Sample Chapter-Catch Rope

Catch Rope Chapter 1
Jamaica, British Isles The black chevy suburban, with diplomatic license plates, pulled to a stop as the amber light turned to red. Ken Wilson, U.S. Agriculture Attache to Jamaica, turned to his wife, Ruth, who was sitting in the front seat beside him. “I’m anxious to get to the beach, Hon,” he said. “Seems like it’s been weeks since we’ve been able to take an outing with the kids.” Ruth patted his hand which was resting on the steering wheel. “It has been weeks, dear — you’ve been working yourself to death since Prime Minister Seaga called a state of emergency to try to put the economy back in gear.” “Yeah, Dad,” twelve year old David said from the rear seat, agreeing with his mom. “You haven’t had time to come to any of the baseball or soccer games. I was beginning to think I didn’t have a dad.” Smiling, Ken replied, “O.K. Dave, I’m guilty, but I promise to do better from now on.” “You promised to teach me how to do the back-stroke today, Dad,” eight year old Jennifer said, as she reached over the seat and placed an arm around his neck. “I never go back on a promise, Jenny. Today you will learn the back stroke.” Ken knew he had been neglecting his family lately, but it couldn’t be helped. The President had sent him down to Jamaica with orders to do every thing in his power to help Prime Minister Seaga reverse the sliding economy. The world price of bauxite, Jamaica’s principal export item, had dropped to zero, resulting in tens of thousands of Jamaicans losing their jobs. Adding to these problems, the world price for all agriculture commodities, another of Jamaica’s export items, had fallen drastically in recent years. With unemployment close to fifty percent, the unemployed had begun marching in the streets, demanding that the government do something — but the government was near bankruptcy and Seaga could do nothing. Elections were coming up, and the CIA had warned President Rose that the People’s National Party (PLP) could regain power, aligning Jamaica with Castro’s Cuba. With the northern shores of Jamaica less than one hundred miles from the southern shores of Cuba, the small island nation would be a prime target for complete take-over by Castro. For years Fidel Castro had been coveting Jamaica, believing that if he could gain control of 1its government, most of the other small island countries in the Caribbean would fall under his power. The U.S. had prevented him from taking over Grenada and Nicaragua, and he now had his eyes set on Jamaica. It seemed the light was taking longer than usual to change to green, and Ken impatiently was allowing the suburban to begin creeping into the intersection when he noticed two motorcycles approach from the rear, split and pull up beside him, one on either side. Without warning, each of the drivers suddenly raised their arms, pointing uzzies at the occupants of the suburban. Ken saw the flash from the muzzle and felt, rather than heard, the blast from the machine pistols. His mind went black and he was spared the sound of his wife and children screaming as the motorcyclists emptied their pistols into the suburban. His foot pressed the accelerator, his head, streaming blood, fell across the steering wheel, and the car sped across the intersection and careened into a light post on the opposite corner. The two motorcyclists turned left and sped from the scene. Baku, Azerbaijan The small twin engine plane bounced roughly as its landing gear touched down on the darkened runway of the Baku Airport. The rough landing was due to two reasons, the condition of the runway and the weather. Azerbaijan , located on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, had been a part of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics before the Berlin Wall collapsed and the Russian Empire fell in disarray. Many of the small countries had broken away from the Russian bear and had formed their own independent nations. Azerbaijan was one of those, and its economy had collapsed. It did, however,
