Chapter 8

MONDAY Feb. 13

The ship docked under cover of darkness, sailing up the Amazon River all the way from the ocean. The unloading was well underway long before first light. Watching them work was sheer poetry in motion as cranes carefully lifted two of the cargo containers at a time from the hold of the ship and set them down, one at a time, onto waiting trucks. The trucks were then driven a mile away to the chosen warehouse. By 3:00 in the morning, the last truck had arrived at the warehouse, and they began forming up to leave. Kristyna reported that everyone was ready.

“Part one go,” I told her. She relayed the instructions over the radio.

“Snipers eliminated,” she reported almost a minute later.

I gave them a few seconds to reload before ordering, “Part two go.” This time, I could see the results through my binoculars. A single bullet hole appeared in the windshields of many of the front trucks, and men who were already in the cab or were just getting in bailed out and began scrambling for cover.

The doors of the two adjacent warehouses burst open and the surprise reinforcements ran out looking for the enemy. The first wave fell when the claymores went off. The second wave fell to the second line of claymores and then the metallic clatter of the .50 caliber guns kicked in, along with explosions from the RPGs and the automatic weapons fire from the Uzis as they obliterated the warehouses, as well as everyone who had been inside. The return fire was minimal and ineffective.

“Cease fire,” I told Kristyna barely a minute after the first explosion.

When the racket died down, we called in the army. As anxious as the base commander had been about the operation, they had started their engines when I ordered the snipers to fire the first time and were at our half-klick perimeter when the firing stopped, ready to move in. A minute later, ten APCs rolled into the yard of each of the three warehouses. After driving around and scanning the area, the door of the first APC opened cautiously, and ten heavily armored camouflage-clad soldiers got out. They huddled behind the APC for several seconds, nervously surveying the area behind them where my troops were still hidden. Satisfied that there would be no “friendly fire” from there they turned their attention to the tattered remains of the first warehouse.

Several minutes later, all three compounds had been secured and military ambulances were arriving to secure any Colombians who were still alive. I counted forty-six. Satisfied that the area was secure, a dozen military trucks paraded slowly along the access road. All of our troops had checked in; three reported slight wounds. Many members of the Brazilian military force watched, curious, as clumps of brush and weeds along the edges of the warehouse lots began moving towards the road. The troops pointed excitedly when the clumps finally stood up and ran to the approaching truck caravan. As each truck filled up, the rear flap was lowered. I saw one of our troops being helped to the truck with an obvious leg wound. A medic from one of the ambulances joined him there a couple of minutes later.

Four additional trucks were taking a more circuitous route. Three were going by our half-klick perimeter sniper positions, two trucks for our troops and one for the bodies of the Colombian snipers. The fourth truck made the one-klick perimeter circuit, picking up those troops.

We ate a decent dinner provided for us on the base and watched from inside the hangar they had provided as the semis rumbled past us. Our troops were still jittery as the adrenaline wore off. The cargo containers from eight of the trucks were lifted off the truck, put onto a much lower wheeled unit, and then loaded onto the waiting cargo planes. When they were all loaded, our three vans followed, and the rear hatches began closing like a giant mouth closing after being fed. We watched as, one by one, the planes taxied to the end of the runway and took off, headed for the airbase near Rio.

The base commander entered with my pilot. Both had a new sense of respect etched on their faces as they approached, and the commander stopped and talked briefly with our three wounded, one in the thigh and two with flesh wounds on the arm. A fourth had a good bruise on his shoulder where his vest stopped the round that hit him.

“You guys are good,” he said. “Do you work for anyone?” he asked, hinting perhaps a foreign intelligence group.

“I work for them,” I answered, sweeping my hand towards my troops. He nodded his understanding.

“Obviously I’m not supposed to know who you are, but considering the destination of the planes, I have a pretty good idea. Fortunately, I have a very short memory and will have forgotten everything by the time your plane leaves,” he laughed, shaking my hand vigorously.

