Enemy Unidentified (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 3)

by Peter Nealen

  “Teniente Medina!” he called. The hard-eyed young officer stood and came to the hatch. “We are nearing the enemy submarine,” he explained. “They appear to be boarding a yacht. We are going to board that yacht, secure it, and seize the rest of the terrorists.”

  Medina nodded, his eyes already calculating what they would need to do to prepare.

  “And Teniente?” Huerta continued quietly. “I have some special instructions for you, concerning the gringo contractors we brought aboard…”

  ***

  Flint climbed up on top of the Kilo’s sail and squinted against the morning light. He’d been below all night, and the sunlight stung a bit.

  The Carla Espinoza was registered as a luxury yacht, but that didn’t quite explain just what she was. She looked like a yacht from the outside, but that was where the similarities ended. She wasn’t quite as fast as a hydrofoil, but she was faster than just about any other vessel of her size. Most of her interior had also been torn out to carry more cocaine, heroin, and methamphetamine. She’d smuggled a lot of drugs into Florida and Louisiana over the years.

  Narcotics smuggling was still a large part of the Carla Espinoza’s business. But Flint’s employers had enough money to hire her to do some other stuff on the side. Like picking up Flint and the rest of his team. The more stops and drops they made, the less likely their pursuers could find them.

  And they were being pursued. The sub’s captain had assured him of that. That damned Mexican frigate had been hounding their steps, rattling the sub’s hull with ear-piercing sonar pings for hours.

  He paused at the top of the sail, looking behind them. The smoke of the Tourmaline-Delta platform’s funeral pyre was long gone, below the horizon. But the horizon itself wasn’t as empty as he’d hoped it would be.

  He squinted, trying to force his eyes to see better. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but that looked like a warship behind them. It wasn’t much more than a ship-shaped speck on the horizon, barely visible in the morning light, but it was tall, and it was coming straight at them.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” he snarled at Scrap. “That piece of shit sub captain didn’t manage to lose the hounds, after all.” I ought to go put a bullet in that shitstain’s brain and leave the sub for the Mexicans to capture.

  Less than half the crew was left. Whoever those shooters had been who’d managed to get aboard the platform, they’d been good. Really good.

  Not good enough, though. I still won, fucksticks. Now they just had to break contact and get away.

  He’d been hoping that they’d surface far enough away that the Mexicans couldn’t spot them. That hadn’t worked out. And only the fact that they were pressed for time kept him climbing down the ladder on the side of the sail, to the gangplank that had been placed between the sub and the Carla Espinoza, instead of indulging his violent streak on the sub’s crew.

  He had to slow down on the gangplank. The sub was rolling a bit on the surface chop, and the Carla Espinoza wasn’t exactly standing still, either. The gangplank twisted, flexed, and rose and fell. But he got up onto the yacht without going in the water, and then waited impatiently as the rest of the crew followed.

  Once they were all aboard, he stepped back as one of the Carla Espinoza’s crew pulled in the gangplank. He looked across the gap at the sub’s captain, who was standing atop the sail, and muttered, “Thanks for nothing, shithead.”

  The gangplank stowed, the Carla Espinoza turned toward the coast to the south and opened the throttle, racing away from the sub that was still wallowing on the surface.

  ***

  “Roger?” Tanaka ventured. It felt weird to him, broaching this subject. He’d always thought of the special operations guys as some kind of demigods, even though a lot of his fellow infantrymen had resented the “operators.” On top of that, he’d always been good about following orders, without bitching or complaining. This felt an awful lot like he was pushing that boundary.

  “What is it, Alex?” Hancock asked, a little distractedly. They’d managed to get a little 5.56 NATO ammo from the Mexicans, and were topping off what magazines they had. It seemed like a good sign; if the Mexicans were going to double cross them the way Wade was sure they were going to, why would they give them more ammo?

  “I need to go ashore,” Tanaka said, blurting the words out as fast as he could. “I know that somebody’s got to stay with the Colonel, but I did it last time. I need to go in with the rest of the team.”

  Hancock stopped jamming his magazine and looked up at Tanaka with a faint squint. For a second, he just studied him carefully, and Tanaka had to fight to maintain eye contact with the older man.

