Black Market

David Hudson… the mastermind?

West Point. 1966. Special Forces. Rangers.

Golden boy? The all-American boy?

Fort Bragg. JFK Special Warfare Center and School. Severe stress testing. Experimentation with drugs. Preparing Hudson for what?

Special terrorist training. By whose orders? Where did that particular chain of command end?

Carroll finally shut the pad in frustration. He absently studied Caitlin, the delicate curve of her spine as she stood with her back to him. The way she was poised on one foot-with the phone cord twisted around her waist.

What do I know that I don't know I know? Carroll's thoughts went back to Green Band.

Washington, D.C.? General Lucas Thompson? A genial white-haired liar. Somebody following me now.

For what reason? On whose orders?

He watched Caitlin put down the receiver.

“Vets Cabs and Messengers,” she said with a sudden grin. “They have a garage in the West Village.”

Carroll stood up. “Call Philip Berger. Then could you call Walter Trentkamp? Tell them to get their men organized, to meet me at-”

“There's more, Arch,” Caitlin interrupted.

She paused for just a beat. “David Hudson works there, too. He's been there for over a year. I think we've finally found Colonel Hudson. We've found Green Band.”

37

Just past midnight on December 19, Colonel David Hudson emotionally addressed the assembly of twenty-four Vets gathered inside the Jane Street garage.

“This has been a long and particularly hard mission for all of you,” he said. “I know that. But at each important stage you've done everything that has been asked of you… I feel very humble standing here before you.”

Hudson paused and looked at the upturned faces. “As we approach the final stages of Green Band, I want to stress one thing. I don't want anyone to take needless risks. Is that understood? Take no chances. Our ultimate goal from here on is zero KIA.”

Again Hudson paused. When he finally spoke, there was an uncharacteristic edge of emotion in his voice. “This will be our last mission together. Thank you once again. I salute you all.”

From that moment, Green Band was designed to be a thoroughly disciplined army-style field maneuver. Every possible detail had been scrutinized again and again.

The grease-stained garage doors at Vets Cabs and Messengers rolled open with a heavy metallic roar. Diffused amber headlights pierced the darkness.

Vets 5, Harold Freedman, ran outside the Vets building. He looked east and west on Jane Street, then began to bark orders like the army drill sergeant he'd once been.

It was just past 12:30 P.M.

If anyone in the West Village neighborhood saw the three army transport trucks emerge from the garage, they paid little attention, in the tried-and-true tradition of New Yorkers.

The trucks finally hurtled down West Street.

Colonel David Hudson crouched attentively on the passenger seat of the lead troop truck. He was in constant walkie-talkie contact with the two other troop transports… This was a disciplined field maneuver in every respect.

They were carefully moving into full combat again. None of them had realized how much they missed it. Even Hudson himself had forgotten the intense clarity that came before a major battle. There was nothing else like this in life, nothing like full combat.

“Contact. This is Vets One. You are to follow us straight down West Street to the Holland Tu

Two hours passed before the lead transport truck pulled to a shuddering stop at a military guardpost less than sixty yards off Route 35 in New Jersey. Over the wooden sentry box the sign read FORT MONMOUTH, UNITED STATES ARMY POST.

The private on duty had been very close to falling asleep. His eyes were glazed behind horn-rimmed glasses and his movements comically stiff as he approached the lead truck.

“Identification, sir.” The private cleared his throat. He spoke in a high-pitched whine and didn't look much more than eighteen years old to Hudson. Shades of Vietnam, of brutal wars fought by i

David Hudson silently handed across two plastic ID cards. The cards identified him as Colonel Roger McAfee of the Sixty-eighth Street Armory, Manhattan. The inspection that followed was pro forma. The regular guard-duty speech was given by the sentry.

“You may proceed, sir. Please obey all posted parking and traffic regulations while you are at Fort Monmouth. Are those transports behind you with you, sir?”

“Yes, we're going on bivouac. We're here to pick up supplies. Small arms and ammunition for our weekend in the country. Two helicopters have been requisitioned. They'll have the details inside. I'm to see Captain Harney.”

“You can all proceed, then, sir.”

The youthful sentry stepped aside. He crisply waved on the small army reserve convoy.

“Contact. This is Vets One.” As soon as they passed the gate, Colonel Hudson spoke into the PRC transmitter. “We're now less than twelve hours until the termination of operation Green Band. Everyone is to use extreme, repeat, extreme caution. We're almost home, gentlemen. We're almost home at last. Over and out.”

Inconspicuous and drab, the Vets garage on Jane Street wasn't the kind of place to draw attention. It sat in the middle of a West Village block, its large metal doors rusted and grease-stained and bleak.

At both ends of the block, the desolate street had silently been cordoned off. NYPD patrol cars were positioned everywhere around the garage. Carroll counted seventeen of them.

Beneath the darkened edifice of a Shell gas station, he could see unmarked FBI cars and as many as thirty heavily armed agents. Each of them watched the front of the garage with the kind of intensity that represented professionalism in the Bureau.

The police and the FBI agents carried M-16 automatic assault rifles, twelve-gauge shotguns, and.357 Magnums. It was as frightening an arsenal and attack force as Carroll had ever seen.

He leaned against his own car, studying the metal doors, the crooked, bleached sign that read VETS CABS AND MESSENGERS. He tapped his fingers nervously on the car hood.

Something was wrong here. Something was definitely wrong.

Arch Carroll peered hard in the direction of the Shell station. The FBI guys stood perfectly still, waiting for the signal that would bring them rushing into action.

At Carroll's side was Walter Trentkamp. He had kept Walter informed. Now Trentkamp was inside the dangerous maze with him.

Carroll took out his Browning. He turned the heavy weapon over in the palm of his hand and thought it was strange how some voice in his head was telling him to be careful. Careful, he thought. He hadn't been careful before-so why start now? He thought he knew why.

“Archer.” Walter nudged him. A black limousine was threading its way down the grim, quiet street.

Police Commissioner Michael Kane solemnly climbed out. The commissioner, whose street experience was limited and who was more politician than cop, had a gleaming bullhorn in one hand. He held it as if he'd never touched such a thing before.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, no,” Carroll muttered.

Commissioner Kane's voice echoed down the deserted West Village street. “Attention… this is Commissioner of Police Kane… You have one minute to emerge from the Vets garage. You have sixty seconds before we open fire.”

Carroll's eyes roamed over the red brick garage. He was tense, his neck and forehead damp. He slowly raised his pistol to the firing position.

The Vets garage remained quiet.

Something definitely wasn't right about this.