Tropical snow, p.1
Tropical Snow, page 1
part #1 of A Lenny and Lucas Action Adventure Series
TROPICAL SNOW
A LENNY AND LUCAS ADVENTURE
BOOK 1
AJ STEWART
To all those—young and old—seeking their next adventure.
Today is the day.
And Heather, always.
CHAPTER ONE
SEPT. 6, 1983 UPDATED 6:43 A.M. EDST
NEW YORK (International Press Agency)—Drug smugglers have paid bribes totaling millions of dollars to facilitate the smuggling of cocaine into the Unites States, according to an NBC News report by Brian Ross that aired Sept. 5. The Bahamas: A Nation for Sale alleged that bribes were paid to officials at all levels of the Bahamian government, including the prime minister, Sir Lynden O. Pindling.
It also claimed that Carlos Lehder, a founder of the Colombian-based Medellín cartel, made payments in exchange for using the Bahamas as a transshipment point for moving narcotics from Colombia to the United States.
Through a campaign of coercion and murder, Lehder had gained full control of the Bahamian island of Norman’s Cay, including its private airstrip, which he used as both his residence and a logistics hub for the transport of narcotics under alleged protection of Bahamian law enforcement.
A spokesman for the White House said President Ronald Reagan was aware of the report and that “the war on drugs is an ongoing priority of my administration.” He also said dialogue with Bahamian officials would continue.
Carlos Lehder and other senior members of the Medellín cartel remain at large.
CHAPTER TWO
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Skipper Tomlinson shared a look with his boss as they strode out of the Oval Office. Tomlinson had said nothing during the meeting; he wasn’t there to offer opinions. More often than not, he wasn’t there at all. The normal information flow went from the president to his chief of staff, James Baker, then to Baker’s deputy, and then onto Tomlinson. In fact, his information was usually third hand.
But today was different.
Today POTUS wanted everyone’s ear. He was on a rant, as worked up as Tomlinson had ever seen him. Normally POTUS possessed a measured calm, more prone to smile than to scowl, despite the demands on the job. President Reagan knew the value of winning people over and had the charm to do it. But today he had a bug up his butt about one thing.
Drugs.
Well, drugs and the prime minister of the Bahamas. The NBC report from the previous evening had pointed the finger at the Bahamian government for taking bribes from the Colombian cartels to facilitate the onward passage of massive quantities of drugs into the United States. This was not news, at least not inside the West Wing. It was President Nixon who had coined the phrase war on drugs, and it had been a minor focus of the White House ever since. It was a poorly held secret that Bahamian officials had been on the take.
But now it was on every television in America, and in every morning newspaper. The drugs kept coming, and America’s friends in the Caribbean were outed as helping move them through.
“James is clear on this,” said Michael Deaver, deputy chief of staff. “POTUS needs to be focused on domestic issues. That’s what’s going to win the next election. The Cold War is enough foreign policy for us to handle. This is a distraction.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it’s on the front page of the Post and the Times.”
“Yes, sir.”
They walked into Deaver’s office, and Tomlinson closed the door.
“Thoughts?” asked Deaver.
“We need to get the president’s mind off it.”
“That’s my point. How?”
“Get him a win.”
“What kind of a win?”
“There are two kinds, sir: one for public consumption and one that’s not. I think maybe we need one of each.”
“This is your area, Skip, not mine.”
“Let me make a call, and I’ll circle back around.”
“Do it.”
That night Skipper Tomlinson drove out of the district and into Virginia on Interstate 395 until he reached the Springfield Interchange, where he headed west onto the beltway before pulling off at North Springfield. He parked outside the sports bar, loosened his tie, and wandered inside.
The bar was pretty full for a weekday. The crowd was mixed—enough suits to make Tomlinson fit in but more denim jackets and dirty jeans. Most patrons were glued to a taped replay of the Colts-Broncos game on a large, rear-projection television. Tomlinson eyed the space and found his contact at a tucked-away table near the back of the room.
“Not interested in football?” he asked as he sat.
“Baltimore stinks,” said the man in the brown leather jacket.
“Maybe Elway was right not to come.”
“Of course he was right. Even if he did get dragged from this game. DeBerg saved his bacon.”
A server stopped by, and Skipper ordered a beer.
“So what’s up?” asked the contact.
“You see that thing on NBC?” asked Tomlinson.
“Old news.”
“Maybe to you and me. Not to the public.”
“Let me guess, you’ve got a PR issue.”
“That, and a little more. The boss is taking it personally. It’s distracting him. Baker wants him focused.”
“Baker’s days are numbered.”
“I know there are factions in the party that want him out, but Reagan likes him. He trusts him.”
“I heard he wanted to head up the NSA.”
“Not happening. He used to be a Democrat. No way Reagan puts a former Dem in the NSA.”
“Also heard he was looking at the commissioner of the NBA job.”
