Retribution Road by Jon Coon (e reader comics .TXT) 📕

It was a DEA/FBI operation now. Tom was both disappointed and relieved. Even with the loss of the Crystal River sub, it would still be the biggest bust in the history of the DEA. He sat beside his computer waiting for news of the hundreds of arrests and tons of drugs confiscated. It wasn’t a long wait. Headlines flashed across TV screens everywhere. It was the largest coordinated operation in the history of the war on drugs. Thousands of officers made hundreds of arrests. Well-known businesses were implicated as were several national-level politicians and judges. Tom rocked back in his chair, humming “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and saluting the screen with a double shot of single malt.

Gabe came in, and Tom called him over to watch. “We did it, son. We really did it.”

Gabe grabbed a Coke from the cooler and watched as reports came in from across the East Coast. A network of dealers far larger than anyone would have guessed was going down in flames in national media. One network reported the annual volume of illegal drug purchases in the US to be over $100 billion per year, and another set the estimate at over twice that much. Costs for treatment of illegal drug abuse mostly paid by American taxpayers were estimated at nearly $200 billion per year. Other studies suggested the cost of criminal activities associated with drugs approached another $200 billion per year or roughly $1,800 per year per US citizen. Add to that the cost of government and law enforcement efforts in the pursuit of the drug networks and the tab nearly doubled.

“That’s staggering,” Gabe said.

“We made a dent. Might be only a small dent, but someone’s going to feel it.”

Tom had hoped to destroy Caldera’s empire, already close to collapse. If Jimmy the Geek’s intel was correct, these raids would be catastrophic.

Now for the final act.

It was nearly dusk when the five planes arrived. The squadron included two North American B-25 Mitchells, named for Billy Mitchell, a pioneer of US military aviation, and the most built and flown medium bomber of WWII; a Martin B-26 Marauder, known for having the highest survival rate of WWII bombers; a rare Douglas A-26 Invader; and the most unique, a Lockheed P-38, known as a “fork-tailed devil,” because of its tri-hull, twin-boom design. All twin-engine, medium-range fighter bombers, they touched down on the grass beside the tarmac to save their tires and taxied to waiting hangars where doors were quickly pulled closed behind them and unpacking began.

Tool chests, spray painting equipment, metal ammo crates, and tanks of napalm were quickly removed and hidden. The planes wouldn’t see daylight again with any markings identifying them as Commemorative Air Force. In fact, by the time the paint crews were done, the planes wouldn’t be recognized at all.

Tom walked into the first hangar, where one of the B-25 Mitchells was being unloaded. He stepped up behind three flight crew members in jumpsuits with multiple flight patches who were talking among themselves. He greeted them and then took a step backward as one of them turned around, removed her CAF ball cap, and shook out her long, dark-red, radiant hair.

“Hi, Dad. How are you?” She waited for him to regain his composure before approaching and giving him a hug and kiss.

“What are—”

“Henry let me fly left seat and it felt good. It’s been way too long. Besides, with your team already here, they were a little shorthanded.”

“Henry let—”

“Hey, Tom.” Henry Atkins, president of CAF, greeted him. “Didn’t think you’d mind. It’s great to have Carol back with us again.”

“Just great …”

Gabe came in, saw Carol and was just as surprised. “What are you …”

“Dad asked me that same thing. I just came for the show and to check up on you two. Everything is good at the ranch, and I hired extra security to watch the kids. I was getting worried, not hearing from either of you.”

“Things have been …”

“Busy? We were just starting to get news about the drug busts. That’s huge. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

“Just a little. How are the kids?”

“They miss you. So do I.” Over Gabe’s shoulder Carol saw ammo boxes being unloaded. She turned to look for Tom, but he was long gone.

“What are those?” she asked.

“You’ll have to ask your dad. It’s his show. I’m just along for the ride. Come on. Let’s get you out of here. There’s a good little restaurant not too far, and then we’ll have to find you some place to stay. We’ve been here on cots, but we can do better than that for you.”

“A cot will be fine. But right now I’m starved.”

Back in the Gulf, at 171 feet deep, Juan Caldera waited until he was certain the Coast Guard had left the area. He opened the compressed air tanks and blew the ballast water. The sub silently rose from the bottom to periscope depth. After using the digital optics to scan the night sea, he brought the sub up just enough that the conning tower and hatch would be dry, then opened the hatch.

Air in the sub was stale. The night air and Atlantic breeze were cool and refreshing. He couldn’t remember the last time he was alone, this far out at sea, and this far away from everyone and everything he loved. But he was on a mission and motivated by hate and a burning desire for revenge.

He watched a satellite move quickly across the night sky and wondered if it was sending back his image to monitors at NSA or FBI. He raised a single-finger salute and cursed them all. He saw a single navigation light perhaps ten miles off to the north. As it approached, it flashed long, short, long, short. Their recognition signal. Caldera lifted his handheld spotlight and returned the signal. He waited and watched as the sixty-five-foot bottom fishing boat motored steadily toward him.

He went below and increased the sub’s