“Captain,” I said, turning to my pilot, “I think I’ll fly home with the troops. I would appreciate it if you’d fly my lieutenant home, though,” I said motioning to Kristyna. I saw the hopeful look in his eye. “I would also appreciate it if you personally made sure she was properly fitted for a jump-suit. If you have a close friend or two you might ask them to help. She tends to get quite horny when the adrenaline starts pumping and she’s probably ready to jump someone right now,” I told him, winking at him.

“You mean ... me ... her...” he sputtered.

I smiled, but Kristyna left nothing to the imagination when she stared openly at the sudden bulge in the front of his pants. “I think he’ll do very nicely,” she cooed as she sidled up to him. The burning look she gave me was a warning that I wasn’t off the hook, though. She still intended to repay me for this sometime very soon.

The understanding base commander dismissed my pilot to tend to his assigned task, and then pointed to the VARIG 747 that was landing. “I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed a civilian jet. I figured that your wounded would be more comfortable in there than on a military transport.”

I thanked him, and we gathered whatever gear hadn’t been packed into the vans that had already left. Two of their troops entered the plane and came back out minutes later waving for us to join them. The commander explained that they were to make sure there was nobody on board except the cockpit crew, and they would remain on board to make sure the crew stayed in the cockpit for the entire flight.

While we climbed the stairs to the plane, one of their forklifts lifted the guy with the leg wound up to another door, saving him from having to make the climb up the steep steps. There were lots of good-natured jeers and taunts about him being coddled, but everyone was still grinning. After that, the wounded rebel survivors from the assault were also loaded, albeit not quite so gently. All but four of them survived to swell the ranks of the Weasels. Their interrogations were also recorded and forwarded to ABIN. None of them were Brazilian. Most were Colombian with a dozen free-lance mercenaries thrown in for good measure.

TUESDAY Feb. 14

It was well after midnight before our six-and-a-half-hour flight landed, and after dawn before we had the eight semis inside our secure parking at Santo Diablo’s. I left Ramon in charge of getting the containers unloaded, returning the trucks to the military, and doing a quick inventory while the Weasels and I dragged ourselves home to bed. I sent our wounded to the hospital to be re-checked before going home. The wounded prisoners would stay at the military hospital until they had recovered. A very happy Kristyna met me at Santo Diablo’s and drove me home. Evidently, the pilot had five friends who helped her get into her jumpsuit, a process that took well over three hours, about the same time as their flight home took. She was almost as excited about the flight as she was about getting gang banged.

My ladies put me to bed and woke me up about 2:00 in the afternoon. I had guests. Mayor Ambrosio, Head Prosecutor Velasquez, Chief Diaz, General Veiga, and Quintino Peixoto, my ABIN contact, were all there. General Veiga and Quintino were there to thank me and to let me know that special arrangements had been made with city officials to allow any of The Corporation members that I designated to get firearm licenses. Criminal records would be overlooked. They would get both the general license that would allow two handguns, two rifles, and two shotguns at their home or business, and the harder to acquire extended license that would allow them to legally carry guns in public. On top of that, General Veiga offered to have a special military ID issued for the Weasels that would allow them to legally transport and practice with the heavier caliber guns and the RPGs.

Then the Mayor dropped the bombshell. His political party had asked him to be their candidate for Governor of the State of Rio de Janeiro this year. Their other candidate, the one that barely lost the last election had just unexpectedly announced his plans for retirement last weekend. With so much positive publicity about the programs the city was putting into place, the dramatic drop in crime, and the elimination of gang violence, they felt he’d easily be elected.

Velasquez wanted to run with him for the State’s top legal job. Chief Diaz laughed and said he was staying here. I told them that I’d be happy to support them and would make sure that their campaigns were fully funded, campaigns that would start in five months. Then they asked if I would consider expanding my operations into the other main cities in the state. The request caught me off guard, but I said that I’d consider it.

