Let the Music Play - 39. Wheels within Wheels

At Edwards Air Force Base, General Bradson stalked around the interior of the corrugated tin hanger, looking at the damaged Beechcraft jet from several angles as he waited for his crash investigator.

The investigator, a young captain by the name of Vargas, drove hell-for-leather across the air base. Getting a direct order from a brigadier general was not an everyday occurrence for most captains and in Vargas’ case, it was a first.

As the Captain dashed into the hanger, finding it lit by bare fluorescent lights, he found his general standing next to the plane’s damaged right engine.

General Bradson had already drawn his own conclusions, but like any good leader, he had decided to allow the Captain to work his way to a similar conclusion. The lesson the general intended to teach: don’t make assumptions.

Not taking his eyes off the damaged engine, General Bradson asked, “I’m trying to understand what happened here. The engine apparently ingested the debris from the window. Speculate on how that occurred.”

Recognizing the last sentence for what it was, an order, Captain Vargas thought for a moment before replying, “Sir, when the bird hit, it could have weakened the windshield enough to allow the cabin air pressure to blow it out. Given the position of the engine, it could be sucked right in.”

Nodding, placing his hand on his chin in a thoughtful pose, the general asked, “And how do we know that a bird strike caused this?”

Beginning to suspect that the general’s questions were leading somewhere, the Captain became more cautious and answered factually, “What appears to be flesh and blood residue was found in the area of the windshield, sir. Samples were taken. I examined one myself; the red blood cells are nucleated, as is bird blood. Most red blood cells, including those found in humans, have no cellular nucleus. However, birds and reptiles do.”

“So too do camels, but I doubt they hit one of those,” the general replied, a little too calmly. “Now, Captain, tell me, at what altitude do most bird strikes occur?”

With his confidence returning, Captain Vargas replied, “Close to the deck, sir, under one thousand feet.”

Walking forward to the nose of the aircraft, General Bradson pointed at the gaping hole in the windshield. “It would have taken a fair amount of cabin pressure to blow the damaged window out, wouldn’t it?”

Captain Vargas instantly realized that the general was leading him to a conclusion, though he had no idea what it was. Looking up at the window, Vargas’ mind suddenly realized the obvious problem. “Sir, if they were at low altitude, there should have been little pressure differential. However, they were well into their departure, and so they might have been closer to cruising altitude, sir.”

The general suppressed a chuckle at being called ‘sir’ twice in rapid succession. That was a sure clue that the Captain was growing unsure, precisely as the general had intended. Giving the Captain a little more rope, General Bradson asked softly, “What is the status of this investigation and how did you intend to proceed?”

Vargas noted the general’s use of the past tense. Wondering if the boom was about to be lowered squarely on his head, he replied, “With the alert activity, my team has been concentrating on readiness procedures and equipment checks, sir. Due to a likely cause having already been established, I was planning to write an interim incident evaluation listing bird-strike as the likely, though unverified, proximate cause.”

General Bradson gave the Captain a wan smile. “That would have suspended the investigation, at least until we stand down from the alert. Given that the passengers reported a suspected link to the event in Australia, I think a little confirmation might be in order. Tell me, Captain, how high do birds fly?”

Angling his head, still not knowing where the general was heading, though now certain that he was heading somewhere, Captain Vargas answered, “Sir, I believe the record for the highest-flying bird was a vulture, about forty years ago. It was ingested by a jet engine at over thirty-seven thousand feet above West Africa. It is theorized that the bird was at that altitude due to the updrafts in a thunderstorm that was reported in the area.”

Nodding, concealing the fact that he hadn’t known that – had he known, he admitted to himself, he might not have become suspicious of the bird-strike theory – General Bradson replied, “I doubt we have any African Vultures around here and there were no storms. Given the geographic area and the extent of the damage, what species are most likely?”

