“Damn it, when did you get here, Ricks?” asked Pegram, finally getting up from the ground. “We haven’t seen anything move in this water all day,” he said.
Ricks gave him a jaunty look. “We got here last night, Major,” he said. “It took us till nearly dawn to get in position, then we wanted to let you guys get a little tired. Right after lunch most of these guys looked like they needed a nap.”
“Shit,” Pegram said, disgusted.
Captain Gregg Chapman was standing on the outside of the wall, leaning against it. He had let Ricks lead this one in. But even he had been only ten feet away when it had all gone down. On top of his hat was a set of weeds and a stick that matched perfectly with the surrounding swamp. “Okay people, let’s get our hostage back to safety. The quicker we get back, the quicker we can crawl out of these suits,” he said. “Let’s do this by the book. Carter, take point. Griffiths, Jones, right and left.” He turned to the Major. “We’ll see you at debriefing, sir.”
Pegram was visibly upset, but he was a professional soldier and that just wouldn’t do. “Carry on Captain,” he said. The two saluted and Special Team Five moved out with their rescued hostage. After they had moved off a few yards Pegram turned to his men, still covered in yellow splotches. “Alright, ladies, this is one we aren’t going to live down. Looks like we need some more training ourselves. Sergeant, pack it up. We move out in five,” he ordered. The Major turned and watched as the team melded into the surrounding swamp. “How the hell did they do that,” he asked himself.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Stark was getting to like the big Oldsmobile. As the Commissary Officer aboard the Kings Mountain he wasn’t really needed for the short trip back to San Diego, so he had been chosen to drive the Admiral’s car back. He was used to a quick little Honda Civic. The big Olds with its 455 cubic inch engine made him feel like he was riding a thoroughbred. Just the slightest tough of the accelerator and the car instantly responded, pressing him firmly back into the bench seat. He had actually spun the rear wheels as he left the parking lot.
Now Stark was a little concerned. He knew what had happened to the Admiral’s wife. About half way back to San Diego he noticed the older white car in his rear view window. It seemed to stay about two cars behind. Every time he passed a car, the other one kept up. One time, he hit the accelerator and made a dash down the road. The other car followed suit. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the San Diego base operator.
“Give me the Naval Investigative Service,” he said quickly. Two rings later he was connected. “This is Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Stark. I’m on Interstate Five heading south nearing San Diego. I’m driving Vice Admiral Hammond’s yellow Oldsmobile back from San Pedro, and I believe I’m being followed.”
The agent didn’t make the connection. “Well, lieutenant, what does that have to do with us?”
Stark actually looked down and stared at the phone with disbelief. Shaking his head, he continued, “Well, considering his wife was one of the people kidnapped in Colombia last night, don’t you think it’s a little strange?”
The agent sat up straight. Until now he hadn’t made the connection. He motioned for others to pick up. “Okay, what makes you think you’re being followed,” he asked.
“There’s a small, older white Nissan that I’ve been watching for the last thirty minutes. He stays about 100 yards or so back. But every time I move, he moves. When I speed up or slow down, he does too. He’s just not acting like the rest of the drivers. With all that’s happened, I thought you might want to know.”
There was another voice on the line. “Lieutenant, this is Agent Carlson. Can you read the plates?”
“No sir, he stays just far back enough that I can’t. I can see that it’s like an older Nissan Altima and there appears to be a dent in his front bumper, like he’s hit a pole or something. I’m driving the admiral’s yellow Oldsmobile convertible. I think he said it was a 1968 model. The base should have the tag number since he has a sticker on the windshield. What should I do?”
Smart kid, Agent Carlson thought. “Alright Lieutenant, here’s what we do. You just keep on driving normal. I want you to come straight back to the base and come through the main gate like there’s nothing wrong. Where did they tell you to take the car?”
“Pier seven is where the Kings Mountain should come back to. I was told to take the car there and wait for the ship,” Stark said.
Thinking quickly, Carlson shook his head. “I have a better idea. There’s a small office building with a big parking lot just inside the gate to the left. I want you to pull around, park the car where it can easily be see from across the train tracks. Then quickly go inside the building. Just wait there until I come get you. You have that?”
“Yes sir,” said Stark.
“Good. We’ll take it from here. If it is someone following you, we’ll take care of it,” Carlson said.
Stark glanced at his watch. “I should be entering the main gate in about 20 minutes.”
“We’ll be waiting. Good job lieutenant,” Carlson said as he hung up the phone. “Okay people, let’s get in some cars. I want to get eyes on this guy in the white Nissan and keep them there. I don’t want him knowing we’re onto him just yet. Let’s give him some rope to hang himself. Get another car in the parking lot outside the gate. He’ll probably park somewhere nearby to keep an eye on the Admiral’s car. We keep our distance and watch. If it’s a false alarm, no harm done. If not, we catch him and find out what he’s up to. Let’s move people.” As half a dozen agents left the office, Carlson picked up the phone and dialed the Secret Service field office.
Juan Ricardo felt out of his league. He had been in the United States with a work visa for the past three years working to promote Venezuelan agricultural products. But his paycheck was for his other job — to gather information on certain aviation activities at several of the bases in Southern California. It was an easy job. With hills surrounding most installations, it was no problem watching any newly developed aircraft, how they handled and what they looked like. Boeing, Northrop-Grumman, General Dynamics, all of them had facilities in the area. He could sit in his car and watch, take photos and pass the word back to his superiors. But following people was not his expertise. His instructions were to follow this man and his car wherever he went and report in. So far, there hadn’t been a problem. The yellow Olds was easy to see and despite some erratic driving, he was able to keep up. His problem would be if the car went inside one of the naval bases. He couldn’t go in there. It meant he would have to wait outside until this guy left. Oh well, this is keeping my family living well, he thought to himself.
As they entered heavier traffic, he got closer to his charge. After a few minutes he watched as the Oldsmobile entered the main gate of the San Diego Naval Base. The car disappeared from his view. He pulled into a parking lot off McCandless Boulevard to wait. Ricardo couldn’t believe his luck when the yellow car pulled into a large parking lot across the highway and parked almost at the fence. He saw the occupant, in his white uniform, get out of the car and go in a small building. Shutting off the engine, he sat back in his seat and relaxed. No problem, he thought to himself.
One row back, a silver Dodge Charger eased into a spot facing the rear of the white Nissan. The darkened windows kept anyone from seeing the two agents inside. They radioed their fellow agents in a blue Ford Mustang sitting just inside the lot. Now they would wait.