  “You know that I wasn’t bullshitting when I said it wasn’t on you, right?” Hancock said.

  “I know that,” Tanaka replied, not sure if he wasn’t bullshitting both of them at that moment. “But if I stay back this time, it might start to look like a trend, you know? Like I’m not really a part of the team.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I know I wasn’t a SEAL cool guy like Jenkins, or a Ranger like Wade…”

  “Hold up right there,” Hancock said. “This has nothing to do with your background.”

  “Yeah, it kinda does,” Tanaka replied. “I was a regular 11-Bang-Bang. You guys got all the training, all the ammo allotments, and all the missions. At least, it seemed that way. I’ve got to get out there, or I’m always going to be the security bitch, because it’s gonna start riding around in everybody’s head that I’m not good enough in the field.”

  Hancock sighed, straightening to face Tanaka a little more fully. “You know that’s bullshit, right?” he said. “This is a small team. You proved yourself in Burma, and nobody around here is going to knock you for it.”

  “Then let me go ashore,” Tanaka said. “Don’t stick me on bodyguard duty.”

  “Bodyguard duty could end up being even more dangerous, if the Mexicans decide to make us disappear,” Hancock pointed out.

  “And you’re proving that I’m not worrying about bullshit by arguing in favor of me staying back,” Tanaka said. “If I’m really just as good as the rest of you, why are you trying to convince me to stay back?”

  Hancock shook his head with another sigh. “All right, fine,” he said. “You’re on the shore team. Don’s up there right now; he can stay with the Colonel.” He looked at Tanaka. “Since you’re so insistent, you can go up and tell Don he’s staying back.” When Tanaka started to look a little uncertain, he snapped, “For fuck’s sake, Alex! Just go tell him! We’re not going to leave you behind in the next five minutes! We’re nowhere near the coast yet!”

  Tanaka ducked his head in a fast, rueful nod, and turned to head down to sickbay.

  ***

  The Carla Espinoza kept her distance from the Hermenegildo Galeana for most of the rest of the day. A stern chase is a long chase, and while the frigate might have greater endurance, unless she could close the distance, the pursuit was just going to go on and on.

  Just before sundown, the speedy yacht turned in toward shore. She had passed by the border of Yucatan State, and was nearing the tip of the peninsula. If she was heading to Cancùn, she could lose herself in the tourist traffic.

  But instead of rounding the peninsula, the yacht turned into the bay just short of the small coastal town of Holbox. There was no way out of that bay, but there was a lot of jungle inland.

  The ARM Hermenildo Galeana pursued. And on her aft deck, the Blackhearts and Mexican Marines prepared to go ashore.

  Chapter 21

  The frigate couldn’t get too far into the bay; the water got too shallow, too quickly. Not being set up as an assault ship, she didn’t have the boats to get the entire ground complement ashore in one trip, so the Mexican Marines launched with the first pair, and motored in to secure the Chiquilà pier. The Carla Espinoza was conspicuously tied up at that same pier. Then the boats returned to the Hermenegildo Galeana to pick up another team.

  The Marines approached the docked yacht cauti
ously. There hadn’t been a lot of activity in Chiquilà, but the Yucatan Peninsula was Los Zetas territory, for the most part. There was no love lost between the Zetas and the Marines.

  Hancock hugged the gunwale of the rubber boat as it motored toward the pier, watching the tiny figures of the Mexican Marines surrounding the yacht and preparing to make entry. Part of him was tensed up, waiting for something to explode as soon as the first camouflage-clad figure went over the gangplank and disappeared into the boat. It seemed to be the terrorists’ style.

  But nothing happened. The yacht didn’t explode. And even as the boats came alongside the pier, one of the Marines came out of the yacht and waved the all-clear. The yacht was empty.

  Hancock figured they should have expected that. The terrorists had to know that they were still in pursuit. The Hermenegildo Galeana wasn’t exactly a low-profile ship.

