The Flight he had taken from Virginia arrived late, and Mick Flynt was concerned that his meeting with Ray Ray Beltray might be at risk. He knew Ray Ray had driven, so maybe, he'll be content to chill-out, get some shut-eye and wait him out at the gates to the farm, the CIA's secret training facility. It was unusual for these flights to be late, they operated military cover and where used mostly by the company with short-term business.
The Farm was known officially by the coded cryptonym, "Isometric” one of the thousands of codes managed by a secret society who maintained the code book. This group was a closed frat house. There were never any leaks, nor did the men selected ever leave for greener pastures unless carried on the shoulders by six team members. Camp Abe was the Farm, and the Farm was Isometric and Isometric was something else which led to a vault a thousand feet beneath Fort Knox.
Mick smiled at the guard and passed along his coded badge which revealed to the trained eye the level of his security clearance. Mick had been demoted as a result of the reprimand, shipped off to the floor crew and was issued a new badge which contained a new set of codes. Mick had always secretly wanted a home address with a single number maybe that would happen on his ID.
He found Ray Ray inside the gatehouse lounge where he had talked his way into a cup of coffee. His reputation had preceded him and he was entertaining the MP's with stories of declassified company activity. Ray Ray was dressed appropriately for military post and may have been taken for a Gunny if the colors had not been changed.
The two men waved good-bye to an obliging group of MP's and went to the training area where instructors were covering counterintelligence and paramilitary arts. They sat on one of the four bleachers which encircled the training field and watched the competition by a small group in hand-to-hand combat. An instructor hooted and hollered to correct any flawed move which may one day save his life.
"We got a major break," Ray Ray started. "But things have stalled somewhat."
"Give it to me straight, I got some heat."
"I went down to New Orleans from the Denton meeting and had a good session with Guy Banister.
"Still on Camp Street?" Mick asked.
"Yep, run down as ever, but good cover for a covert activity. Guy spoke to the FBI in Dallas; our boy flew the coup with his wife and baby."
"So the FBI doesn't know where they are?"
"Are you joking, the FBI wouldn't know if the kid was stepping on their heels, and besides I didn't want to show a big interest."
"Wise guy."
"So, Banister doesn't know either." Mick asked.
"Mick you know these guys better than I do, they play these little cat and mouse games, to see what is in it for them, and to determine the level of your intelligence."
"Yeh, we have a little time, so don't put the heat on...and we haven't clearly placed this guy on the team...just a prospect."
"Hell if that falls apart, I'll take the shot...what would be wrong with that?"
"Look Ray Ray, I don't want to pump-up your head but the CIA figures your level of expertise would cost a million bucks to replace." Mick said.
"So that is why they gave me a demotion." They laughed.
"What about Louie' de what’s his name?"
"He's in Haiti; again I don't want him close to the plan, the guys an octopus."
"Do you think this kid is our man?" Mick asked.
"Sounds right, politically and otherwise. Wagner is insisting on a shooter with metals. The kids an ex-Marine. I got his M-1 score and some of his other records." Ray Ray said.
"Can he shoot?"
"Spotty record!"
"Maybe he cheated, remember this kid has mental issues and loves to play games."
"From day-one I have had a nagging problem with this guy, if he chooses to go it alone in that final moment when the shots wake the monster in him and he unloads the shot that kills the President...we all have to remember this is a twenty-one year old punk-kid." Mick said.
"You asked for something realistic, something the press and intelligence would not recognize as a ploy...we got three maybe four shooters and Lancer is in the middle with multiple rounds of munitions flying from various vantages."
"Yes, there is risk." Mick said.
"Louie says hit the vehicles, hit the limo, hit the bikes, hit one of the Secret Service guys, aren't they sworn to take the shot?"
"Remember Ray Ray, shoot to miss." Mick said.
"But truthfully Mick, in the moment, shit happens and my belief is there is less risk with one shooter. Hell all we want to do is to take a shot that hits the limo, knocks out a light, for Christ sakes 1 have a twelve year old that could do that. You get a bunch of goddamn cowboys out there and it becomes a bar-room free for all."
"But you can't phony this thing up, Ray Ray."
"Any news on the sight?"
"Still Miami."
"Great, every Cuban in the crowd will be armed."
"That's the spot most advisable and likely to produce a motorcade with convertibles, and that is the reason we need those fifty men in the crowd to hack any would be shooter."
Mick asked Ray Ray to stay in touch with Banister, and at the first sign of the kid there would be an immediate need for a thorough debriefing and determination as to his fitness to handle this job. Put the kid and his family in a trailer in a remote spots that he doesn't fly away again, or decide to hurt someone. Have a 24/7 stake-out...get his tacit approval to take the shot.
Banister was like the house manager of a co-ed dorm on a Cuban holiday. The office was always a beehive of activity of every type and size with boom-boxes held on the shoulder and dancing to the music. Guy would find a substitute if the kid stayed out of sight, maybe someone with a better record for shooting the rifle with a high-powered scope. A shooter who could blast a button from a shirt cuff at two hundred yards...or not.
When Mick had gone, Ray Ray sat in the bleachers watching the recruits, and he remembered when he once was in their shoes, he could not remember being so awkward and he would have advised them to depend more on the body balance. But that wasn't his gig now. The sounds of Asian chatter were a reminder that Saigon was once again the hot spot. It was the talk of the base. He couldn't imagine going back to Asia and he thought to himself, let’s take care of Cuba and quiet South Florida. Chopo Montano and Ricky Valdez had gotten the message, and promptly left a job picking oranges in South Florida to drive up to see what their Gringo friend, Ray Ray had in the works. They felt certain that it had to do with Cuba and this was answer to their prayers to give them another shot at Castro and his brutal brother Raul. They would gladly exchange oranges for weapons even with the Bay of Pigs fresh in their minds. They were certain the fuck-up there was an anomaly which wouldn’t happen again because Kennedy was sure to be replaced.
These were men hardened by back-breaking labor, toiling in the fields in the hot sun and they looked the part of migrants. Chopo was a sturdy short man with no neck and weighing about 165 pounds. He had a shaved head with tattoos running from his wrist to just beneath his chin. He had a thin black mustache and goatee. His partner, Rickie Valdez liked to wear a Texan style cattleman’s hat, looking like the wonderful western actor Yuhl Brenner. He was thin but very strong from the work in the Orange Groves. He too was tattooed from the waist-up with prison art for two or three books of stamps. Figure twenty stamps at 15 cents and you have a cheap, permanent piece of art…on the street this job would have taken a month’s wages.
The men had a passion for Cuba and a hatred for the Castro brothers, even though they hated Batista equally. The family in Cuba was poor sugar cane farmers but the family was tight knit and loving. The same kind of emotion which once existed in the United States before communication brain washed the children who had to have someone’s