might not even be there; that’s the one thing we cannot confirm.”
“So I’ll sit on his porch and wait for him to get home.”
“Jim,” Carlton interrupted again, “you’ve always had more sense than he does. You think this can work?”
Bergenn took a moment before answering. “I’d rather all three of us were going, but Jordan is right. This is a one-man job. All we can do is get him in there, then make sure we get him out when he’s done.” He stopped again. “If anyone can pull this off, Sandor’s the guy.”
Carlton assigned his two mechanics to the detail, not telling them the why or wherefore, only that they were to assist in the assembly of a Schleicher ASG 29 glider.
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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It 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.”