  The Mexican coxswain drew the boat against the side of the pier, angling the outboard to hold it in place, and Hancock hauled himself up onto the concrete. His rifle scraped against the pier as he climbed, but he was too tired to care at that point. The optics were still good, and they’d all cleaned and lubed the hell out of the guns while they were aboard the frigate.

  Huerta was with them, though he waited until the rest of the Blackhearts and Marines were on the pier before climbing up after them. He was in his kit, though he wasn’t carrying a P90 like the other Marines; he had stuck with his holstered HK USP. To Hancock that spoke volumes about the man, though he had to admit that the number of American flag officers who would have done differently was vanishingly small. Hell, just the fact that Huerta was on the ground for this hunt was to his credit.

  They moved down the pier to join the Marines at the Carla Espinoza. The one who had waved was waiting for them; the rest were facing Chiquilà itself.

  The marina was lined with palm trees, most of the cement of the structures painted white. Cars lined the parking lot, and there were people lounging on the beach, watching the Marines curiously. Some were hastily moving away, having apparently put two and two together. When a bunch of armed men get off a yacht, followed by a unit of Mexican Marines, backed up by a frigate out in the bay, it’s probably a good time to get inside and stay low.

  The Mexican Marine spoke rapidly in Spanish to the Marine lieutenant, named Medina. Gomez was next to Hancock, listening.

  “He says the boat is completely empty,” Gomez translated quietly. “No sign of where they might have gone. The lieutenant is talking about questioning the locals.”

  Hancock looked around. Most of the locals in sight looked more like tourists, there to lie on the beach and tour the Mayan ruins inland. The gringos especially probably couldn’t tell them much. But he knew that the Mexican Marines weren’t going to want to hear it.

  The Marines led the way down the pier, and the Blackhearts followed, their weapons at the ready.

  Hancock glanced over at Gomez. The other man was silent and watchful, as was Flanagan, on the other side. He could hear Curtis muttering behind him; the short, stocky man wasn’t loud enough to be overheard, but he didn’t sound happy.

  Hancock found he couldn’t really blame him. The Marines didn’t seem to want them there. There hadn’t even been an attempt to fill them in about what they were doing. As of that moment, the Blackhearts were tagging along for the ride.

  They came off the pier and into a plaza. The road around the manicured traffic circle, which bore shiny brass letters that spelled out, “Bienvenido Chiquilà,” was cobblestone. Chiquilà wasn’t a new town.

  There were a few faces in the nearby windows, watching them, but they vanished as soon as a Marine or a mercenary looked at them. The street was suddenly and conspicuously empty.

  “You think these people are siding with the bad guys?” Tanaka asked.

  “Nah,” Curtis replied. “It’s Mexico, dude. They just know better than to hang out in the street when guys with guns show up.”

  Huerta stepped forward, calling out to Medina. The two men consulted briefly, as the Marines spread out around the traffic circle, their weapons at the ready, watching doors, windows, and alleyways.

  Hancock and the Blackhearts hadn’t waited; they were already inside the traffic circle itself, up against the stone planter circle in the center. It wasn’t ideal as far as cover went, but Hancock figured that if all hell broke loose, they could pile inside. It was better than nothing.

  Besides, the Mexican Marines out on the outer perimeter were probably going to buy them a few seconds, anyway.

  “Señor Hancock,” Huerta called. When Hancock looked over at him, the Mexican Admiral waved him over.

  Four of the Marines were pushing inside a palm-roofed café, the walls covered in red and white stucco with a big “Coca-Cola” sign painted on the wall inside the shaded veranda. A few moments later, they came out, dragging an older man with them. The guy looked like he was about ninety; his dark face was deeply lined, and he had the characteristic Mayan nose.

  Medina snapped a series of questions at him. The man shook his head, speaking rapidly in Spanish. Hancock was only picking out one or two words in a dozen, but he was gathering that the old man was insisting that he hadn’t seen anything.

  One of the Marines hit the old man in the back of the head. He staggered and almost fell; he would have face-planted on the cobblestones if two Marines hadn’t been holding him roughly by the arms. Huerta held out a hand and said something sharply in Spanish that made the Marine draw back, looking a little ashamed.

