by Peter Nealen
Aziz might be scared shitless, but his ego was keeping him underwater. Hancock could see that much, even as the man gave him an “OK” sign. I guess that massive self-regard of yours has some use, after all, Aziz.
Childress was next to Hart, and Wade seemed to be handling himself. The others were moving with the deliberate but practiced movements of men knocking the rust off a skill long unused.
Flanagan was already kicking out to start his laps around the pool, even before Santelli signaled to do so. Hancock knew why. A rebreather wasn’t comfortable when stationary. The slight positive pressure in the breathing loop tended to overpower the diver’s lung capacity to some extent, leading to the condition known as “chipmunk cheeks,” as oxygen was forced into the diver’s mouth faster than they could breathe it in. So, to be comfortable, the rig needed to be worked. And worked hard.
With one more look around, assuring himself that they didn’t have anyone about to explode, he turned and followed.
***
The team did four laps around the Olympic sized pool before Santelli stopped, sitting on the bottom in the deep end. He reached up, closed his regulator, then unbuckled his rebreather, pulled it off, and stowed it under his weight belt on the bottom of the pool. Then he looked around at the rest of the team and held up four fingers, signaling them to surface. Without waiting for the rest of them, he kicked upward.
The rest of the team followed suit. It wasn’t much of a train-up, but it was all they had time for, and neither Brannigan nor Hancock had been comfortable launching into the insert without making sure everyone knew how to handle their rig. It was dangerous; in its own way, it was even more dangerous than the jump into Burma. But there simply was no time.
Once they had all surfaced, Brannigan hauled himself up to sit on the edge of the pool. “All right, get your breath, then head down and retrieve your gear. Post-dive, then head back to the hotel and get a couple of hours’ rest. We’ve got four hours from right now until we need to leave for the rendezvous with Dalca’s people.” He waited a moment, then slipped back into the water and dove for the bottom.
Time was a-wasting. They needed to move.
***
He, Curtis, and Flanagan were almost back to the hotel when the phone rang. He pointed, and Flanagan fished it out of the cup holder in the center console.
“It’s our favorite former General,” Flanagan said dryly.
“Answer it,” Brannigan said.
“You’re on speaker, Van Zandt,” Flanagan said. Flanagan had never had any direct dealings with Van Zandt. His dislike stemmed from a combination of the enlisted man’s perpetual distrust of the brass, the nagging suspicion that, as mercenaries, they were eventually going to be sold out by their employer, and his own loyalty to Brannigan. Van Zandt had presided over Brannigan’s forced retirement for doing what had been necessary to save hostages. Flanagan disliked such people on principle.
“The Mexicans gave it another shot,” Van Zandt said, without comment on Flanagan’s greeting. “An amphib insert this time. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but not a single boat got closer than a nautical mile.”
“No idea at all?” Brannigan asked.
“There were reports of explosions out on the water,” Van Zandt said. “That’s it. Huerta lost all contact with Lieutenant Oquendo at that time, and was never able to reestablish it.”
“When was this?” Flanagan asked.
If Van Zandt was irritated about answering questions from anyone but Brannigan, he didn’t show it in his voice. “Contact was lost about ninety minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago, a message, apparently from the hijackers, was uploaded to the internet.”
“Have you got a link?” Brannigan asked, pulling the car over.
“Sending it now,” Van Zandt replied.
Flanagan handed him the phone, as a text message with a link popped up. Brannigan tapped it, wondering what he was getting into. Propaganda messages from terrorists were rarely what he would call “good, clean, family entertainment.”
The video was surprisingly crisp, but it didn’t show much detail for all that. Part of it was because the majority of the frame was taken up by a face wearing a balaclava and sunglasses. There was no way to even identify whether the face belonged to a man or a woman.
“We are Los Valientes,” the heavily distorted voice announced. “We control the oil platform Tourmaline-Delta. The revolution begins now! We have struck twice against the corrupt puppets of the Americans, the hopeless sheep who call themselves defenders of Mexico. I warn you, gringo puppets, do not attempt to approach this platform again. If you do, the consequences will be more terrible than you can bear.”
The video ended.
Brannigan frowned down at the phone. “That’s peculiar,” he said.
“Yeah,” Curtis ventured from the back seat. “Don’t these assholes usually have a more, I dunno, long-winded manifesto? That sounded like a kid playing at being a terrorist.”
“Whoever these bastards are,” Van Zandt said over the phone, “they’re not kids. They’re far too sophisticated. And I don’t know of any group called Los Valientes, much less one well-established enough to be able to summon up the resources these clowns have.”
“Los Valientes is Spanish for ‘The Valiant Ones,’” Flanagan said quietly. “It’s the nickname for the narcos among some of the locals, particularly in Sinaloa, who look at them more as Robin Hoods than bloodthirsty savages.”
“I think it’s a blind, Mark,” Brannigan said. “Like Curtis said, it’s too pat, and too amateurish. They’re trying to throw us off the scent.”
“But why bother?” Van Zandt asked. His frustration was clear in his voice; this wasn’t a new question. “What’s their endgame? Who are they? And if they’re not going to make any demands, why the hell are they still sitting out there?”