possess one very valuable asset — the remains of some of Russia’s very deadly weapons of mass destruction which had been stored near Baku. As the plane rolled to a stop next to the small terminal, the door opened and a bespectacled gentleman stepped out, carrying a large brief case. Pausing, he turned up his coat collar and pulled his dark, fedora hat down around his ears as a light, freezing rain hit him in the face. Disgusted, he looked in all directions for the man who was supposed to meet him. The airport seemed deserted. Suddenly, a dilapidated auto appeared from behind the hanger, stopped next to him and a huge man stepped out, unfolding an umbrella. “Dr. Karish, I am Dr. Zerkov. Thank you for coming in this damned weather.” They stood beneath the protection of the umbrella and shook hands as Dr. Karish replied, “Damned weather is right, the sun was shining and the temperature was sixty degrees when I left Baghdad.” Dr. Zerkov assisted his visitor into the automobile, entered himself and closed the door, nodding to the driver to proceed. “I assume you brought the money,” he said, eying the large briefcase. “Yes,” the Iraqi replied, nodding. Smiling, Dr. Zerkov said, “It is only a short distance to the storage depot. I am certain you will be well pleased with the product.” Soon, the driver pulled to a stop before a small building which was surrounded by a tall, chainlink fence. A guard house, with windows broken and door ajar, stood abandoned before the padlocked gate. There were no lights. A sign hung crookedly on the gate, skull and cross-bones indicating danger, and letters in Russian announcing the presence of dangerous chemicals. Dr. Zerkov pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. The chain fell away and he pushed the gate open and walked toward the darkened building, shining a flash light along the pathway. Dr. Karish followed closely behind. Another key was inserted into the locked door, a turn, a push , and the flash light disclosed several refrigeration units lined along a wall. Dr. Zerkov shined the light to a group of small, round insulated liquid nitrogen canisters and picked one up and carried it to the first refrigeration unit. Opening the lid, he stepped back as a fog of cold air boiled from the opened container. Opening the door of the refrigeration unit, he carefully removed a small frozen vial of yellow liquid, held it for Dr. Karish’s inspection, then carefully placed it in the liquid nitrogen container and fastened the lid. “Smallpox virus,” he said. “A very hot, weaponized strain which the Soviets were arming their missiles with. I am certain that this will fulfill your requirements.” 2 “Yes,” Dr. Karish smiled. “It will be sufficient.” They walked from the building, locked the door and the gate and returned to the automobile. As the driver drove to the airport, Dr. Karish placed the briefcase on his lap, opened the lid disclosing large packages of U.S. thousand dollar bills. “Five-hundred thousand, according to our agreement,” he said. Dr. Zerkov reached out and picked up one of the packages and lovingly thumbed the bills apart. Smiling, he replaced the package and said, “Remember, there is always more where that came from, also anthrax and ebola.” The Iraqi smiled and replied, “I will remember.” Hereford, Texas “It’s for you, Buster,” Sheriff Pete Blackwell said, handing the phone to his chief deputy. “Deputy Buster Thornton, what can I do for you?” Buster said to the phone. “Buster, this is the President,” the phone said. “The president of what?” Buster asked, impatiently. “The president of the United States of America, you dumb goat roper!” the phone responded. Buster swallowed, then stammered, “J-J-Jim? I’m sorry — Mr. President?” “Yeah, it’s me, Buster — you know, the team roper from the University that you and George always cheated out of the championship. I still can’t believe that a couple of cotton farmers from Texas Tech could throw a rope the way you did.”
Buster regained his composure, laughed and replied, “It was those West Texas winds, Mr. President. Learn to catch a steer in a fifty mile an hour wind, and you can do it under any adverse conditions,” then added, “Why would the President of the U.S. of A. be calling a little ole Deputy Sheriff from Deaf Smith County, Texas?”
The President’s tone of voice became serious as he said, “I need your help, Buster. Reckon you could come up and give me a hand?” “My mama always told me to never refuse the request of the President. But since I’m sure you don’t need any help roping steers in Washington City, could I ask what you think I could do to help you?” “I’d rather not say until you get here. Pack that long barreled pistol and enough clothes to stay awhile. I’ll send a plane to pick you up, two hours — let me speak to Pete.”