“Canada goose or a maybe a Condor would be my guess, sir. Whatever this was must have been fairly big. I took samples; we can send them out for a DNA check. The goose has been recorded up to nine thousand feet and the California Condor at up to fifteen thousand.”

Those facts the general had known, so he nodded and asked, “Would it therefore be prudent to quickly check the radar traces to determine the aircraft’s altitude at the time of impact?”

Feeling a sudden chill race down his spine, Captain Vargas replied, “Yes, sir. We can do that in the tower or the main control room–”

Gently lowering the boom, General Bradson interrupted to say, “I already have, Captain. The altitude was well over twenty thousand feet when they began their initial dive. Now, you and I have a long night ahead of us. You are going to either confirm, or refute, this bird-strike theory. What will be your first step?”

Relieved that the general had not taken his head, Vargas replied, “Sir, I can examine the samples and also the aircraft, starting at the impact area. We have a spectroscope, so I’ll run the samples first as they will take some time to process. While we wait I will examine the aircraft.”

The Captain rustled up the base lab tech and handed her a sample taken from the nose of the plane. He then procured a ladder and began examining the nose of the aircraft as the general watched.

Under magnification, the Captain was shocked to see micro-pitting on the center pylon. Micro-pitting is most commonly caused by tiny fragments traveling at a high rate of speed and as such is a telltale sign of high explosive. Upon reporting this to the general and securing a segment to send to the lab for confirmation, the preliminary spectography report arrived via the hanger’s phone.

Turning to face the general, who he’d already told of the micro-pitting, Captain Vargas said, “Sir, the spectography reports are consistent with bird tissue, but there were also traces of nitrates consistent with explosive residue and also vegetable glycerin. The lab guys looked it up and said one use of vegetable glycerin is as an inert compound used in, amongst other things, some kinds of fresh-poultry disinfectant.”

What had begun as the general’s curiosity and had transformed into a learning exercise suddenly took a very different turn as General Bradson said, “So, we have a business jet encountering a bird at over twenty thousand feet, but initial data indicate that it may have been a plucked chicken ready for the stewing pot? It might also have been wearing a bomb belt, I suppose?”

“Sir, the metallurgical analysis will take time, as will the full spectography and DNA report. If I were to play devil’s advocate, I would say that we could have sample contamination. The explosive residue could be from the missiles – I read the intercept report, sir. One of our missiles could have proximity-detonated near the aircraft, in front of it, and then the aircraft flew through the residue… I’d expect to see shrapnel damage if that was the case. The micro-pitting should not occur unless there was a very close near-miss and the passenger who landed the plane didn’t mention a missile going off in his face but it is possible, sir,” Vargas replied, not believing it himself, but procedure demanded that he look at all possibilities.

Having made his point, as well as having reopened the investigation, General Bradson turned to leave, saying over his shoulder as he strolled towards the hanger door, “I’ll expect a full report as soon as the lab results come in. You will look at every possibility, Captain. I want every aspect chased down before I fly out to re-interview those passengers.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Vargas replied as the general left the hanger, relieved to have gotten off so easily.

General Bradson strolled back towards his office. On the way, he made a short detour to retrieve Chase’s GPS, intending to see what it contained.

The next morning, Brandon began to stir, opening his eyes, not knowing at first where he was. The familiar, comforting feel of Chase by his side dulled his awareness for a few moments, until the memories of the previous day came flooding back. Shuddering, hoping it had all been a dream, Brandon glanced around the small room; log walls, a fireplace, and a window looking out at the sunrise over the mountains. With a groggy realization that if he was in Telluride–

“You’re awake,” Chase mumbled from Brandon’s side, reaching over to pull Brandon into a hug.

“I’m hoping you’ll tell me that what happened yesterday didn’t happen,” Brandon said, returning the gentle sideways hug.

Chase absently traced his fingers through Brandon’s hair. “I wish I could, Brand. I want it to be just a nightmare, too. I keep thinking of the pilot. He’s dead and we never even knew his name… You saved us all; you know that, don’t you?”

