Inside the car, Parente continued his narrative on how he was to gain political control of the United States, then work his way down the isthmus and back into South America. In his mind, there was nothing to stand in his way.
“Most nations are politically weak. They lack real leadership,” he said to Rojas. “Look at the United States. Their president lets the people in congress push him around. He can’t make a decision without working to have a clear majority, both in their congress and in public opinion. A true leader may take suggestions, but he makes decisions. Once the decision is made it must be up to the rest to get in line to make things happen. This is what we have in Venezuela. I listen to what our parliament says is a problem and the suggestions they have on its outcome and then I make the executive decision on the best way to go. Once that decision is made, the parliament decides on how to make the decision work. I say what must be done and then it simply happens. You see how that differs greatly from these other so called democratic governments? It is much more efficient,” he said taking a drink from his chilled bottled water.
Rojas sat and took it all in. Until now he had not realized just how bad the government had gotten in Venezuela. Only people like Hitler and Stalin had wielded such power. The more he listened, the more he knew he must escape the situation. But how could he do it? Rojas was sure he was being watched and he knew the security forces in the capital were far reaching. From this point he knew he must look for every opportunity so that when the time came, he could jump.
As Parente rattled on, the car drove through the hills until turning on a gravel road that led to a small fortress like encampment. “Ah, we are here,” said Parente.
A small opening on the large wooden set of doors opened and a squad of men in black uniforms quickly formed a line. Standing in front of the men was the sergeant. He saluted as Parente exited the car and stepped forward. “We have been successful, Señor Presidente,” the sergeant stated formally.
Parente returned the sergeant’s salute and then shook his hand. “Very well done. Very well done, indeed!” said Parente. “Where are the prisoners?”
“They are under guard in our small stockade, Señor Presidente. So far they have posed few problems.”
“Excellent. As we walk, tell be about your operation,” Parente said as he began walking toward the door. The sergeant fell in step, providing every detail of the raid the night before and his instructions to his people regarding their prisoners. As he finished his report he asked, “What shall be done with the prisoners, Señor Presidente? I ask only because that will govern how we shall ultimately treat them.”
Parente thought a moment. “Actually sergeant, if everything goes to plan will be to eventually let them go, but plans change. I believe we can say that their fate is in the hands of the Americans. You will receive word on their outcome later.”
From inside the cell, the mayors could hear the conversation, but only a few could understand it. Mitchell seemed most excited. “You hear what he’s saying?” he asked Patricia.
“I heard him. Is that Parente? He keeps calling the man El Presidente,” she said in a whisper.
“A couple of you guys help me take a look,” Mitchell said.
Two of the younger men helped lift Mitchell up to one of the openings and he peered outside.
Parente was giving some instructions when he noticed the face at the opening. “There is someone watching us. Who is it?” he asked sternly in a hushed tone.
The sergeant turned and caught a glimpse before the face disappeared from sight. “I know which one, Señor Presidente. He is the one complaining about his heart medicines. Should I bring him before you?”
Parente grinned and spoke softly. “No. Treat them well for a time and let them think we do not know. There will be a ceremony in two days. Have him ready,” he said to the man.
The sergeant smiled broadly. “It shall be done,” he said.
“I asked to meet with you this afternoon to help me think through some things. Normally I have my staff to do it, but today you will have that task,” said Hammond before the fourteen officers seated around the wardroom table. He had already come to some conclusions about the abduction, but he wanted to make sure that they made sense. After all, with Patricia one of the victims, he needed to make sure he was thinking through the problem in an unbiased way. “Since Captain Davis kindly offered you up as guinea pigs, I thought I would take advantage of your minds,” he said with a grin.
The men and women around the table returned the smile and seemed to relax a bit. Hammond took his seat at the head of the table. Davis was to his right. The XO, Commander Pat Schuetz, was on the left. The rest were a mix of younger eyes watching him from around the table; some eager and some wary of the task ahead. Hammond plowed on.
“You all know the situation from last night. We have the following information…” he said as he quickly laid out the facts as they were known. Fortunately, his staff had forwarded a briefing via email and his Chief of Staff had talked over the secure phone. He knew all they had. “Now where do we go from here?” Hammond asked finally.
“If a truck matching the description was seen going into Venezuela, I’d start there,” said a lieutenant sitting down the table. “Do you think this is a government thing, or is this some terrorist faction?”
“We don’t know as yet,” Hammond said.
At the end of the table someone was typing furiously into a laptop. After some additional arguments she chimed in. “There’s only one terrorist group that might pose a threat in the area. They’re called the FARC. But according to this, they have become a fairly mainstream political organization. Their terrorist activities stopped a good five years ago,” she said pointing to the laptop screen. “They operate mostly out of Colombia, but have crossed the borders on numerous occasions.”
“Could someone from another of the South American countries do this?” asked an ensign at the end of the table.
“I doubt it,” said Schuetz. He had majored in international studies with an emphasis on Latin America. “The distances are pretty big around there. You have Guyana on one side of Venezuela, Brazil down south and Peru and Ecuador on the other side of Colombia. It’s around a thousand miles to any of these borders, and their roads aren’t much more than dirt strips.”
“How bad would it be to transport all fourteen of these people over a long distance?” asked a lieutenant junior grade.
There was a chuckle from another lieutenant. “You ever tried to lift a drunk?” he asked. “It’s worse than lifting bags of cement. Then you get them in a vehicle, and they just bounce around. I assume they aren’t trying to kill these people, so you have to worry about getting too bumpy with them. Since it sounds like they were drugged, you also have to worry about them waking up. So they can’t be on the road that long.”
The arguments went back and forth. Some thought it was terrorists, some thought governments, and some simply argued about how it could have been done in any case. At the end of the table one young man sat quietly the whole time, listening carefully. Hammond noticed the look on the young man’s face and recognized something. He was thinking the problem, not arguing, but putting pieces together. The argument had come to the possibility of the Colombian government actually doing it when he sat up and spoke.
“We’re going the wrong way,” the young officer finally said. The people around the table got quiet.