“He wants to talk to you, Pete.” Buster handed the phone to Sheriff Blackwell, “Must be pretty damned important, wants me to be ready to travel in two hours.” He subconsciously pulled his Skoal can from his shirt pocket and placed a pinch of snuff between his lip and teeth. “This is the Sheriff, Mr. President.” “Pete, I need the services of your deputy — can you spare him for a few weeks?” “Certainly, Mr. President. Things are kinda quiet in Deaf Smith County since we corralled those terrorists. Buster could probably use a change of climate and a little more action.” “Thanks, Pete. Wish I could tell you more, but this is one of those highly secret things, and
if you knew what it was, I’d have to kill you.” Pete laughed, nervously, not knowing if the president was serious or just making a joke. He heard a chuckle coming from the phone, so assumed it had been a joke. **** * As Buster packed his clothes, his mind recalled when he had first met Jim Rose, former Governor of the State of Texas and now President of the United States. He and his college roommate, George Autry, were members of the Texas Tech Rodeo team and two of the best team ropers in the conference. It was the final rodeo of the year and Tech was running second in points to the University’s cowboys. Jim Rose was the University’s all-star roper, along with his team mate, Carlton Miller.
Rose – Miller were the first out of the box and caught and threw their steer in six seconds flat. For college amateurs, that was fast! Every one knew that they had the championship sewed up — every one, that is, except Thornton and Autry. Before they backed their horses into the box, Buster winked at George and said, “Piece of cake, partner — two jumps out of the box and I’ll have his 3 horns. Be ready.” George nodded, adjusted his loop and backed his horse into the box. Buster was true to his word, hitting the ribbon at the same time the steer bolted from the chute, two jumps, and his rope sailed neatly over the steers horns. The rope tightened as he wheeled his horse to the left and dallied his rope around the horn of his saddle. At the same time, George let fly his lariat which curled neatly under the steers belly, the two hind feet stewed into the noose, and the steer hit the ground.” The crowd was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, until the time keeper announced over the loud speaker, “Five point nine!” The crowd screamed! Tech had won over the highly favored University team. Jim Rose was the first to reach Buster as he pulled his horse up beside the Tech cowboy. He was smiling ear to ear as he stuck his hand out and said, “Best catch I’ve ever seen. I can’t complain about being beat by a five-nine time. Congratulations, I’m Rose — Jim Rose.” Buster took the outstretched hand, shook it and said, “Thanks, Jim — Buster Thornton. I ‘spect an old blind sow will find an acorn now and then. It took a measure of luck to beat your six seconds.” Jim held onto Buster’s hand as he said, “Me and Carlton are going to make a few stops at the water troughs down on sixth street after we put up our horses. Why don’t you and George join us?” “Best offer I’ve had all day,” Buster responded. A few stops was putting it mildly, they stumbled back to the dorm about three o’clock the next morning, and had started a friendship that would last a lifetime.
**** * Two hours later, Buster was waiting at the small county airport when a sleek F-16 air force jet from Cannon Air Base, set down softly on the macadam runway. Cannon was located only sixty miles southwest of Hereford, and Major Jenkins had held his altitude at only one thousand feet above the flat farm land after leaving the end of the base runway. Eight minutes later, he was pulling the sleek jet to a stop at the small terminal building at Hereford Municipal. Opening the canopy, he stepped out of the cockpit and greeted Buster. “Major Jenkins, Mr. Thornton. My orders were to pick you up and get you to D.C. as quickly as possible. Going to be a little crowded, won’t have room for anything larger than an overnight bag. You probably need to UPS that larger bag.” Buster shook the major’s hand, nodded and said, “Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll have Juanita take care of it,” as he picked up the bag and disappeared inside the terminal. Juanita and her husband, Bill, were managers of the small county airport. She looked up from her desk as Buster entered her office. “Juanita, could you UPS this bag, overnight, to the White House for me?” he asked the matronly attendant, the only person in the small building. “The White House where, Buster?” she asked, picking up a pen and pad. “The White House, Washington, D.C.,” he replied, a little impatiently. A look of disbelief covered her face as she said, “You’re joking, aren’t you Buster?” “Afraid not, Juanita. Just do it. Thanks,” as he turned and walked out the door. Juanita watched with her mouth open as Buster climbed into the cockpit of the jet behind the pilot, and the plane taxied down the runway. Within seconds it was airborne and disappearing into the clouds. The White House, Washington D.C. Buster did a lot of thinking from forty thousand feet as the jet cruised at nearly twice the speed of sound. What could be so important that the President of the United States would send for him, refusing to tell him the purpose of the request. True, he and the President had been friends since college days, but this didn’t sound like it was going to be a friendship meeting. He remembered when Jim had run for and was elected governor of Texas, and he had sent Buster a special invitation to attend the inauguration. He