Brandon trembled slightly as he replied, “It was damn close. If we hadn’t gotten through on the phones, I was going to try and set us down in Las Vegas. We wouldn’t have made it.”

Chase raised himself on an elbow. Locking eyes with Brandon he said, “I know what you tried to do; keeping me out of the cockpit so I’d be safer. I appreciate it, but my place is by your side, no matter what.”

Reaching out to touch the tiger’s eye pendant ­– the only thing Chase was wearing – Brandon let the backs of his fingers graze Chase’s chest as he replied, “I know, and my place is by your side.” The fiery tiger’s eye pendant, along with the recollection of the horrific event in the stone’s country of origin, evoked another memory from Brandon. “What happened in Australia… all those people, gone or dying. If Jerry’s connected to that, and I think he is, we’ve got to make the Air Force, or somebody, believe us.”

Nodding his agreement, Chase climbed out of bed, and in deference to the chilly air, pulled on his clothes. As soon as Brandon was dressed, they padded out into the house’s main room.

The small main room, decorated in a rustic style and heated by a pot-belly stove, was where Jon and Eric slept, each on a couch. Helen had taken the master bedroom and she, hearing Brandon and Chases’ door creak open, walked out to join them.

Keeping her voice low to avoid waking Eric and Jon, Helen said, “I still can’t reach Günter. I’m really worried, it isn’t like him to switch off his phone and just disappear. Barbra is on her way to a police station, but I doubt they will do much because he hasn’t been gone long. I tracked down his neighbor and he said Günter wasn’t at his house last night. I called Joe and the customs agent, no luck there either. I don’t know what else to do, other than hire a private investigator.”

Unsettled by the news regarding Günter and wondering what it meant, Chase said, “The investigator sounds like a good idea.”

Helen nodded, “I’ll call in an hour or so; it’s still too early for most offices to be open in L.A.”

Concerned about their safety in light of all that had occurred, Brandon asked, “Where’s Jim?”

Helen smiled wanly and angled her head towards the south, “He’s in the next house down the road, just a couple of hundred yards away. He’s there with three of his bikers, on the lookout for paparazzi. I filled him in on what happened. He’s in Telluride right now, getting us some breakfast and groceries.”

“Breakfast sounds good,” Eric said, raising himself up on one arm to peer sleepily over the back of the sofa at Helen.

Eric, wearing just a thin pair of cotton boxers, shivered from the chill air as he padded towards the bathroom.

A soft tap on the home’s old oak door made Brandon jump. Helen walked over to peer out a sidelight before opening the door. Jim, carrying grocery bags along with paper to-go packages from a Telluride Mexican restaurant, walked in and said with a one-armed shrug, “There aren’t any fast-food places in town. They don’t allow chain restaurants so I ordered breakfast burritos and huevos rancheros at the Mexican place.”

“Grab a chair and join us,” Helen said, happy to see him.

The big biker eased himself into an old wooden chair in the country kitchen. Eric returned from the bathroom, pulled on some clothes, and made a beeline for the food. “Hi, Jim,” Eric said, his voice lacking its normal enthusiasm.

Brandon took a chair beside Jim and exchanged a nod with his old friend.

Jon staggered to the table, still half asleep, and Helen took a seat.

Getting down to business as he helped himself to some of the food, Jim said, “Because of what happened to y'all yesterday and the thought that it was no accident along with Günter disappearing – I took the liberty of making a few phone calls on my way to town. I figured it might be a good idea to have a few extra guys around. A buddy of mine has a club down in Durango. He’s riding up this morning, with a few friends, and they should be here by lunchtime. I’ve got another crew coming in from Albuquerque and they should be here by tonight. There’s a big barn out back of the ranch house you rented for us, so they’ll be bunking there with some camping gear they’re bringing.”