“Stealing oil, maybe?” Flanagan suggested. “That’s turned into big money for the cartels, lately.”
“Maybe,” Brannigan mused, “but somehow this doesn’t feel like that. Any ship that was going to take the oil off would have to get past the blockade that the Mexican Navy has put around the platform.” He shook his head. “No, there’s got to be something else going on here. You don’t launch simultaneous mass-casualty attacks across the borderlands just to cover for an oil robbery.”
He straightened and began to pull back out onto the road. It was utterly deserted at that time of night. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The mission’s still on. Maybe if any of these punks survive, we can ask them what the point of the whole show was.”
Chapter 9
None of the Blackhearts looked particularly chipper. The sun was just rising, and if any of them had gotten a full three hours of sleep, it would have been a miracle. Brannigan knew that his own eyes felt gritty and aching as he drove across the bridge toward the rendezvous.
They were still in civilian clothes, at least for the moment. The gear and weapons were in duffel bags in the backs of the vehicles. They weren’t worried about checkpoints; the advantage to staging in Texas was that nothing they were carrying was illegal. Questionable, maybe. A cop might wonder why they were rolling with chest rigs, combat loads, dive gear, and Broco torches. But not illegal.
Of course, that meant they didn’t have the kind of explosives and pyrotechnics they might otherwise have wanted to bring along. No frags, no flashbangs, no breaching charges. Van Zandt might have managed to find some for them and run top cover with law enforcement, but there simply hadn’t been time.
Most of Portland, Texas was still asleep as they rolled through. There was enough traffic on the streets that they didn’t stand out, but there weren’t going to be many eyes on them.
He had to wonder about that as he drove. He glanced in the rearview mirror, ignoring Curtis’ snoring in the back seat. So far, there had been signs aplenty that the enemy, as yet unidentified, had spotters everywhere. Was somebody making note of traffic, and sending possible target profiles to strike teams e
ven then?
Who are these guys? Who has the kind of resources that this operation would need? He was reminded of the cartels, again, and their networks of halcones, usually young kids paid to spot for the sicarios and smugglers. But this didn’t feel like a cartel op. The cartels were businesses and tribal political movements. Even cults. This was something else. So far, it appeared to be terror and destruction for the sake of terror and destruction.
They hit the interchange on the outskirts of Gregory, and turned southeast, on Highway 361. He watched the mirrors and watched the surrounding traffic, as thin as it was. His eyes sought out the drivers, taking note of who might be watching them a little too intently.
Am I being too paranoid? He dismissed the thought. Especially on an op like this, there was no such thing as too paranoid. Not when the enemy had already tried hitting them once.
Cars, SUVs, vans, and more pickups than the other three types of vehicles combined passed them in both directions as they headed toward Inglewood. Nobody seemed to pay them much mind. At one point, there was a big, red dually pulling up behind them, closing fast. Brannigan kept a close eye on the truck as it got closer and closer.
“Joe,” he said quietly. “Red Ford, on the left.”
Flanagan was sitting in the right seat, his STI in his lap under a jacket, being just as watchful as Brannigan. He carefully turned around to look behind them, sizing up the approaching truck.
After a moment, the black-bearded man shook his head fractionally. “I doubt it. Big-haired blond behind the wheel. No sign of passengers. Unless they’re being really clever, and they’re all lying down in the cab, I don’t think we’ve got much to worry about aside from the fact that she’s driving and talking on her phone.”
Brannigan nodded. Fair enough. He’d take Flanagan’s word for it.
They were entering Ingleside, passing through on the way to Ingleside on the Bay. The town wasn’t large, and wasn’t particularly impressive. Brannigan would have initially expected Dalca to have wanted to be in more sumptuous surroundings, but then remembered the industrial office space she had been using. Dalca was cunning, and wouldn’t have picked someplace predictable, particularly not for a meet like this.
The sun was fully over the horizon, a sullen red and orange ball floating above the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, when the Blackhearts’ vehicles stopped with a crunch of gravel in the parking lot at the end of the long pier reaching out into the bay.
Brannigan got out, stretching his back and stifling a yawn. I’m getting too old for this. He looked around them.
He would have expected a place with a pretentious name like “Ingleside On The Bay” to be fancier than their current surroundings. But none of the houses looked particularly expensive; they were mostly double-decker stick houses with various pastel shades of siding. Aside from the really weather-beaten ones that had apparently been through a hurricane or two without a fresh coat of paint.
There was a yacht tied up at the far end of the pier, and even at that distance, and silhouetted against the sunrise, he recognized Dalca. She was a striking enough woman that he’d have a hard time missing her, even at a distance.
And that’s intentional. That femme fatale act in the office wasn’t an accident or a quirk of her personality. He had to admit that he was tired enough that he had to remind himself of that fact. Dalca was calculating and dangerous.
That he needed the reminder was a testimony to just how long Rebecca had been gone. He didn’t want to think about that part.
He pulled the back door open. “Come on, Kevin, rise and shine.” Curtis picked his head up off the headrest and squinted blearily at him. “Come on, or I’ll let Joe help you out.”