had even sat with the family as the new governor had taken the oath of office. He had also attended the inauguration when Jim was elected President. Several times, Jim had invited him down to his ranch in the hill country when he had gotten 4 bored with politics. They had spent the day roping steers, drinking beer and dipping snuff. Buster couldn’t help but laugh when he remembered those days, a couple of red-necks having a good time. Who would have ever thought that a beer drinking, snuff dipping Texas cowboy would some day be the most powerful man in the world — and would be asking for help from an old college buddy. What kind of help remained to be seen. you?” The intercom crackled, “What did you say, Mr. Thornton? Wouldn’t be feeling sick, would “Nothing, Major — something just struck me funny, nothing you would understand.” Then he remembered the murder, and the terrorist biological attack on the Panhandle cattle feeding industry. Two million head of cattle had been quarantined with foot and mouth disease and Governor Rose had toured the area, coming close to being killed when a hidden gunman, shooting at Buster, hit the governor in the wrist. Their friendship had strengthened and grown through the years, and now the president was calling on him for help. “Unbelievable,” he said to himself. The President’s helicopter was waiting at Andrews Air Base when they landed two hours later. Buster thanked Major Jenkins, climbed into the huge chopper and followed a marine corporal to one of the seats in the plush cabin. Sitting down, it began to dawn upon him the new world he had just entered. He
had always been able to keep a level head whether he was facing down a drug addict’s Smith and Wesson, a brahma bull bent on destroying him and his horse, or a terrorist sighting down on him with a thirty-ought-six — but a ride in a supersonic air force jet, the president’s private helicopter, and a secret mission for the most powerful man in the world was almost more than he could comprehend. His heart raced, his hands shook and sweat covered his brow. He was brought back to reality when the marine corporal said, “Here sir, let me help you with that seat belt.” He realized that his hands were shaking so much, he had been unable to fasten the buckle. “Thanks,” was all he could get out as he reached in his shirt pocket for his Skoal. The corporal disappeared to the back as the big chopper lifted off the pad, circled and headed for the White House. “You might need this, sir,” the corporal said with a smile as he returned and handed him a small styrofoam cup. “The president might object if you spit on his floor.” Buster had not even realized that he had filled his lip with the Skoal, looked at the corporal with an embarrassed grin on his face as he took the cup and said, “Thanks.” The huge chopper set down softly on the White House lawn and Buster was greeted by another marine, a sergeant this time, who said, “If you will please follow me, sir. The President is waiting.” “Lord have mercy on a poor Texas cowboy,” Buster thought as he followed the sergeant into the White House. **** * They walked down the hallway of the West Wing of the White House, past several serious looking men, dressed in dark business suits who Buster immediately identified as Secret Service. The small flesh colored ear pieces with almost invisible wires disappearing inside their shirt collars gave them away. Each one examined him closely as he and the sergeant walked by. He was a stranger in their domain, and a potential danger to the man who occupied the Oval Office. Buster expected at any time to be stopped, frisked and questioned, however, it didn’t happen. He noticed several inconspicuous metal detectors as they walked by. The carpeted hallway absorbed the sound of their shoes as the sergeant led them to the door of the President’s office. An agent, who had been waiting, opened the door and they entered, unannounced. President Jim Rose was waiting near the door. “Buster, good to see you!” President Rose said as he shook Buster’s hand. The sergeant exited the Oval Office, leaving the two old friends alone. Buster responded, “Thanks, Mr. President — good to see you again, it’s been awhile.” “Too long! And drop the ‘Mr. President’, Buster. My friends still call me Jim.” “Alright, Jim. I must say, when you want something done, it doesn’t take long to do it. Fighter jets and helicopters — I can’t believe that just three hours ago I was getting out of my Chevy Blazer at the airport in Hereford.” “It comes with the territory, Buster — but still not as fast as that five-point-nine that you 5 posted to kick me out of the championship down in Austin. I’m still smarting from that loss.” “Everyone deserves at least one defeat in life, Jim. It makes you feel humble.” The President laughed, “Touche, Buster — I am humbled.” He motioned for Buster to sit down as he walked behind the cluttered desk and sat in the custom-made swivel chair. Buster looked around the huge office and smiled as he saw a saddle on a stand in the corner, a plaque above it announced that it had been won by Jim Rose as the outstanding collegiate cowboy in the Southwest Conference. The walls were plastered with mementos of his other accomplishments — Governor’s flag of the State of Texas, a picture of him in his flight suit standing before a sleek F- 14 jet fighter, and other photos of him shaking hands with heads of nations from all over the world. Removing the skoal from his shirt pocket, Buster took a pinch and offered the can to the President. “Cowboy tobacco! Don’t mind if I do, Buster. Not many folks up here dip and I almost got out of the habit.”