Brandon knew a little more about Jim and biker clubs than his band mates or Helen did, so he arched an eyebrow and asked with an approving smile, “That sounds like quite a convocation; how many?”

Jim stretched and then replied, “About twenty hogs altogether, but some of the guys will be bringing their women, so somewheres just south of forty. We’re gonna keep a good eye on you guys.” Jim looked at Brandon and added in a slightly lower voice, “I heard what you did yesterday. Way to go, dude.”

Uncomfortable with the praise, but knowing Jim well enough to know he wouldn’t let it drop, Brandon gave in and said, “Thanks. I just wish the pilot had survived. We had a lot of luck on our side, too.”

Not wanting to make his friend uncomfortable, Jim changed the subject by saying, “I brought along a couple of low-light binoculars, so when the guys get here we’ll have a watch posted around the clock until this mess is straightened out. Any news from the air scouts?” Jim asked, referring to the Air Force.

Helen shook her head. “Not a word since we left and they haven’t returned my calls. I’m going to hire a private investigator.” To the four members of Instinct, she said, “When you boys told me what you suspected with Jerry, I had my doubts, but no longer. We’ll get to the bottom of this – I promise!”

“Jerry?” Jim asked, arching an eyebrow “Is there anything I need to know?”

Eric nodded and said, “Yeah, I think you’ve met him. He was handling our shipping and then filled in when our road boss quit. When we were in Australia, we got suspicious of him and Brandon taped Chase’s GPS to his Land Rover. When we got it back, we had a record of where he’d been going. The place he spent the most time turns out to be ground zero for that nuclear explosion. We gave the GPS to the Air Force. And Jerry’s son thinks the guy might be an arms dealer.”

Jim whistled softly before saying, “I think you guys just might have stumbled into something bad here. I hope you kept a copy of that GPS data?”

Brandon nodded, “Yeah, I downloaded it into Chase’s computer while we were in Australia.”

“Make a backup,” Jim said at once. “You might need it. Police investigations usually follow the path of least resistance; if they think they have the cause, that’s the theory they’ll pursue. I’m guessing that the Air Force might work the same way; they’ll have blinders on. I guess I better go and get things ready for the guys coming in. I’ll also rustle up a few guns to bring over. You can practice with ‘em out back; you’ve got plenty of land. Don’t worry, you’ll all be okay; we’ll keep a lookout and you’ll have your own private army right next door.”

As soon as Jim left, an awkward silence descended for a few moments. The food was devoured, even though it was tasteless in the Telluride dawn. They were all still rattled by the events of the previous day. Jon wondered how things could get any worse; he had been sure they’d all die, yet here they were, in the mountains, safe, while the pilot was dead. He didn’t believe it was a bird-strike, nor did anyone else at the table.

With breakfast over, Eric began putting the groceries away. Helen walked out into the main room, settling into an armchair as she phoned Barbra. Learning nothing new, Helen asked for an investigator’s number from her office files.

Half an hour later, after a long phone conversation, Helen returned to the kitchen table to say; “We’ve got ourselves a PI and he comes highly recommended. He’s going to try to find Günter first. Once that’s done, he’s going to start looking into Jerry. If the Air Force doesn’t come up with something soon, he’s going to work with the air charter company and bring in a forensics expert and a crash investigator. Another angle he’ll look into is our old road boss; he’s going to find him and ask if he noted anything suspicious. He’s also going to check with the road crew.”

“What about your trip to Italy,” Chase asked.

Helen shook her head. “Canceled. I certainly wouldn’t want to leave with all this going on. We also have a minor concern in another way; Barbra told me that the photos of us landing at Telluride in an Air Force jet are all over the place, along with some unconfirmed reports that our plane made an emergency landing at Edwards. My guess is someone on the base or in air traffic control leaked it to the press, but no matter how they found out, they know some of it. Sooner or later we’ll have to hold a press conference and announce what happened, but for now we can let it lay.”

