“You’re not helping the problem if you’re helping the Chavistas.”
“The problem is the United States, and arrogant people like Brendan Worley who go around the world trying to clean up shit that’s none of their business. Shit that they make worse. Shit that gets American soldiers killed. And how do they clean up shit? With their own shit.”
“Okay… geopolitics is not my strong point, but—”
“Shit that makes the Taliban look like a Civil Affairs team. And it didn’t even work. It made things worse for the troops on the ground. If you’re going to kill people, at least get something out of it.”
“Right.” Brodie was sure that Mercer was talking about Operation Flagstaff, but Mercer hadn’t used the word, so neither did Brodie. That was for later. For now, Brodie asked, “I’m still not sure what you’re actually doing here.”
“I’m assassinating enemies of the Chavista regime, and making Worleylook bad. Maybe Washington will recall him, like they did in Afghanistan. But they’ll just send him someplace else to fuck up, because they’re stupid, and Worley tells everyone he’s smart. And instead of him paying for fucking up, he’s rewarded with another assignment.” He looked at Brodie. “In the real Army—the Army you and I served in—an officer with his track record would be relieved of his duties. But in the world Worley lives in—smoke and mirrors—the idiots think he’s doing a good job.”
“I’m sure he’s up for a star.”
“You can bet on it. But he won’t live long enough to enjoy it.”
“Well, I still think a court-martial might be a better way to end his career.”
Mercer ignored that and said, “Not many people know this, but the U.S. is training a paramilitary force in Colombia to invade Venezuela.”
Actually, Brodie had had two cabdrivers who knew that.
“This group is led by disaffected Venezuelan military officers, and funded by the U.S., of course. I’ll be ready to take these people on when I recruit more men. In the meantime, Worley has recruited anti-regime politicians, journalists, church people, business leaders, and army officers to help shape the narrative and hide America’s hand in this invasion if the invasion is successful in toppling the regime. My job is to kill these people, which I’m doing.” He added, “Worley is having a shit fit.”
“Right. But if you look at the bigger picture—”
“I like the small picture. And if Worley is recalled to the States, or reassigned to some other shithole, I’ll follow him to the ends of the earth. I’m playing the long game, and enjoying it, and he knows this.” He added, “He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he found out I was here.”
Brodie was reluctantly impressed with Mercer’s ambitious goals. If nothing else, they showed that he had retained some of the command discipline and tactical thinking that had been drilled into him. And that might be the only part of his mind that had retained any clarity.
Taylor, who had been listening closely, said, “If this is your life, and why you live it, I feel sorry for you.”
He looked at her. “I’m enjoying my life.”
“You enjoy this—?” She motioned at the dark jungle.
“I do. And when it comes out in the news someday that the famous deserter Kyle Mercer has raised an army in the Venezuelan jungle to assistthe socialist regime, I’ll be called the American Che Guevara.” Even Mercer thought megalomania was funny, and he laughed. Then he got serious and said, “Politics are shit. Politicians are scum. Soldiers are real. I am a soldier. I have not been broken. Not by the Taliban, and not by people like Brendan Worley.”
Brodie thought about that. Kyle Mercer was either suffering from the worst post-traumatic stress that Brodie had ever seen, or he’d found a new therapy for it.
Mercer continued, “And not by people like Ted Haggerty and his cronies who use and abuse soldiers.” He added, “CIA officers deserve to have their throats cut.”
Brodie glanced at Taylor, who might or might not agree with that.
Mercer concluded, “The law of the jungle is me.”
Brodie thought it might be best to move on before Señor Kyle insisted on showing them his shrunken heads collection. He said, “Kyle, there’s a question that’s been bugging us—bugging everyone in the Army. And in the country. Why did you, a Delta Force captain, desert?”
“I didn’t.”
“Were you abducted?”
“No, I was trying to keep from being abducted.”
“By whom?”
“By that asshole I was just talking to.”
“Okay. So—”
