Fonko in the Sun: Jake Fonko, #4

By B. Hesse Pflingger

GRAND CAYMAN, 1983. When ex-Army Ranger Jake Fonko is hired for a routine job in the Caribbean, the first day of his mission doesn't turn out as planned. After stumbling into possession of highly sensitive financial documents from the BCCI, a bloody bank robbery, a barroom shootout, multiple aerial dogfights and a chopper crash in the Jamaican jungle welcome him to paradise.

With no passport and no backup, Jake finds himself pursued by crooks, cartels, corrupt politicians, the CIA, and the KGB. If he wants to survive paradise, Jake must find a way out of a mess that's anything but routine. But are Jake's skills enough to escape the suffocating surveillance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. Hesse Pflingger
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386513087

Book preview

Preface

Editor’s Note

I am pleased to call the reader’s attention to an innovative feature we introduce in Fonko in the Sun—background music. To the best of my knowledge, no serious scholarly text has previously attempted this.

There is an interesting story behind our innovation. One day I looked up from my notes for my lecture course, Trends 101, to find that without exception, every student in the room was not looking at me, but rather at some handheld gadget. I assumed they must be taking notes on recording devices and continued on with the day’s lesson, but afterward, I asked my research assistant, Dr. Bertha Sikorski, about it. She explained that it happens in all the lecture courses these days—the students were sending messages to friends via texting or tweeting, or were watching pornography or YouTube. Pornography I understood, but texting, tweeting and YouTube were new concepts to me.

Dr. Sikorski explained them, and I was particularly taken with YouTube. Astounding! Anybody and everybody posting videos, movies, music, just about everything one can imagine! I spent the afternoon exploring YouTube on my desktop computer, amazed at the wealth of materials available. I even found original David Frost and William F. Buckley Jr. TV interviews. It was clear to me that YouTube could become as valuable a source of insight into contemporary history as Wikipedia is proving to be.

This occurred while my publisher was preparing Fonko in the Sun for publication. Dr. Sikorski had recently seen a film by a Mr. James Cliff, The Harder They Come, and she was taken by the music of Jamaica (where that film is set). She thought it would be cool to assemble a playlist to complement the text of our book, and she prevailed on our colleagues to give it a shot. The two of us spent many enjoyable evenings combing through the reggae and calypso songs that so enliven those exotic islands, and the result is a series of chapter headings reflecting song titles that one can easily access on YouTube.

My hope is that this feature will enhance your appreciation of Jake Fonko’s remarkable adventures in the Caribbean Islands by providing a flavor of the environs and people he encountered.

B. Hesse Pflingger, PhD

Professor of Contemporary History

California State University, Cucamonga

Johnny Too Bad

They handed me the suitcase, and then the three guys started for the door, and I watched them go. They were good looking young fellows, wore good clothes, and they looked like they had plenty of money. As they turned out the door to the right, a closed car came down the street toward them. The first thing a pane of glass went, and the bullet smashed into a row of bottles on the showcase wall to the right. I heard the gun going and, bop, bop, bop; there were bottles smashing all along the wall.

I jumped behind the bar and peered through the bartender’s cut-out passageway. The car was stopped, and there were two men crouched down by it. One had an Uzi and the other had a sawed-off automatic shotgun. The one with the Uzi was an African-American. The other was swarthy and wore cutoffs and a loose, untucked cotton shirt with an Island design.

One of the boys was facedown in a growing seep of blood. Another was behind a parked beer delivery van. He’d pulled out a Glock and taken a wild shot around the back of the van. The African-American with the Uzi got his face almost to the street and gave the back of the van a burst from underneath, and sure enough, one came down. He flopped there, putting his hands over his head, and the guy in cutoffs shot at him with the shotgun while the African-American put in a fresh clip.

The third fellow pulled the one who was hit back by the legs to behind the van, and I saw the African-American getting his face down on the paving to give them another burst. Then I saw a man in uniform step clear of the van and get the guy in cutoffs with the S&W revolver he had. He shot twice over the African-American’s head, and once low. At ten feet, the African-American shot him in the belly with the Uzi, with what must have been the last shot in it because I saw him throw it down, and the cop sat down hard and went over forwards. He was trying to get another shot off with his revolver when the African-American took the shotgun that was lying beside his buddy and blew the side of his head off. Some African-American.