Brandon angled his head slightly, his eyes defocusing for a moment as he had an idea. “Helen, we should delay any press conference. If the Air Force doesn’t investigate, we can tell the press the whole story, along with our suspicions. That should get some action.”

Nodding, Helen agreed. Always the teacher, she was also happy that Brandon was displaying some savvy. “It might come to that, good point. What we can’t do is name Jerry publicly; that could open us up to a slander suit. I’ll check, but I think that if we just list our suspicions and mention his involvement in the shipping and as road boss, we should be in the clear.”

In Los Angeles, Mario waited impatiently in the arrival lounge. He’d never met Dimitri in person so they’d arranged a recognition signal; Mario had an empty water bottle in his hand, held upside down.

Mario saw a tired-but-formidable looking man appear through the arrival doors. He approached and said casually, “Hello, Charles, good to see you again.” That was the expected phrase and Mario replied as planned, “Indeed, it is good to see you, Edward.”

Dimitri was traveling light; just his hand baggage, so he followed Mario to the car park. Midway through the garage’s fourth floor, Mario said, “I have a place for us to stay.”

Shaking his head, Dimitri replied, “We will be staying elsewhere. I have equipment that we may need.”

Dimitri, relying on memorized directions, told Mario which turns to make as they motored towards the Pacific Palisades area of Los Angeles. In an hour, they arrived in front of The Scar’s home and Dimitri told Mario to park in the driveway. Dimitri had never been there before, but ever cautious, he pretended as though he had.

Using the keys he’d been handed in Auckland, Dimitri let them in and de-activated the alarm.

The Scar had reservations about letting Mario see his house, but practical necessity had taken precedence over security; Dimitri would need weapons and equipment. In any case, The Scar had reasoned, his identity was not a critical secret at this point – only the location of the remaining nuclear devices was. Mario had no knowledge that Dimitri and The Scar were involved with the nuclear event in Australia and they had no intention whatsoever of telling him.

Once they were inside with the door locked, Dimitri got right to the point, “What have you learned?”

Taking a seat in the living room, Mario replied with an expansive gesture, “I am not certain what went wrong. However, there are stories in the media about an emergency landing at Edwards Air Force Base, which is a couple of hours inland from here. There are also photos of the band and their manager arriving in Telluride on an Air Force jet.”

Taking a seat himself, Dimitri said, “What went wrong is not important. Terminating them is. We need to do this clean and fast. Have you ascertained their location?”

Mario shrugged. “Not exactly. I have checked the property records for San Miguel County, where Telluride is located. I searched on owner’s names, for Carlisle – the surname of three of the band members – and checked each result. One, a ranch property northwest of Telluride, matched their names. I am assuming that is where they are, but I haven’t been able to verify it. I do have an address; it is on a dirt road. The property is forty acres in size and appears fairly remote.”

Dimitri nodded in satisfaction at the news and thought for a moment before saying, “Yes, a remote area would be ideal. Perhaps we can bundle them all into a car and push it off a cliff, or perhaps a fire from a propane leak or carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty kerosene heater. We may be able to make it look like an accident yet, but if not, the overriding concern of our employer is that they die. Once they are dead, you will be paid the prior agreed sum.”

Thinking that over for a few moments, Mario considered asking for more, but a second glance at the man before him made him decide that antagonizing him might be an unhealthy option. “Yes, that will be acceptable. I have booked us a flight in the morning.”

With a quick shake of his head, Dimitri replied, “We will be taking weapons so we cannot fly. There are two vehicles here; a landscaper’s truck and a Chevy Suburban. The Suburban will fit on a trailer that is also here. We will leave in a few hours. You can drive the first leg while I sleep. Follow me; we have much work to do.”

Remembering The Scar’s instructions, Dimitri stopped by the garage to pick up a hammer. He then led Mario down the home’s lavish hallway to the master bedroom. With a grunt, he shoved the bed aside, and where the headboard had once been he began striking the plasterboard.