Buster pitched the can across the desk and Jim caught it, took a pinch and placed it between his lip and gums. Smiling, he pitched it back. “Damn, it’s good to see old home folks across this desk, Buster,” he said, “gets kinda lonesome not having someone around with cow shit on their boots — but you may not be as happy as I am after I tell you why I called you up.”
Buster had been dying to ask him why all the secrecy, but figured it was his call. He waited for Jim to continue. He did not have long to wait, Jim Rose had always been a man of action, and he didn’t waste time getting to the point, even though he would have liked to spend some time just shooting the bull about old times.
“Ever been to Jamaica, Buster?” “No — really never had any desire to make one of those cruises. Salt water and beaches just don’t appeal to me — especially not since Viet Nam.” Jim paused, as if not knowing how to further approach the subject. Finally he continued. “Jamaica is a beautiful place — nice climate, pretty beaches, nice people. Laid back, nobody ever gets in a hurry — they like to enjoy life. But they have a problem, and that problem has suddenly erupted into my problem. My agriculture attache in Kingston, Ken Wilson, his wife and two small children were murdered — slaughtered in their automobile while they were stopped at a red light in downtown Kingston. I don’t have much confidence that the Jamaican police will be successful in tracking down the killers.” Buster nodded, “I read about it,” he said. “Things like this don’t just happen in Jamaica. This was not a robbery, Buster, nor a hate crime. It was premeditated, politically motivated and I believe was ordered by Fidel Castro, himself. But I have no proof. I want you to go down and snoop around and see what you can find out.” “Why me, Jim? You’ve got FBI, CIA, Army Intelligence and a hundred other law enforcement agencies under your jurisdiction who are much more capable than I am.” “Caution and confidence, Buster. Caution in that I don’t know how deep the water is — confidence in a friend. I need someone who answers to no one but me, someone I know I can trust — someone who is not known in the international arena. You see, Ken’s mission in Jamaica was known to very few people. I sent him down at Prime Minister Seaga’s request, officially as Agriculture Attache at the Embassy — unofficially, he was there because Seaga believes that Castro is plotting to overthrow the Jamaican government and set up his brother, Raoul, as El Presidente. Someone talked — either someone close to Seaga, or someone in my circle. As a result, an entire family has been murdered. I need you to find out who did it and why it was done.” Buster, frowning, got up from his chair, ran his fingers through his hair, and paced the room. Walking over to the saddle, he rubbed the smooth leather with his hand as he stared at the rope which was coiled around the horn. Removing the rope, he subconsciously made a loop and swung it over his head. The rope flew threw the air and encircled a large easy chair. Walking to the chair, he removed the rope, recoiled it and placed it back on the saddle. He could always think better with a rope in his hands. This was not a job for him, he decided. It wasn’t that he was afraid for himself, he just wasn’t capable. True, he had been trained as a law enforcement officer, how to track down drug dealers, bank robbers, petty thieves and murderers but he knew nothing about Jamaica, foreign affairs, conspiracy or espionage. While he paced he was searching, “Where the hell you keep your spittoon,” he asked angrily. 6 The President laughed, pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out two styrofoam cups. Handing one to Buster, he said, “I think they removed the spittoons during Roosevelt’s term. If you hadn’t been foaming at the mouth, you wouldn’t need to spit. I thought you were looking for a way back to Texas, not a place to spit.” “I was — dammit, Jim, I’m not qualified for this job. I’m just a deputy sheriff in a small, West Texas county. What you are asking me to do is way out of my league.”