Okay, I’ve got to say something here. Professor Pflingger insisted that I refer to the guy with the Uzi as an African-American, but the fact is, we were in neither Africa nor America. This happened in George Town, on Grand Cayman Island, in the Caribbean Sea south of Cuba. I’d have used some other descriptor, but Professor Pflingger would accept no substitutes for the current, politically-correct term. He’s one of those university types that call a shovel a manually-operated dirt-moving device, rather than speak plain English.

Professor Pflingger insisted on shovel too. He even had problems with manually.

No matter how cynical you become, it’s never enough to keep up. Lily Tomlin never spoke truer words than that. You might think an ex-surf rat who’d been around the barn a few times would be mentally hardened enough to brush off just about anything by age 35, but even after my go-rounds with the Khmer Rouge, the Shah’s family and John DeLorean, I still cannot get my mind around some of the stuff that went down in those sun-drenched tropical islands in 1983. Corruption? Terrorism? Brutality? Payoffs? Double-dealing? Treason? Death squads? Black helicopters? Fraud and grand theft on a global scale? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

I’d gone down to the Caribbean on a gig arranged through a guy that knew a guy that knew a guy. Probably I should blame it all on a spate of cockiness that had nudged me into the danger zone. I’d gotten away with a satchel of Irish rebel gun-running money, you see. I’d saved Maggie Thatcher’s life. And the rumor was circulating that I’d been covertly running a mole in the KGB, who’d tipped me off about Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan. Of course, that was just Emil Grotesqcu, but fat chance of explaining that to anybody. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t, being legally enjoined from discussing anything about my erstwhile CIA career, mercifully now eight years in the past. In the shadow world of covert ops nobody knows what’s really going on—even the guys involved—making me in some influential circles an international man of mystery. Truth be told, I was just a freelance gun for hire, sort of, but the more I denied being a deep-cover covert op, the more people believed the rumors that I was a CIA super-agent must be true. Those ill-founded beliefs helped me hustle business, but they carried some serious downsides too. As will soon become clear.

So an increasing volume of shady proposals was coming my way, enough of them that I could pick and choose. Naturally, I chose the ones that offered the best pay for the least danger, steering clear of problems prospective clients brought to my Malibu door that entailed violent solutions. Damn right. Violence hurts, in case you’ve never been involved in any. Who needs that? And then there was the money angle, I might as well admit it. My 1975 Corvette called for a long-overdue upgrade. Maggie Thatcher’s thank-you DeLorean DMC-12 hadn’t been a worthy replacement, so I gave it to Steve Spielberg for Back to the Future. Not that I had to have the biggest, newest, fastest, flashiest ride on the block, but repairs and upkeep had outstripped my Vette’s usefulness. So lately I’d been looking longingly at new model Vettes, Porches, Alfa Romeos, Audis… any of which would bite big into my ready cash.

Plus I had a little too much time on my hands. Dana Wehrli had met her destiny and gotten The Call. Three months previously, she’d hied off to Cheyenne, Wyoming, for a weather babe gig on the ABC affiliate there, with intimations of bigger and better career steps if that went well. From what I’d heard about Wyoming weather, she’d have plenty to report on, but her departure left me bereft. Southern California abounds in blonde beach bunnies, sure, but none that matched up to Dana.

Thus, for one reason and another, I wound up in George Town, on Grand Cayman Island. I knew the man who alerted me to the job well enough to trust his assurances. He said he knew the guy who’d contacted him well enough to vouch for him. So I assumed that the client who’d put out the feeler must be reasonably up-and-up too. It was a delivery job, ferrying some undefined valuable item from George Town to a private party, specifics to be revealed (where have I heard that before?). Having once been an unknowing mule to Grand Cayman for Charlie Goldenman’s casino skim, I insisted on guarantees that the job didn’t involve black money. No, I was told, definitely not black money. Illegal merchandise? No, no, a thousand times no! So I signed on: Fly down to the Caymans, make a one-day delivery, fly back and earn a five-figure paycheck, plus expenses. They’d fronted half the fee. It was cool. Just like money from home.