After knocking holes in the plasterboard and loosening it, Dimitri grabbed a ragged edge and pulled, exposing the weapons cache. Ever mindful of risks, The Scar had only hidden a few weapons; four AK-47’s, a bolt-action Mauser 30-06 with a sniper scope, and several Makarov nine-millimeter handguns. Beside them was an army-surplus ammo can, containing several hundred rounds for the AK’s, two hundred rounds for the handguns, and fifty rounds for the Mouser. In one can, at the bottom, Dimitri found something that made him smile; a box of four MK3A2 hand grenades.

Scooping up the weapons, Dimitri carried them to the garage. Using the gun-cleaning kits contained in the stocks of the AK-47’s, Dimitri worked, with Mario helping, on the weapons. First, he field-stripped them and then with meticulous care cleaned every part before reassembling the weapons one by one. When he was done, he loaded them all.

A few miles to the north, in Van Nuys, a group of teenagers was dumpster-diving: searching for anything useful that the medical offices might have thrown out. Information was their primary objective; credit-card slips could be sold for use in identity-theft. They’d only been looking for a few minutes when one of them bumped into a heavy mass under some paper. Pulling the garbage aside, he found what at first he thought was a mannequin. A glance at Günter’s face, and then a look down at the blood on his chest, dispelled that notion.

Recovering quickly from the shock, the teens had a fast but heated discussion about what to do. Fearful of being blamed for the murder themselves if they just left ­– they knew that their fingerprints and DNA were all over the dumpster – the decision was quickly reached and one of the teens flipped open his cell phone to call the police.

The police arrived ten minutes later, finding a body with nothing in its pockets. Robbery was the immediate theory. After a cursory questioning, and a warning to stay out of dumpsters, the teens were sent on their way. Shortly thereafter, the body was on its way to the coroner’s office. In a city that averaged well over a murder a day, no great import was placed on the discovery.

Brandon stood with Chase just a few yards from the back door of the house as Jim set up soda cans as targets, lining them up in the grass forty feet away. Eric and Jon came out to join them, a look of grim resolve on all their faces.

Upon finding out that none of the guys had much experience with guns – all had been shooting before, but not recently and never to any degree of skill or training – Jim had decided on 12-gauge pump-loading shotguns. After a quick trip to the local gun store, he’d returned with the five guns and several boxes of ammo. He’d also purchased ear protectors, and ordered the guys to put them on.

Finishing up one of her many phone calls, Helen came out to join them. For the next hour, under Jim’s watchful eye and careful instruction, Instinct and Helen learned how to use the shotguns. Jim had chosen well; ideal for close-quarters self-defense, shotguns also required the least amount of skill in such a role.

With Brandon standing close by, Jim instructed Chase on the use of the shotgun. “Okay, you’ve got a good grip on it, too good. Relax a little. Just look down the sights, line up on target, and gently squeeze the trigger.”

A muffled click announced Chase’s first try at firing. There was no round in the chamber. Jim nodded. “Okay, let’s try it for real. Chamber a round.”

Sliding the forestock back and then forward, Chase chambered a round with a metallic thunk. Jim said, “Okay, make sure the stock is firmly against your shoulder, aim, and fire.” Sighting carefully down the ribbed sight, Chase lined up on his intended victim; a twelve-ounce can of Coke. Squeezing the trigger back slowly, he felt the gun jolt back and kick up a few degrees at the same time as the thunderous roar assaulted his protected ears.

A cloud of dust roiled in the mountain breeze, momentarily obscuring the target. When it cleared, they saw the soda can lying in its side, gushing foam from several small holes. Trying to build confidence, Jim put as good a spin on it as he could. “Pretty good, but you pulled to the right when you squeezed the trigger so you hit close. The can caught a few pieces of shot from the edge of the pattern. They say ‘close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades’ but I think we can add shotguns to that short list. Okay, chamber another and try again.”

