SAMPLE CHAPTER

    Jake Porterhouse was Vice President Randle’s man at the Central Intelligence Agency, and, as chief of the newly created National Clandestine Service, he was as well positioned as the VP could hope for. Brock Randle had been Director of the CIA in the early 90’s and had brought Porterhouse in from the field to be his right hand man at headquarters. Jake Porterhouse had come with an impressive resume. An ex-marine officer who had seen combat in Vietnam, he went on to become a distinguished operative in Chile in the 1970’s and in El Salvador and Nicaragua in the 1980’s.

    As Vice President, Randle had been “working” the CIA for seven years. With the ascent of Porterhouse to the new position in 2006, certain channels of the CIA were fast becoming Randle’s personal toolbox. Fortunately for Randle, only Porterhouse and a select few under him realized it. Only Jake Porterhouse himself was fully aware of what Randle was up to. And only Porterhouse could put on the brakes. But so far, he had no such inclination. He rather liked the way things were progressing, especially given the likelihood that Randle would become the next commander-in-chief. A President Brock Randle meant that President O’Sullivan’s Director of National Intelligence, the top job in the US’s national intelligence pyramid, would be replaced by none other than Jake Porterhouse. Porterhouse would, in effect, leapfrog over his current boss, CIA director Dwayne Washington.

    Jake Porterhouse had just turned sixty. With his extensive military and intelligence proclivities, he had dedicated his career to the concept that wars were meant to be won, and that the US interests superceded everything. To him there was no ambiguity. The US should exploit its preeminent military and economic might as long as it still had it. And the US should spare no measure in order to keep it.

    Despite carrying twenty more pounds than he had in his military days on his six-foot frame, Porterhouse was still robust and energetic. To the patter of cold rain on his umbrella, he paced back and forth in front of the charcoal walls of the Vietnam Memorial. It was his standby meeting place. As he heard the car doors open and shut in the distance, he nodded for his bodyguards to move away. He looked at his watch as Geraldo Smith opened his umbrella and approached, a slender figure in a black overcoat, surrounded by every shade of gray.

    “My apologies, Mr. Porterhouse. Even with the private plane, we were delayed in Caracas. You can imagine what a zoo it is down there at the moment.”

    “It’s about to become a bigger zoo. As long as none of the pain-in-the-ass voices of moderation muck things up. You did well, Geraldo. If this goes well, there is no telling how far up you might go in a Brock Randle administration.”

    “My career is secondary, sir. It is my pleasure to rid Latin America of another leftist demagogue. After what Castro did to my grandparents...”

    Geraldo Smith’s commitment was unimpeachable. He was a staunch freedom fighter who had served as a paratrooper in Afghanistan before moving to the CIA via military intelligence. His grandparents had been pro-Castro reformers before the Cuban dictator sold them out in 1960 and threw in full tilt with the Soviet communists. Their daughter, Geraldo Smith’s mother, never shook off the bitterness. She was a tireless advocate in South Florida’s ex-patriot community. She worked most of her life helping Cuban refugees settle in South Florida. Her husband Major Gerard Smith served with the Army Rangers and before dying of old war wounds from his Vietnam experience, got his oldest son Geraldo interested in serving as an Army officer.

    “The Colombian paramilitary unit must have been good. You, along with our teammates in Colombia, chose well. My compliments.” Jake Porterhouse was not known to be extravagant with praise, even when truly impressed.

    “Yes, they are good. They’re headed up by Comandante Lobo—the wolf. I collaborated with them on a number of missions when you had me in Colombia.”

    “I remember you telling me about them. Very efficient. And very intimidating.”

    “And we can thank asshole Vallarta for sending minimal security and arranging the protests. He played right into it. It was easy to get wind of the whole thing. Some of his people have bigger mouths than he does.”

    “And those Colombian paramilitary guys, no one suspected them? They got out okay? The helicopter thing could have been high profile. Especially it being a US made Black Hawk.”

    “We spread around a few dollars to have the right people look the other way. I have had a growing number of anti-Vallarta people on the payroll. As for those Colombian commandos, they’ve pulled off some pretty ballsy escapades. They’ve lost count of how many leftist guerillas and citizen sympathizers they’ve sent off to the great communist utopia in the sky.” Smith sported a prideful smile. “They’ve displaced enough people to populate a small country. Even the drug cartels don’t mess with Comandante Lobo. Well, at least they have an understanding. And hardware like the Black Hawk helicopters … well, we have found ways to get them the toys when they need them.”

    Smith looked over at the wall and bit his lips. He was a tad bitter that his father’s name was not on it. Captain Smith had not died in combat, but Geraldo Smith was certain that it was the Agent Orange that finally had caught up with him in the1980’s.

    Refocusing, Smith added, “But there was one small glitch. Maybe too small to even mention.”

    “We’re not leaving anything to chance, Geraldo. You were handpicked for this mission for a reason.”

    “One of my agents, Marialena Morales … she followed the convoy. She saw the action, from a safe distance.”

    “She what?”

    “She’s friends with Senator LaCarta. He’s the one who recommended her for CIA duty after September 11. We saw she could be an asset in Venezuela instead of with the burka brigade over in the Middle East. She’s a good agent. I helped train her myself. Every horn dog in those language schools cozies up to her. They try to impress her with what they know, then she dashes their hopes while keeping them on the hook for another go-around.”

    “Yeah, yeah, a nice concept. But this is as big as it’s going to get in Venezuela. Where is she now?”

    “I ordered her to beg off, that this was above her pay grade. I told her to get back to her assigned role.”

    “And you trust her to stop nosing around?”

    “The way you make it sound … maybe hanging out in those language schools, she’ll get wind of something she shouldn’t.” Geraldo Smith knew Jake Porterhouse was a man who did not let personal relationships cloud his calculations. Nonetheless, Smith did not relish having to take measures beyond pulling off what appeared to be a well-scripted, career-building execution of an event now dominating the world stage.

    “She’s got to go.”

    Smith looked at Porterhouse as if he had not heard him above the patter of rain on their umbrellas.

    “And I don’t mean a transfer.” Porterhouse turned and nodded to his bodyguards, who escorted him back to his limo.