What they say about ASSUME—it makes an ASS of U and ME.

The first-class flight from LAX (connecting through MIA) set me down at the George Town airport the day before I was to collect the parcel. I figured that was all the time I needed as the job wasn’t taxing enough to bother with a three-hour jetlag-adjust. All my essentials fit in a small duffel bag, which had to go through luggage check owing to the silenced SIG Sauer I packed along (licensed to carry). It was mid-October, the muggy summer tropical steam bath giving way to the balmy breezes that draw the tourists. The Caymans aren’t much as West Indies islands go, small, low and scrubby, with mangrove forests along some of the coast and fairly nice beaches elsewhere. Rain avoids those islands; water’s a problem. They are noteworthy for two things: superb scuba diving on some of the best coral reefs in the world and off-shore banking. The Caymans don’t qualify as a five-star tourist destination, but doubtful money flocks there from every dark corner of the world. Not that large banks impose over the streets and boulevards, no. Typically, a Cayman Island bank amounts to a brass plaque on a building facade, a mail drop, some filing cabinets and phones and computers through which various currencies in large denominations are received, logged in and hidden away. George Town boasts modern buildings, but they’re low-rise: no one would mistake the place for the looming canyons of Wall Street, especially considering the Caribbean squalor a few blocks away.

The phone by the bed woke me up a little after 0800 (0500. PST). A harried voice told me to be in the hotel bar downstairs in twenty minutes, where I’d get the parcel and instructions. That gave me time to clean up and dress, though no margin for breakfast. I figured I could see to that after I received the goods. The bar, with a big window overlooking the street, was open but not yet serving. A black porter in a more or less uniform sat idly against the far wall, apparently not yet on duty. Or maybe he was. Those islands have never been a refuge for workaholics.

It’s a puzzlement, mon, he remarked in the Islands sing-song.

What’s a puzzlement? I asked.

They robbed de bank last night. Mon, that bank don’t got no money in the vaults. My friend Johnson one time go there to change some dollars; they tell him they don’t do that. So what they rob?

Which bank they hit?

That BCCI. Bank of Credit and someting or other. Down the road. Late last night. They say watchman was shot, maybe killed. Everybody talking, nobody knowing.

Three swarthy young men bustled through the front door of the hotel, right on time. One of them carried a Haliburton aluminum two-suiter. The other two stationed themselves by the window, keeping a wary eye on their back-trail. Jake Fonko? the guy with the suitcase asked me. He had a Latino accent.

I’m Fonko, I replied. You’re the man who called me?

Yes sir. This is the item you are to deliver. He handed me the case. It was heavier than I’d expected, real heavy. Heavier than lots of money, even. You take it out to the airport right away. Get a taxi. A helicopter is waiting for you. It’s the only one. You can’t miss it.

Shit! one of his pals at the window exclaimed. Here they come. Let’s vamoose! They drew pistols, dashed out the door and took off down the street. Then all hell broke loose.

After the firing stopped, and the street quieted down, the African-American looked around, sizing up the situation. Four bodies sprawled here and there, littering the street and sidewalk with gore and blood puddles. He checked the shotgun for load, paused to consider his next move. Then he looked up and noticed me, standing in the bar behind the shattered window. He took a couple steps, bent down and retrieved his Uzi. Tucking the shotgun under his elbow, he calmly swapped Uzi clips and started toward the hotel door. No one seemed inclined to interfere.

This African American business is getting tiresome. Enough PC crap. He was a black man, okay? A very dark shade of Negro. Large. With dreadlocks. Homicidal. And most importantly, intent on taking that suitcase away from me.