“Way out of your league? You forget who you’re talking to, Buster. This is your old roping buddy, Jim. You came from the same background as me, and if I thought the way you seem to think, I would have never taken this job. No, the job doesn’t make the man — the man makes the job. And I know you’re the man for the job. You proved yourself when you solved that foot and mouth mystery when the FBI and CIA both were stumped. They were all convinced, and even convinced me, that foreign terrorists were responsible — you proved that organized crime was behind it all. I hate to say it but you made our government agents look like a bunch of school children, as well as kept us out of a war in the middle east.”
Buster smiled, “Remember what I told you when George and I won the team roping championship? An old blind sow will find an acorn once in awhile, if she’s lucky. That’s what I had with the cattle quarantine — a large dose of luck.” “You might make your mama believe that, but not me, Buster. It was good detective work, pure and simple. Now you going to help me or not?”
“Yeah, I’m going to help you! How could I refuse, you’re my friend. I just hope you’re not placing too much confidence in my so-called ability.” “Good!” Punching the intercom button on his desk, Jim spoke, “Helen, ask Jeb to come in.” Immediately, the door opened and a large, muscular, middle-aged, gray haired man stepped into the room and walked quickly to Buster with his arm out-stretched.
“Buster, meet Jeb Stewart, my National Security Advisor.” Buster took his hand and was pleased with the firm grip as they shook. He could see a kindly glint in Jeb’s eye, and a mischievous grin curling his lips as he said, with a distinct Georgia accent, “Good to meet you Buster. Jim’s told me a lot about you, I hope this means that you’re going to be a part of our team.” “Pleased to meet you, Jeb — I’ve heard a lot about you. Sometimes the news media works you over pretty good. Just what the hell’s going on. You couldn’t have been more than three feet away from that door. Does the president keep you that close all the time?” The President spoke, “I asked him to come down before you arrived, Buster. I knew you would agree to help and I didn’t want to waste any time. Jeb, why don’t you tell Buster what you’ve got lined up.” Helen came in with a tray and three cups of steaming coffee as Jim and Jeb sat down. Jeb waited until she closed the door behind her before continuing. “We don’t intend to send you down there cold, Buster. We’re going to put you through a crash course, beginning early tomorrow morning. Everything you should know about Jamaica — type of government, officials, political parties, the economy, geography, etc. The language will be no problem since it is an English speaking nation, but Jim tells me that you speak pretty good Spanish, which will help around those Cubans who have infiltrated the country.” Buster smiled and interjected, “Not Spanish, Jeb — Tex-Mex. There’s a difference.” Jeb nodded and continued, “Officially, you are going down as a business man, interested in investing in the sugar industry. Unofficially, you will be looking for Ken’s murderer as well as evidence of the Cuban’s plans to unseat Seaga’s government.” Buster interrupted and asked once more, “Why me, Jeb. I thought the CIA was responsible for this kind of covert activity.” “Secrecy, Buster, for two reasons. First, just in case someone in the CIA is feeding Castro information, and second, Congress. As you probably are aware, since the ‘arms for hostage’ fiasco during Reagan’s administration, Congress doesn’t want us meddling in Central American affairs. Some of those bastards up on the hill don’t believe there is still a danger of Castro and the communists taking over all of Latin America. They’ve passed legislation that makes it difficult to do anything which might be interpreted as interfering in the internal affairs of Jamaica or any of the other small island democracies. The President doesn’t want to be caught in any kind of activity that might smell illegal.” The President interrupted, “We’ll get started in the morning. In the meantime, you’ll be bunking here at
the White House until you complete your orientation, Buster. All I ask is that you 7 don’t wear your spurs while you’re sleeping in Lincoln’s bed.” They all laughed. **** *
One week later, Jeb informed the President that Buster was ready. Once again, the three of them met in the Oval Office and Jim began to grill Buster. “What kind of government does Jamaica have?” “Jamaica is an independent state, a parliamentary democracy and a member of the British Commonwealth of Nations. Like Canada, the Queen of England is also the Queen of Jamaica. There are two major political parties, the Jamaican Labour Party and the People’s National Party. Elections are held every five years, and whichever party receives the most votes appoints the Prime Minister. Political power lies within the parliament which consists of a House and Senate of twenty-one members, fourteen of them nominated by the Prime Minister and eight by the leader of the opposition. The JLP is presently in power, with Edward Seaga as Prime Minister. Seaga is a friend of the U.S. The PNP is headed by P.J. Patterson and tends to espouse ‘democratic socialism’. It is pretty well aligned with Fidel Castro.”