The next two days were filled with Carnaval frenzy as everyone made last minute preparations, not the least of which were the thousands of residents from each of the favelas doing last minute preparations and practices for their school’s procession. As big as football is in Texas, the Carnaval competition between samba schools in Rio dwarfs it. The schools rely on money from the community, and specifically the gangs, for the thousands of elaborate costumes. With the elimination of the gangs, The Corporation representative for each community made the donations. We gave more than the schools usually got so that the people of the favelas didn’t have to spend as much of their hard-earned and difficult to earn money.

On Thursday, we had an unexpected visitor. The courier with the diplomatic pouch showed up at the front door with a rather significant check, a check that arrived with the embodied voice from the other end of the phone in Amsterdam. He introduced himself as Johannes (call me Joop) van der Hoos. Our films had amazed him. Usually, a studio limits itself to one or two types of films. Ours not only ran the gamut, but they were also well filmed and edited. He hoped to see our studio and meet our production staff, as well as make a couple of suggestions. He met Luisa, as well as most of the other stars of our films before Carlita arrived home from school.

Unfortunately, they had no filming planned for this weekend. The only thing planned for this weekend was Carnaval, which was the main reason Joop was here. He’d always wanted to come to Rio, especially for Carnaval. Bringing me the check and getting a chance to meet me finally gave him the impetus he needed to do it.

WEDNESDAY Feb. 15

I woke to the sound of Samba music playing softly over the intercom. I grinned to myself, remembering last night. The ladies had been rather insistent that I make up to them for the days I’d been gone, and it had been a long night, as well as a most pleasant one. Corrina was still in a very affectionate mood this morning, teasing and tantalizing me as she swayed sexily to the samba music. Everyone seemed to be moving to the music as they worked in the kitchen this morning, but Corrina was in full-blown Samba mode, finally settling on my lap when breakfast was served. “You’re in a good mood this morning,” I commented, while she playfully slapped my hands away from her breasts.

“I love the Samba and Carnaval. I was the Queen of the Drummer Group the year I had to quit to get a job,” she answered. She explained the whole Carnaval routine to me, something I hadn’t really understood before. I always thought it was just a chaotic parade that meandered through the streets of Rio inciting people into a sexual frenzy. There was some of that, and there were several impromptu and unofficial parades throughout the city. Mainly, though, it was a highly organized and orchestrated competition among the Samba Schools, and not really a parade at all. Each school had sixty to eighty minutes to perform. During that time, they had to traverse the just under half-mile route in the Sambadromo, which was a permanent fixture in the city, complete with open air and box seating.

Imagine the work that companies, colleges, and high schools put in for a single float in the Rose Parade in Pasadena or the Christmas Parade in New York. It pales in comparison to the preparation each of the Samba Schools does. In fact, all the work done by every group that performs in those American parades is about the equivalent of what one of the Special Access Schools does. Those schools can have as many as five thousand dancers divided into groups (wings) of up to one-hundred-fifty dancers. The performance is divided into between seven and nine sectors, and each sector portrays a part of the school’s theme. Each sector will have wings of dancers in costumes related to that part of the theme. It would be similar to picking nine floats from the Rose Parade, each depicting a particular part of a common theme, and surrounding each with four to eight hundred dancers with costumes to go with that particular float.

The highly publicized Samba Dancers, or Passistas, are the finest dancers the school has. Not only do they have to dance the fast-paced and highly choreographed routine, but they also have to do it while making the half-mile trek along the designated route, all while keeping pace with the floats. The top wing of Samba dancers is usually no more than fifteen to twenty of the best girls.

There are other Samba dancers on the school’s floats. Those dancers are usually children or young, beautiful girls from the school that didn’t qualify as Passistas. They are there more for decoration than skill, although their dancing is nothing to sneer at.

The Vanguard Commission is the opening group, or wing, of the school’s performance. Made up of a dozen or so dancers, many male, they have an extremely difficult choreographed routine and lead their entire group. Their costumes don’t have to reflect the school’s theme and a good performance will be unforgettable to all who watch it.

Next are the Flag Bearer and her Escort. They actually dance while she carries the official school flag. There are usually other flag bearers, but only this one counts in the scoring. The escort is there to protect her and the flag. Their dance is one of the most detailed and their performance can gain or lose points for their school.