The porter was cowering on his chair against the wall. Me, I didn’t need a written invitation. I grabbed the case and clutched it to my belly with both arms, like a fullback hitting the line against a goal-line stand. I dashed into the lobby, pivoted and plunged down a corridor toward the back of the building. My mind was running at warp speed. Extra clothes. Field gear. Passport. Return ticket. Travelers cheques. SIG and silencer. Everything essential but my wallet was back in my room, with no chance of getting to it. A few hundred bucks and some credit cards, all I had on me. The rest of my kit I’d have to come back for later. Much later. Right this minute, it was run-for-my-life. I reached the end of the corridor and glanced back to see the gunman just starting after me. I had a good head start on him and a good chance that I could outrun him, even schlepping that suitcase. The back door of the hotel put me in an alleyway. One end of the alley opened to a main street, the best bet to find a taxi, so I loped down there. Down the block, a beat-up Chevy cab sat at a corner taxi stand, good enough for me. I started for it just as the gunman emerged from the hotel and spotted me.

The driver was leaning languidly against the side of his car. Twenty bucks American if you can get me to the airport twice as fast as usual, I declared.

Yes sah! he replied, straightening up and springing to action. We piled into the cab, and he started the engine. As the car lurched away from the curb, the gunman came around the end of the alley. We were out of his range before he could react.

The airport wasn’t far, lying alongside the sparkling blue sea less than a mile away from the town center. The cabbie got me there with a ride that a NASCAR driver wouldn’t dare try on the track, scattering dust, roadside trash, pedestrians and cyclists, and cowing all other drivers into making way. Across the runway sat a weathered Huey chopper, rotor idling. I had the driver shoot me directly to the passenger side, bounced out and slapped a twenty into his palm. As he gushed his gratitude, I saw the gunmen’s car arrive at the airport entrance. I cut his effusions off with a hearty wave and clambered into the chopper.

Howdy, Fonko, long time no see, said the pilot

DRAGONFLY! Sitting there big as life, togged out in camo cargo pants, a well-used safari shirt and a flight helmet.

No time for niceties. The guy in that approaching car means to shoot me full of holes, I said. We ready to roll?

Up, up and away, he remarked, and he hit the throttle. The rotor gained speed, raising us from the tarmac and accelerating us into the clear blue sky. By the time the car reached the helipad, trying to bring us down with an Uzi would have been a futile gesture, and the gunman was pro enough to realize it.

DRAGONFLY, you may remember from my first memoir, was the CIA code name for Clyde Driffter, the renegade CIA ex-agent I’d been dispatched to Phnom Penh by the Agency to find in the closing days of the Viet Nam war. He’d reluctantly ferried me and Soh Soon back to civilization from his stronghold in the Cambodian hills, after which I’d hoped never again to lay eyes on him. He’d been a crack chopper jockey for Air America, a key player in the Laotian War-That-Wasn’t before a B-52 bombing raid in Cambodia sent him over the edge. After that… well, aside from being an international gunrunner, a drug smuggler and a psychopathic killer he wasn’t a bad sort, I suppose. He still looked the aw-shucks Nebraska farm boy, though the ensuing years of outdoor work had weathered his face and left a generous crinkle of wrinkles around his perpetually combat-alert eyes.

I don’t get it, I said as we vaulted aloft. What the hell kind of job is this?

I’m not sure, myself, he said, but it sounded like easy money, and I’m in no position to be choosy.

"Okay, but what about me? How did I get involved?"

I asked for you. They told me I should get a good man to ride shotgun. The amount they’re paying, I figured they wanted the best, and you’re the best.

What? After that Cambodia mess?

No hard feelings about Cambodia, Fonko. It was a dirty situation, but you played fair. We both come out clean. I’ve been keeping tabs on you since then, been hearin’ things. Cambodia was no fluke. The goddamn KGB has an operation keepin’ tabs on you. Those sonsabitches don’t fuck around.

If you only knew, I thought. Don’t put too much stock in things you hear, I said. What’s this job, then?

That suitcase you brought on board. We’re taking it to Cuba.

"Cuba? Jesus Christ, you gotta be kidding! Nobody told me about Cuba. What are we delivering?"

I don’t know. Like I said, I’m in no position to be choosy.

We’d reached cruising altitude, whapping north over the