Chase pumped the shotgun, ejecting the spent shell and sending it twirling through the air as he loaded another. He paused to rub his shoulder for a second, deciding that the gun had a decent kick. He’d fired small-caliber rifles before, but nothing with a kick like a 12-gauge.

Leaving Chase to practice, Jim walked to the next in line, Brandon, and got him started. Within five minutes, all five shotguns were barking. Soon, there was little left of the soda cans save for damp, shredded aluminum. They continued practicing for half an hour, working their way through two hundred rounds of ammunition.

After they were done, and with ringing ears in spite of the ear protectors, Helen told them, “I’ve talked with the local sheriff’s department. I had a hard time making them believe me about the jet, but they promised to keep an eye out for trouble. They say there’s not much else they can do.”

Jim nodded, “I figured as much. We’re pretty far out here and we don’t have an easily provable threat. However, my boys have settled in next door.” As if on cue, a muttering rumble echoed across the two hundred yards separating Instinct’s house from the neighboring Jellico Ranch, which they’d rented for Jim and his bikers. Neither of the properties were true ranches; they had been at one time, until the land had been parceled off and sold. The roar increased, as a dozen Harley-Davidsons revved their engines.

Listening to the sweet music of the motorcycle engines, Jim said, “That’s just some of our guys heading into town for some groceries and supplies, and probably to visit a few bars as well. No more than a third of us will leave at any time. We’re all well-armed and many of us are ex-military, so we’ve got your back, always.”

No mention of money had occurred, but the four members of Instinct each decided that their new biker friends would be well paid for their efforts. As soon as Jim had left, Jon glanced at his band mates and said, “We need to do something for those guys and we should do it soon.” Seeing three nods of approval, Jon turned to Helen to say, “Please phone the local bank and arrange a cash withdrawal, say a hundred grand if they can get it here by tomorrow.”

It was a testament to the desperation they all felt that Helen didn’t even blink at the request. She found herself agreeing completely and snapped open her phone to make the call as she walked back into the house.

In Asunción, Paraguay, The Scar strode into a small restaurant, one that had been closed to the public at his request. Inside were the dozens of contacts he’d cultivated, often using large quantities of cash. With a smile on his face, he chuckled to himself at the exorbitant price the restaurateur had asked for this evening’s exclusivity and food. The Scar hadn’t minded at all; half an hour before, he’d just confirmed the receipt of twenty billion dollars in his Swiss account, so he figured he could afford it.

This meeting had been one he’d long looked forward to; everything was coming together. He surveyed the room, looking at the men who would work their own web of contacts, offering the senior generals fifty million dollars apiece and working his way on down the chain of command down to captains, who would receive a million each.

The Americans would back his play, that he knew, and they had already indicated that they would. He’d played on their fears; faced with a threat that they could not locate or retaliate against, the American strategists had been the first in their government to see the benefit in doing as he asked. Once he had Paraguay, he’d have far less leverage against them, because he would have a power base they could attack if need be. They were, in effect, trading a gun to their heads for a nuclear standoff. He’d known they would see it that way, which was the idea at the very core of his plan; make the United States see that their best interests lay in aiding his endeavor. He didn’t believe he’d need their active assistance; just a few official whispers in the right ears, totally deniable of course, but it would help.

With a broad grin, The Scar announced, “Gentlemen, I now have both the funds and powerful international backing. Tonight, I will give each of you five million dollars as a sign of my good faith. It is time to put the plan into effect. Onwards, to Victory!”

© 2008 C James

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Many thanks to my editor EMoe for editing and for his support, encouragement, beta reading, and suggestions.

Thanks also to Shadowgod, for beta reading, support and advice, and for putting up with me.

A big "thank you" to to Bondwriter for final Zeta-reading and advice, and to Captain Rick for Beta-reading and advice.

Special thanks to Graeme, for beta-reading and advice.

Any remaining errors are mine alone.