She laughed, pointed a finger accusingly at Hardcastle, and replied, “All I can say is, Admiral, that if you plan on doing only half the things to Henri Cazaux that you did to the Haitian, Bahamian, and Colombian governments while you were with the Hammerheads, Cazaux is in big, big trouble.”
Fallon Naval Air Station, Nevada
Three Days Later
Before any aircraft carrier air wing begins a cruise, its crews must certify to the carrier air group commander that they are fully qualified and ready to perform their assigned duties. For Navy and Marine Corps strike units in the western half of the United States, that means a trip to Navy Fallon in northern Nevada for a very intensive two-month training and evaluation course on aerial gunnery, bombardment, and missile tactics. With thousands of square miles of ranges spread out over three counties, mostly desolate hills and dry lake beds, hundreds of men (and now women) per year streak over the high desert and mountains, line up on plywood tanks or airfields scratched into the hard-baked earth by bulldozers, and drop thousands of tons of live bombs, rockets, missiles, and cannon rounds. The ranges are also used for operational evaluations of new weapons about to be deployed for the first time. Because of its very isolated location, Navy Fallon is also one of the country’s largest ordnance depots, from which thousands of tons of weapons and explosives are stored, distributed, repaired, refurbished, dismantled, and disposed.
For aircrew members, the eight-week TDY to Navy Fallon is a mixed blessing. Although the base facilities are first-rate, the surrounding town is so isolated and small that, apart from the temptation to visit one of the many legal brothels nearby, there was little to do in Fallon for relaxation or enjoyment. But it was a good opportunity to prepare oneself for a long deployment at sea, where the facilities and chances for rest and relaxation were even less available, and it was definitely some of the best flying around. Crew members actually looked forward to Fallon’s open skies, big ranges, plenty of live ordnance, and the chance to show the brass what you can do with the Navy’s most modem warplanes..
It was also a weapons smorgasbord for arms dealers and smugglers, if you had the money and the right connections.
After a flight into Fallon Municipal Airport, five miles northwest of the Naval Air Station, Gregory Townsend, Henri Cazaux’s third-in-command and chief of plans and operations, signed a lease for a large hangar, the flight crew fueled and prepared their aged de Havilland C-8 Buffalo cargo plane for departure, and Ysidro and his crew made preparations for their meeting.
Just after midnight, they heard the sounds of heavy truck engines approaching outside the hangar. After an hour-long wait, undoubtedly so their counterparts could move toward them and surround the hangar, Ysidro and Townsend were met by several men in a Navy Humvee. Six men emerged from the big vehicle, all armed to the teeth with M-16 rifles and military-issue Beretta automatic pistols. Two men wore Navy utility uniforms; three others were in civilian clothes but had military haircuts; and one, who stepped out of the front passenger side of the Humvee and looked like the leader, looked like a civilian all the way. While two men stood before Ysidro and Townsend, armed with M-16 rifles, two of the gunsels herded the smuggler’s crewmen inside the de Havilland to watch them, and two others stationed themselves at the front and rear hangar doors.
Both Townsend and Ysidro were frisked, and their weapons taken from them. Ysidro was heavily armed with an automatic submachine gun, two pistols, and two knives — those were taken from him — but he was allowed to keep the aluminum briefcase he carried, after a careful inspection. Inside the suitcase was U.S. cash in twenties, fifties, and one hundreds, along with Swiss and German bearer bonds. “They brought the cash,” the soldier reported to the civilian after checking the case for hidden weapons.
“We’ve been doing business a long time,” Townsend said to the leader. “We want it to stay that way. We’ll play fair with you in return for good service. Cash for quality goods.”
But even then, reassuring words did not tone down the rough search he had to undergo. Townsend carried only one gun, a Colt .45 auto pistol, along with a Tekna three-cell flashlight — which was carefully inspected, even to the point of unscrewing the butt cap and sliding out the batteries — and, to the gunsel’s surprise, a sixteen-inch Bowie knife in a sheath strapped to his back, handle down so he could draw it easily. After showing the huge knife to the others, the gunsel rasped, “Like fuckin’ Crocodile Dundee. What’s this for, bobbie?”
“Skinning snakes,” Townsend spat back. “Be careful with it. It has special sentimental value.”
“From your mother, I suppose.”
“My father beat up and killed my mother when I was a child,” Townsend said in a conversational, matter-of-fact tone. “I took that knife from Mohammar Kaddafi’s bedroom during a botched SAS assassination mission. Three of my best soldiers were killed on that raid, and the bastard wasn’t even home.” He leaned forward, and in a low, ghostly tone of voice, said, “I was so upset I resigned from the SAS, returned home, got drunk, and sliced off my father’s head with that knife.”
The soldier didn’t know if Townsend was telling the truth, but one look at his crocodile’s smile and he decided not to make any more smart comments. He placed all the weapons and gear inside the front seat of the Humvee and backed away without further comment.
Relieved of his weapons and gear, Townsend took a moment to carefully study the men around him. They all looked like professional soldiers, although he noticed how quickly and easily they relaxed when Ysidro’s and his own weapons were confiscated. If the gunsels knew anything about unarmed combat, they would know that a professional soldier never relaxed, even with ten-versus-two odds. Two of the Navy men in uniform were known to Ysidro and Townsend, but the rest were strangers, which Townsend didn’t like. “Who the hell are these blokes? We agreed only us four at the setup.”
“That was before you asked for the heavy stuff, Townsend.” Crenshaw laughed. “Our first deal was easy — six thousand pounds of waste ammonium nitrate and perchlorate. Hell, the Navy dumps at least six thousand pounds a day of waste chemicals and explosives into open pits out here — drink the well water around here for a couple years and if you fart you blow your ass off.”
“All right, let’s get on with it,” Townsend said impatiently. “Perchlorate and hydrazine we can get anywhere — the state of Nevada practically gives the shit away. You got the rest of it?”
“What I’m telling you, bobbie, is that the prize is gonna be worth the price.” Crenshaw turned to the guard at the front hangar door, who made a signal with a flashlight. Soon two five-ton utility trucks, painted Navy gray with desert-camouflaged canvas tops over the cargo beds, rumbled toward them. When the trucks pulled up to the group and the hangar doors were closed, Crenshaw stepped behind the first truck and flipped open the canvas cover on the back, and Townsend jumped up on the back of the truck to examine the contents. There were eight 55-gallon drums marked HIGH EXPLOSIVE, and four drums marked FLAMMABLE. He found an opener tool in the bed of the truck and opened each screw opening of the first eight drums, and the unmistakable acidic-aluminum-blood smell of aluminum perchlorate filtered out. He inspected the last four drums, this time mixing two ounces of the liquid in the second barrel with a pinch of the powder in the first set of barrels in a small plastic tube. After swirling the mixture in the tube, he carefully held a lighter to the opening of the tube, and a long cylinder of blue fire shot out with a loud pop.