An agonizing few minutes ticked off, while Karl and Maya exchanged glances. She touched his hand affectionately, and he wasn’t quite sure how to take that.
Suddenly, Karl’s phone buzzed twice, indicating texts coming through. The first text was GPS coordinates. The second said to get to that location by 2200. That gave them about an hour. Pulling up the GPS coordinates to his map function and hitting the track button, he saw that they had about two miles to travel. But looking at the map, Karl saw that they could hit the road and follow that for the last mile, assuming the Venezuelan Army were not actively patrolling the road. Even if they were, Karl guessed they would see the vehicles coming and could jump into the jungle to hide.
But first they needed to track the GPS to their hidden bags by the road where Ruiz had dropped them off. Karl had set a waypoint at that location. It was almost a mile to their bags.
“Let’s go, Maya.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I,” he said, getting to his feet. “But we have no choice. The Agency has an extraction for us. So, lift that fine ass off the jungle floor and move out.”
He reached his hand down to her and she reluctantly raised her right hand to him. Karl helped her to her feet and then kissed her passionately on the lips.
Maya was surprised but receptive, meeting his kiss with equal vigor.
Did he fully trust her? No. Especially once he saw that she had tried to turn on her phone at the compound. What was her intention in doing so? He would have to find that out eventually.
For now, though, they had no choice but to depend on each other. And she had covered him with gunfire during his retreat from the compound.
33
The President of the United State had convened the first full National Security Council crisis team of his young presidency. All of the major players were in attendance, from the vice president down the chain to the National Security Advisor, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the military, the Director of National Intelligence, and the Director of the CIA. Also selected for this particular meeting, were the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, the Director of the NSA, and the Director of Naval Intelligence.
Much had happened since the CIA had gotten foolproof confirmation of a nuclear storage facility in a remote jungle compound south of Ciudad Bolivar in Venezuela. The Russian analyst, Roddy Erikson, had run the images up his chain to the CIA Director of Operations, Sherman Swanson. Sherm had immediately understood the significance of the images, calling his boss, CIA Director John Bradford, who had speed-dialed the Director of National Intelligence and briefed him. It took less than an hour to get all of the principal intelligence players together at the White House.
In truth, most were already together at a formal White House dinner, where they were entertaining the President of Mexico and the Prime Minister of Canada.
John Bradford felt underdressed at this meeting, since he was the only member not wearing a tuxedo. He wore casual khakis and a polo shirt, since he and his wife had been at a local pizza pub. His wife now sat somewhere in the White House sipping a fine Oregon pinot noir.
On the large LED screen at the end of the room, suddenly Roddy appeared from a communications room at the CIA. He quickly briefed those here in attendance, from the Murmansk incident to the drama taking place on the high seas, and finally describing what had been discovered in the jungles of Venezuela. His image was replaced by photos of the missile compound, which clearly, to anyone with knowledge of military construction, showed blast doors and enough storage for a number of nuclear missiles loaded on transporter erector launchers.
When Roddy was done with his briefing, Bradford gave his man a big smile and thanked him for his fine work. Then the screen went blank.
Many around the table were already partially briefed on the situation, but none had gotten the full story until just now. Including the President.
“Are there any question?” Bradford asked.
It was obvious that the president was contemplating what to do. There was no normal sure path in this situation. If the U.S. formally complained to Russia, they would know of certain methods America would rather they didn’t know. But there was no way the president could let this intrusion with nuclear weapons in America’s own backyard.
Clearing his throat, the president glanced about the room and asked for military options.
The Secretary of Defense seemed to be waiting for this question. He immediately said, “We need to send in our SEAL team for confirmation.”
“They’re already aboard the destroyer,” the president said.
“Yes, sir.”
Silence in the room, as eyes shifted about. Bradford had a feeling they were about to head down a very dangerous path.
“If we do this,” the president said, “the Russians could consider this an act of war.”
Now it was Bradford’s turn to interject. “Sir. This is a civilian ship. If we were boarding a Russian military craft, then yes. But perhaps we have a suspicion that this ship is transporting illegal weapons to a terrorist group.”
The president shifted his gaze about the room and then settled on Bradford. “Is this true?”
“We have no idea, sir,” Bradford admitted. “But it could be true. Venezuela is not exactly a beacon of democracy. If they put that nuke in the remote jungle of southern Venezuela, how are we to be sure a group like FARC won’t steal it and use it on us or someone else?”
“I thought FARC was history,” the president said. “And aren’t they in Columbia?”
“Yes, sir,” Bradford said. “Officially FARC has disarmed, but they have also operated across the border in Venezuela and some feel there are splinter factions who plan to continue with their Marxist ways.”
The president scratched his head with frustration. “Okay. That’s a good enough story. I’m convinced. We’ll eventually need State to sell this to the Russians. Once they complain, of course.”
Everyone in the room was in agreement that the Russians would squeal like a boar hog with its nuts in a vice.
“Send in the SEALS,” the president demanded vehemently. “Take a ten-minute break and meet back here.” Then he got up and left the Situation Room.
Bradford stood with the rest of those in the room. The Secretary of Defense was already sending the orders through his chain of command.
As the rest of the principals mingled about, Bradford pulled aside the Defense Secretary and said, “We might need your help.”
“With what?” the Defense Secretary asked.
“Transportation.”
Since Bradford was a former four-star Air Force general, the Secretary of Defense had a good report with the CIA Director.
“Anything you need, John,” the Secretary said.
Bradford patted the man on the shoulder and went to find his wife. He would need to get her a ride back to their residence, since he would be needed to observe the SEAL team video feed during their operation.
34
Commander Randy Wockovich listened to the secure SAT phone classified call directly from the Pentagon. It was a call he had been waiting for, but one in which he wasn’t sure he wanted to receive. At the end, he confirmed the order and was simultaneously handed a Top Secret paper copy that said the same thing from a young ensign.
Wockovich quickly reviewed the order and handed the paper to his XO, Lt. Commander Rita Carlson, who nodded understanding.
The XO showed the order to the SEAL team leader, a Chief Petty Officer with an Aviation Ordnance rating.