“Good, Buster. What do you know about the economy?” “The economy depends upon three major industries, tourism, bauxite and agriculture. The largest foreign exchange earner is tourism, grossing nearly a billion dollars. Bauxite, the raw material of aluminum, is mined and exported. It is the principal employer of the masses. The world glut of bauxite has destroyed the price, which reflects on the high unemployment rate and the present economic slump. Agriculture is a major contributor to the economy, but like bauxite, the world price of sugar, coffee, papaya and yams has fallen drastically. Jamaican farmers are on the verge of bankruptcy, and as a result, have begun to replace traditional crops with marijuana, known as ganga. It has been estimated that revenue from the production and sale of marijuana now surpasses tourism or bauxite.” “Why are you going to Jamaica, Buster?” “I’m looking to buy raw sugar, which I plan to ship to Texas where I will process it into refined sugar at an abandoned refinery in Hereford.” “But there are import quotas established on each Caribbean nation. How do you plan to get Jamaican sugar into the U.S.?” “Since the North American Free Trade Alliance, NAFTA, was signed, there are no quotas or duties on Mexican or Canadian sugar — I intend to unload the sugar at Tampico, Mexico, load it on trucks, and take it across the border at McAllen. I should be able to purchase the sugar for four or five cents a pound and sell it on the U.S. market for twenty-five cents a pound.” President Rose nodded, then asked, “And the Geography of the Island, Buster. As a businessman interested in investing in the sugar industry, you will be expected to travel extensively around the island. We suspect that Castro already has terrorist cells established in the remote areas of the mountains. You will need to know the trails as well as you know the back roads back in Texas.” “I’ve got a lot to learn about the physical features of the island, Jim. Basically, it seems that most of the island is mountainous, with peaks as much as seven thousand feet above sea level. There are many rivers flowing out of the mountains which have formed fertile valleys where much of the sugar is produced..” “I understand you have a private pilots license, Buster,” Jeb interrupted. “We have several small planes based at the Norman Manley International Airport in Kingston, which you can use to familiarize yourself with the area. Also, we are assigning a twenty-eight foot fishing boat which is anchored in the marina at Kingston for your use.” “You think he’s ready, Jeb?” “Yes, sir, he’s ready.” The President arose, stepped from behind his desk and took the rope from the saddle, made a loop, twirled it over his head and snagged the same chair that Buster had nailed the first day.
Removing the rope, he recoiled it and handed it to Buster as he said, “Alright, Buster — code name of this operation is CATCH ROPE. You will have four contacts, myself, Jeb, Seaga, and Charlie Rose, an NSA agent in Jamaica. Do not trust anyone else. If you feel you need help, call the White House and ask for Catch Rope — it will pass you through to either Jeb or me — we’ll get it to you, pronto. We do not know how deep Castro’s infiltration has gone in Jamaica, probably inside
8 parliament, and we suspect that he has contacts here in D.C., maybe even here in the White House. Good luck and watch your back.” Taking his skoal can from his shirt pocket, Buster took a pinch and placed it between his lip and gums, smiled nervously and said, “Catch Rope? A helluva name for an international conspiracy,” as he handed the snuff to the President. The President’s helicopter was waiting to carry him to Andrews Air Base, where he boarded an unmarked Lear jet, which carried him south to Kingston, Jamaica. ******************************************************************************