Curtis grumbled vaguely, but started levering himself out of the car. “He’d enjoy it too much.”
“Which is the point,” Brannigan said, as he looked around and confirmed that everyone was there. They had arrived at roughly the same time, along the same route, but they hadn’t exactly convoyed there, for obvious reasons. “He wouldn’t take it easy on you.” He straightened and looked around the parking lot.
“Everybody grab your gear and head down to the boat,” he said, just loudly enough to make himself heard over by the farthest vehicle. There were some people stirring around the nearby houses, and he’d already seen cars and trucks apparently leaving for work, but there was no reason to broadcast their presence or purpose to the locals any more than necessary.
He suited actions to words, pulling the car’s trunk open, noticing that the bullet holes in the metal were already showing rust. It was humid on the Gulf Coast, and bare metal wouldn’t last that way for long.
With a grunt, he hauled his duffel out and slid it over his shoulder. The camouflage utilities, booties, fins, dive gear, rifle, pistol, and ammunition all made for a heavy, clumsy load in one bag. It would be better once he was wearing it, but for the moment, it was like carrying a dead body.
Trying not to notice how much his back creaked under the load, he headed for the pier.
Dalca was indeed standing by the gangplank, dressed in shorts and a loose, puffy blouse that for all its apparent shapelessness only seemed to accentuate her own shape with every gust of breeze. She was standing there with her hands on her hips, which were slightly shot out to one side. Huge-lensed dark glasses covered her eyes.
She looked like she was going for a cruise, not meeting mercenaries for a covert infiltration.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Is everyone ready to go?”
Brannigan just grunted as he shifted the load on his shoulder and started up the gangplank. The others followed, most of them avoiding looking at Dalca, who watched them board with a faint smile on her ruby lips. Once Santelli had started up the gangplank, she turned to follow him.
Brannigan had already deposited his duffel on the deck and was counting the team aboard. He looked at Dalca as she followed Santelli up.
“You’re coming with us?” he asked.
“At least part of the way,” she answered easily. “It is my yacht.” She breezed past him and ducked into the pilothouse. “Why should I give up the chance to spend a morning on the water?”
Brannigan and Hancock traded a glance, even as the muscular young man in khakis and a polo shirt with “Ciela International” embroidered on the front started to pull the gangplank in. Once it was stowed, he started casting off the lines.
“Once we’re out on the bay, start having the boys get ready,” Brannigan said quietly to Hancock. “I’m going to go discuss the approach with our hostess.”
“You think this is gonna work?” Hancock asked. “I mean, sure, the bad guys are probably looking for military boats, like those Mexicans that got smoked last night, but it’s broad daylight. They won’t be able to miss us.”
“I’ll bring it up,” Brannigan said. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, either.
Truth be told, as he turned toward the pilot house, he realized that he wasn’t looking forward to any sort of conversation with Dalca. Something about her bothered him. He suspected it was the easy, manipulative way she acted, as if she knew the effect of her every word and gesture, and used them with a calculated strategy.
But he had to get this straightened out, so he followed her into the pilot house.
He found himself in a luxurious lounge. The cabinets and walls were paneled in what looked like mahogany, and the deck was covered in deep, beige, pile carpet. Cream-colored couches sat against the starboard side, with a sizeable wet bar on the port side. A table that looked like it was probably solid mahogany sat in the center, with chairs of the same wood pulled up around it. Dalca, her sunglasses now on the table beside her, was sitting at the table, facing the steps down from the main deck, buttering a croissant and watching him. Her eyes seemed to glitter in the overhead lights as she smiled.
“I’m glad you decided to join me, John,” she said, motioning toward the chair next to her. “Breakfast just isn’t the same, alone.�
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He stood at the end of the table and shook his head. “I don’t have time to play socialite, Ms. Dalca,” he said grimly.
She pouted a little. “Well, that is a shame. Especially since you must have gotten up so very early.”
“What exactly is your plan, here?” Brannigan asked. “A luxury yacht is not exactly what I’d had in mind when I mentioned ‘discreet.’”
She cocked her head slightly to one side. “Have a little faith, John,” she said. “I have no intention of taking you gentlemen to Matamoros aboard my lovely Desiree. Of course not.”
When she finished buttering the croissant and took a delicate bite instead of continuing, Brannigan’s eyes narrowed.
“So, then,” he said as she swallowed, still smiling at him with her eyes. “When were you going to tell us what you do plan on doing?”
“When we get to the second rendezvous, of course,” she replied. “Come on, John, you people came to me for a reason. Do you really think that I’m so air-headed that I don’t know how to do ‘discreet?’ I’ve been in this business a long time. I know what I’m about. Be patient. All will be made clear in time.” She smiled again, and patted the table next to her. “Now, are you sure you don’t want to have a bite with me?”
Brannigan just turned and headed back up the short ladderwell to the main deck. It wasn’t his best display of manners, and a part of him rebelled at it, but he wanted to get far away from this woman for some reason. “I’ve got prep work to do. And so do my men.”
That’s it. The boys don’t get to eat luxury foods in a fancy lounge, so I don’t get to, either. Has nothing to do with her.
Keep telling yourself that.