  Huerta stepped forward and faced the man, looking into his eyes, and spoke flatly and levelly. At first, the old man wouldn’t meet the Contralmirante’s eyes, but at a snapped command, he looked up at him. Huerta repeated his question. The old man shook his head mutely.

  He doesn’t want to risk getting involved. Hancock had seen it a thousand times, across the Middle East and Central Asia. When the “good guys” could be as ruthless and destructive as the “bad guys,” getting stuck in the middle was often a death sentence for the little guy. Tribal affiliation, ethnic groups, sectarian rivalries; it all boiled down to the same thing. If the old man had seen something and told the Marines, he might be murdered by the Zetas for talking to them, if he wasn’t killed by the terrorists or their allies for ratting them out. If he didn’t talk, he could end up vanishing into a dark, concrete room somewhere to have electrodes put on his testicles. It was a lose-lose situation for an old man.

  Huerta repeated his question, with an addition that Hancock was pretty sure was a threat. The old man shook his head again, but less firmly this time. Hancock could see the hands on his upper arms tightening.

  Huerta straightened up and took a step back. That had to be a bad sign for the old man. Hancock was starting to wonder if he should interfere. He wasn’t in a good position to do so; he was outnumbered, outgunned, and hardly on the best footing to make moral pronouncements to a Mexican flag officer about the treatment of prisoners.

  But he couldn’t stand by and watch them torture an old man. He’d stood by for worse when he’d been part of a chain of command, rather than being the chain of command. And how did that work out?

  Never particularly well.

  But the old man hung his head, almost dangling from the hands of the Mexican Marines, and spoke softly, pointing to the south, inland.

  Huerta asked another sharp question. The old man shrugged, or tried to. Huerta repeated the question by way of reply. Finally, the old man spoke again, though he sounded hesitant, like he wasn’t sure of what he was saying, but knew that he had to give the Contralmirante something.

  The Contralmirante patted the old man on the shoulder and jerked his head at the Marines holding him. They let the old man go, and he slumped, almost falling over in the street. Huerta barked orders at his men, then turned to Hancock. “He says that they went south,” he said, unnecessarily. Hancock had gotten that part. “He also says that there is a farm about six kilometers from here, where there has been a lot
of traffic and construction lately. He thinks they might be going there.”

  “Makes sense,” Hancock replied. Huerta didn’t look happy; he probably didn’t think he needed a mercenary’s input. Hancock didn’t care. “I doubt they would have come here if they didn’t have a contingency plan set up for this place to begin with. They’ve been pretty thoroughly prepared so far.”

  “We will acquire local transport and pursue,” Huerta continued, as if Hancock hadn’t spoken. He looked past Hancock’s shoulder, and when Roger turned to follow his gaze, he saw pairs of Marines jogging toward the marina parking lot. There were going to be some tourists and locals without their rides pretty soon. “You and your men will ride in the back vehicles. I want to keep you in reserve, in case we need support when we attack the farm.”

  Meaning you want us to have as little to do with this operation as possible. You want to have us around, in case you need our firepower, but you don’t have to like it. He was becoming increasingly convinced that Huerta was deeply conflicted about the handling of this entire operation, and it was making the hackles go up on Hancock’s neck. It didn’t bode well for the Blackhearts’ immediate future.

  But as Santelli had pointed out, they only had so many options. So long as they stayed on Huerta’s good side, they still had time. They just had to keep their eyes open.

  And if they got to help kill the terrorists who’d murdered all those hostages and blown up the Tourmaline-Delta platform, so much the better. As long as they got paid, they’d all be fine with letting the Mexicans take the credit.

  Hancock just nodded his agreement. He wasn’t interested in getting into a debate with Huerta about it; that would only hurt their chances of getting away once the smoke cleared. Huerta waved a dismissal. Hancock bit back his reflexive anger at the gesture; he wasn’t one of Huerta’s underlings. But then, he reminded himself, they were working for the man, for the moment.

  He jogged back to the circle, where Santelli had the rest of the team. “We’re carjacking and going inland,” he said quickly. “Word is, the bad guys went south; we’ve got a possible target at a farm, that the old man says has seen a lot of activity in the last few weeks.”