“More likely, but no. Look, Baker’s a domestic policy guy. He thinks when people vote next year they won’t care about drug cartels or even the Soviets. They’ll care about the economy, about having a job.”
“Probably right.”
The server dropped off the beer, but Tomlinson didn’t pick it up. “It is right. So we need POTUS focused on that.”
“Fair enough. So why are you talking to me?”
“We need a win.”
“On the drugs thing?”
“Yes. Something for the PR wonks and something for the boss.”
“I take it those two things aren’t the same.”
“Not today. The boss is feeling personally betrayed on this one, and he’s ready to crack skulls. But the public doesn’t care about the politics. They want to see that he’s doing something about the drugs. Now, we’ve got law enforcement to take care of the PR side. Some big hauls and people will forget about it all soon enough.”
“But your boss…”
“He’s your boss too.”
“I don’t pay a lot of attention to the color of the head cheese’s tie.”
“Still.”
“Still. You want something that you can point to and say, ‘We did that,’ but at the same time no one else can say that we did it.”
“Something like that.”
The contact sipped his beer.
Tomlinson still didn’t touch his. “We have to do the diplomatic dance with the Bahamians and whoever else, so we can’t go in all gung-ho.”
“The CIA have people for this, you know.”
“Of course I know. The veep was all over that. He’s pimping the CIA for the job. It’s like he’s got them on speed dial.”
“He does—he ran the damn place, remember?”
“Hard to forget,” said Tomlinson. “But there’s a feeling in parts of the administration that the CIA might be as much a part of the problem as the solution, so we’re looking at other options.”
“A win, not CIA, not public. You want small, fast, invisible.”
“In a nutshell. The DEA can get the public wins, but this is something else. This is under-the-radar mayhem.”
“If it’s under-the-radar mayhem you want, then yeah, I know just the guy.”
Tomlinson pushed his chair back and stood. “Let me know.”
“You didn’t touch your beer.”
“Not thirsty.”
The contact pulled the beer over to his side of the table. Tomlinson walked out of the bar without looking at the television. He didn’t need to.
The Baltimore Colts stunk.
CHAPTER THREE
Lenny Cox waited by the bus stop. He had been stationed on a good number of bases during his time, but Marine Corps Base Quantico was not one of his favorites. It was JAFB—Just Another F’ing Base—but its proximity to the capital gave it a bigwig-to-grunt ratio that was too high. He liked Lejeune well enough—Jacksonville was a neat little town on the New River and the locale lent itself to getting away from humanity and out into the wilderness or onto the water—and he missed the waves out near Pendleton.
But there was one benefit of Quantico’s proximity to DC.
The bus arrived, and he stood aside as a kid stepped up into it, bopping to the beat of his Walkman. Lenny offered the driver a shrug and dropped his money in the slot, then he found a seat and watched the little town disappear.
The town of Quantico had the distinction of being the only town completely surrounded by a Marine Corps base, although Lenny noted that it was technically hemmed in by the Potomac River and Quantico Creek on either side. To reach it, the bus had to pass through the main gates of the base. It pulled away in that direction, heading for the capital.
Lenny did what he always did when he wasn’t driving: he slept. A Marine always needed more sleep. The bus gave a hydraulic hiss when it reached the end station in Rossl
He ambled across the Key Bridge into the District of Columbia, then into the streets of Georgetown. He stopped off at a newsstand to check a Rand McNally map of the city then continued on his way.
It was nearing six when he reached the apartment a handful of streets east of the university. The brick building had a slight bow to it, testimony to its age in the part of town that predated the capital. It had clearly been a single residence years ago.
Lenny hit the buzzer and waited.
“Hello?” said a voice.
“Sergeant Cox, reporting for duty, ma’am.”
There was no reply, but the door buzzed. Lenny let himself in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to the apartment opened before he could knock, and a woman leaned against the jamb and looked him over.
“Sergeant,” she said.
“Miss Brooks.”
“You cut your hair,” she said, tucking a loose blond strand of her own hair behind an ear.
“I’m back in uniform.”
“I liked the other way better.”
“I’ll mention it to the commandant.”
“Do.” She invited him across the threshold with a wiggle of her finger but didn’t move out of the way, instead planting a kiss on his lips.
“It’s been a while, Marine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in.”
Finally she stepped aside. He walked in, and she closed the door behind him.
“Nice place, Ally,” he said.
“You haven’t been here before, have you?”
“You’re not usually in DC.”
“You either.”
“Serendipity.”
“Or fate.”
“I’m okay either way.”
“Me too. I just got home. You want a drink?” She took off a blazer with shoulder pads like a linebacker and hung it on a hat rack.
“A drink would be good.”
She poured two glasses of scotch. “How’s Quantico?”
“Fun and games.”
“What have you been doing since Thailand?”
“Training. Hence Quantico.”
“No deployments?”
“Nup. How about you?”
“As I told you on the phone, I was in Europe for a month but now back here.”
“For good?”
