Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“What were they there for, if not to assist in this operation?” Rubenstein said.

Banner watched an alarmed look wash over Whitter’s face.

Serves you right, asshole, Banner thought.

“There are several projects proceeding in Colombia that require a U.S. military presence,” Banner said. He eyed Whitter, who seemed to hold his breath.

“Like the joint effort between Colombia and the U.S. to spray herbicide on the coca plants to reduce cocaine production?” Rubenstein said.

“Like that,” Banner said. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, that’s all I can tell you right now. I’m needed back at headquarters to continue managing the situation. We will attempt to keep the press, and the public, informed as much as is reasonably possible as this unfolds.” He strode out of the room while the press corps screeched questions at him like a flock of magpies.

“Good job,” Stromeyer said. “But a little short. You didn’t give them much to report.”

Whitter slammed into the conference room before Banner could respond. Today’s tie was a hideous gray with yellow vines running up and down in a trellis pattern. Banner would rather have taken a bullet than wear such a tie.

“That was damn close,” Whitter said. “You didn’t tell them what I told you to.”

Banner handed Stromeyer his clipboard. “If you want to tell them something, tell them yourself.”

Whitter pursed his lips. Banner glanced at Stromeyer, who flicked a glance at Whitter and then winked at Banner. Her lighthearted response to Whitter’s aggression made the muscles in Banner’s neck relax. She had a way of making the worst situations bearable.

“Meet me at Southern Command offices. We’re having a conference call with the American embassy in Bogotá in twenty minutes.” Whitter snapped out the information and stalked out of the room.

The Miami sun felt like a blowtorch. Banner and Stromeyer strolled along the downtown streets, taking a short break before heading to Southern Command’s offices. It was their first quiet moment since the hijacking, and the constant meetings and conferences were taking their toll on both of them. The sunlight and fresh air revived them. A limousine prowled behind, waiting to whisk them away when necessary. Banner began overheating within seconds. He searched for shade, while Stromeyer turned her face up and let the sun wash over her.

“You like the heat?” Banner said.

She nodded. “I love it. I grew up in Iowa, and this kind of weather came only in August. I lived for August.”

The sun warmed Banner’s shoulder, and he realized it hadn’t pained him once since his arrival in Miami. Darkview’s offices were in Arlington, Virginia, close to the powers that be in the military. Arlington was home, but Miami had a certain flair.

“We could open a satellite office here,” Banner said.

Stromeyer laughed. “I’d love the weather, but I don’t know if I could stand the vibe. It feels like a banana republic, all glitter and too laid-back for type As like me.”

Banner grinned. “Maybe they’ve got it right and the poor working stiffs like us have it wrong.”

Stromeyer smiled at him. “I love my work.”

The Southern Command building was new and, to Banner’s mind, much more inviting than most army headquarters. Waving palm trees and ample parking surrounded the two-story building. Built less than ten years ago, the facility boasted state-of-the-art technology, and its location near Miami International Airport made commuting convenient. One thousand people worked there. Banner thought the pink exterior color a little strange and whimsical for a building with such a serious purpose, but it tended to blend with the other construction in the area.

They passed through security in silence. Stromeyer’s mood darkened the minute she stepped out of the sunlight.

She said, apropos of nothing, “I hate talking to the relatives. I hope Miguel rescues the hostages soon. This situation is breaking my heart.”

They stepped into the main conference room. Whitter, two aides, and another man sat there. Whitter introduced the others as embassy personnel. He waved at the flat-screen television that showed a man in a suit sitting at a table. The man sipped from a coffee cup and looked at them as if he could see them.

“We’re on closed-circuit television,” Whitter said. He clicked on the speaker phone.

“Mr. Montoya, can you see us?”

Montoya nodded. “I can, Mr. Whitter.”

“Good. Then perhaps you tell us how the Colombian government views this situation.”

Mr. Montoya shook his head sadly. “I am afraid they are as puzzled as the rest of us. They believe that the disarmament program with the guerrillas is progressing well. They do not view this situation as a result of a hostile act against Americans. In twenty minutes the Colombian president is going to give a press conference in which he will tell the world that the plane was not hijacked.” Banner and Stromeyer looked at each other, stunned. Whitter closed his eyes.

Banner recovered first. “If the plane wasn’t hijacked, then what accounts for the text message we received from one of the passengers that said army men were taking hostages?”

Montoya gave a small sigh. “Major Banner, the last plane that was downed in the Colombian jungle landed there due to an equipment malfunction. Five American bank executives survived. They were taken hostage by some guerrillas in the area shortly after the crash. It was not a planned kidnapping, merely a crime of opportunity. The men landed in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“When was this?” Banner said.

“Three years ago.”

“Where are they now?” Banner prepared to note their names.

“They are still hostages.”

Banner sat forward. “No one’s gotten them out? Have you gone there?”

Montoya shook his head. “Absolutely not! Major Banner, I don’t think you understand the extent of the problem here. Embassy personnel are forbidden to travel to these areas. For our own safety we are not allowed to use the roads or public transportation. We fly over these areas, if we go there at all.”

“But these men are American citizens. Surely the embassy could assist in negotiations, or search and rescue,” Stromeyer said. Banner knew her well enough to hear the underlying layer of anger in her voice.

“Ms. Stromeyer—”

“It’s Major Stromeyer,” Whitter said. Banner did his best to hide his surprise at Whitter’s correction. Stromeyer raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“I apologize,” Mr. Montoya continued. “Major Stromeyer, the embassy has a strict policy of noninterference. We have no jurisdiction. We tell all Americans that they assume the risk when they come here, and if something happens they must appeal to the Colombian government and to the Colombian forces in charge of kidnap rescue.”

“How is their success rate?” Stromeyer said.

“Good, but this is a big job and the hostages are deep in the jungle.”

Whitter and Banner exchanged glances. For a brief moment, Banner saw a flicker of pain in Whitter’s eyes.

“Did you know the bank executives?” Banner said.

Whitter gave a curt nod. “One. He was an acquaintance. His family lives in D.C. My wife sees them occasionally.” He turned to the image of Mr. Montoya. “Mr. Montoya, what do you think is behind this extraordinary decision? Is the Colombian president aware that the American government believes the plane was hijacked in a manner consistent with terrorist action?”

Mr. Montoya sighed. “Mr. Whitter, I think the Colombian president is concerned that if he acknowledges the plane was hijacked by forces that could be defined as terrorists, then America will overreact. He is frightened that the aid will stop and the United States military will be sent in to wreak havoc on his country.”