“At the attorney general’s pleasure.”
They clinked glasses and sipped the single malt.
“I’m going to slip into something that doesn’t scream work,” Alice said to her white blouse and pearls.
“You want some help with that?”
“Easy, tiger. Let’s get some dinner first.”
Alice had made reservations at an Italian place on M Street. They ate pasta, drank Chianti, and had a superficial chat about what they had been doing since the last time they met.
“So what’s your job in DC, then?” he asked, and took a sip of wine.
“Same, really. I’m there to advise on the legality of US foreign policy implementation.”
“You mean, how they use people like me.”
“Up to and including, yes.”
“Doesn’t the Corps have their own lawyers?”
“They do, but their job is to advise the Marine Corps. My job, through the AG, is to advise the president.”
“You’d think those two things were one and the same.”
She smiled. “You’d like to think so, but…”
He observed her easy smile. She was a good five years older than him but looked like she was hitting her prime—her vitality shone through her otherwise serious demeanor. At twenty-three, he already felt an ache in every joint.
After dinner they strolled for a while in the cool night. He offered her his tan leather jacket, then she took his hand. Hers felt soft, and small to him despite her being only an inch less than his five ten.
Lenny knew they had walked west along the river and then cut through the college to the north, but he was surprised when they arrived back at her apartment building.
“You look confused, Sergeant.”
“I guess I got turned around.”
“I thought you had an innate sense of direction.”
“I was distracted.”
He leaned in and kissed her, then she unlocked the building door and led him in by the hand. She was on the stairs to the second floor when he tugged her to a stop.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Lenny nodded at the first-floor apartment. “You know your neighbor here?”
“Sure. Melodie. She works for an environmental lobbyist. Why?”
“Does she normally leave her door open?”
Alice stepped down and examined the door that was slightly ajar. “Maybe she forgot to close it.”
“She single?”
“Yes, I think so. Dating maybe.”
“You ever forget to close your door when you get home?”
“Maybe she was going out and was distracted. Like you.”
Lenny pushed the door open with his boot. The place was dark, except for dull lamplight near the window at the other end of the apartment.
“Call her name,” he said.
Alice moved into the doorway. “Melodie? It’s Alice.” She glanced at Lenny then back inside. “Hey, Mel? It’s me, Alice. You home?”
There was no answer.
“Like I said, she went out and forgot to lock the door.”
“She didn’t forget to lock it, she forgot to close it. That’s a whole other level of forgetting.”
“You can’t go in,” Alice said as he began to step inside.
“It’s not a B and E, Alice.”
“You’re not the police, Len.”
“I know that. But let’s make sure there’s no reason to call them.”
Lenny walked through the short hallway and into the living room. He stepped past an efficiency kitchen that opened up to a round dining table, and a living room with a sofa facing a portable television on a cart.
“No one’s home,” said Alice, placing her hand against his back.
“No.” But he went to make sure. He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot and found it empty. He continued to the bedroom door. It too was ajar, but the room was dark.
“Okay, can we go now?” asked Alice. “I feel like we’re intruding on her privacy.”
Lenny didn’t speak. Instead, he used his knuckle to flick the light on.
The woman was sprawled out on the bed in business attire not dissimilar from Alice’s, only her blouse was blue and there were no pearls. Her red hair was splayed across the pillows and her arms were stretched out like she was making a snow angel.
“Is she asleep?” Alice asked, but her tone suggested she knew otherwise.
Lenny knew for sure. He saw the white powder cut on the bedside table and swept around the bed to put his finger on her pulse.
“Lenny?”
“Nothing. Call the paramedics.”
Alice ran from the room as Lenny checked Melodie’s airway. He began CPR, pushing hard against her chest, unconcerned about breaking bones. That was the least of her worries.
Alice called from the living room: “They’re asking what the substance is.”
“Cocaine,” shouted Lenny, continuing his work.
“They asked if you’re performing CPR.”
He didn’t bother responding. He just kept at it until, ten minutes later, two paramedics rushed into the room.
“How long?” one of them asked.
“Ten or fifteen,” said Lenny. “But she was unresponsive when we got here.”
“Sure it’s coke?”
“Look at the table.”
The paramedic glanced at the white powder. “Yep.” They yanked the woman off the bed and onto a gurney. One paramedic continued CPR as the other rolled her out of the apartment. They didn’t stop to talk about it or say where they were going. As quickly as they came, they were gone.
Lenny ushered Alice back into the living room.
“Is she going to be okay?” Alice asked.
Lenny was sure she knew the answer. “They’ll do their best. Come on.” He led Alice up the stairs to her apartment, then found her key in her handbag and opened the door. He sat her on the sofa and poured her a scotch. She was a tough one. She’d worked in some rough places and had seen some of the same things that kept Lenny awake at night. But witnessing a neighbor getting wheeled away after OD’ing was tough on anyone, and he could see the shock in her eyes.
