by Jack Slater
“Captain, it’s Vicealmirante Abalos,” Ramirez said, an uneasy expression on his face as he proffered León the radio handset.
The captain didn’t like the look on his subordinate’s face but accepted the handset without comment. The sound of gunfire was quiet in the distance, now, mostly drowned out by the din of rotors cutting through the air overhead, and the cries of both wounded men, and his segundo maestres – sergeants – organizing what was left of his bedraggled unit.
“Vicealmirante,” León said from a position crouched over his haunches not more than a few feet from a medic working on an injured Marine. “I need a medevac immediately. I have eleven wounded. Over.”
“Capitán, what is the status of your assault?”
León blinked, momentarily stunned into a sense of incomprehension at his superior’s response. “Sir, have you been briefed on the situation? Over.”
“Captain,” the vice admiral snapped. “Am I to understand that you are not presently prosecuting your assault on Altiplano Prison?”
“That is correct, Admiral,” León replied, ashen-faced. He simply could not believe what he was hearing. “The enemy has hijacked Air Force helicopters. We cannot get close without exposing –”
“I understand about the helicopters,” the admiral said, cutting him off. “The Air Force has grounded all aircraft until they know more. There is no support coming.”
“Sir, I have sixty-one men left alive, or with sufficiently minor injuries that they are capable of giving battle. But without air cover, those helicopters will rip this unit apart before we get close to the prison, let alone secure it.”
“Do your duty, Capitán, or I’ll have you arrested and find someone who will,” the vice admiral replied coldly.
León bowed his head and said nothing for several long seconds. He considered resigning his commission in protest, but just as quickly knew that he could not. Ramirez was a good officer, but he was green. If anyone was going to lead his men into this valley of death, it had to be him. “Yes sir. I will move in presently. But I must protest this order in the strongest possible –”
“Your objection is noted, Captain.”
“Sir. What about reinforcements? I don’t have enough men to take the prison. Over.”
“Additional units will be with you within an hour, Captain León . But you will attack without delay.”
Hector tried one last time. “Why not wait, sir? Until we have a better chance of success?”
“Find a way, Captain. This attack is an embarrassment to our country. Heads will roll over this. Be sure that yours isn’t one of them. Abalos out.”
So that was it, León thought numbly as he handed the radio handset back to Ramirez. This was about politics and blame, just as it always was. Vicealmirante Abalos was positioning himself to survive the fallout. And when – inevitably – this operation ended in failure, it would no doubt be his own head on the line.
But Hector did not care about any of that. All that mattered was preserving as many as his men’s lives as he could.
“Sergeant!” he called out, spying the NCO he’d sent to retrieve the RPGs in the earlier firefight. The man jogged over, his boots crunching against debris blown by the helicopters’ wash.
“Captain?”
“How many rockets did you recover?”
“Thirteen. And two launching tubes.”
León nodded thoughtfully and spun in place as he attempted to devise a way out of this mess. His eyes settled upon a moped covered in dust and at least a decade old – but visibly serviceable. He pointed at it. “You think one of your men can get that thing started?”
The sergeant’s eyes flickered over, and he nodded thoughtfully. “Espinoza, sir. He was a car thief before he enlisted.”
León clenched his fist by his side. “Perfect. Find another, or a car if you can’t. Something nondescript. Get them both moving, and put two men on each, with half the rockets apiece.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, sticking two fingers between his teeth and whistling for attention before calling over several Marines and issuing a set of orders in quick-fire Spanish. The second he was done, they set about their tasks.
“What are you thinking, sir?” Ramirez asked.
With the sergeant still in earshot, León outlined his plan for two units to close on the outskirts of the prison and find concealed firing positions for the RPGs to cover the remainder of the company’s approach. The weapons weren’t designed to take out aerial targets, but if untrained Afghani rebels could down American choppers with them, then he backed his Marines to at least stand a chance.
“Yes sir,” Ramirez said when he was done, a commendable conviction in his manner not entirely obscuring the dubious tone of voice. “We’ll get it done.”
“I know you will.” León glanced down at his wristwatch. “Get the men together. We move out in three minutes.”
11
The suppressing fire opened up as soon as the small convoy of Scorpion armored cars came within five hundred yards of Altiplano Prison. Only four of the Scorpions had proved serviceable, at least after the first thirty seconds of driving, when the engine of the fifth demanded its last rites and promptly choked its crew in a thick plume of smoke. Just one of the Ford SUVs had survived the aerial barrage and was trailing slightly behind.
“Everybody off!” came the cry from the NCOs as the occasional errant round cracked overhead. They swiftly directed the Marines riding on top and clinging to the sides of the vehicles behind cover. The convoy was forced to slow to allow the maneuver to take place, and thereafter was unable to make good speed.
Thankfully, a collection of multi-story buildings was arranged between the prison and the road, which served as cover as the unit rounded the final bend. Incongruously, there was even a lawn tennis court about fifty yards up ahead on the left-hand side of the road. It seemed an oasis of calm amid the maelstrom.
The gunfire from the prison walls was both occasional and inaccurate at this distance, though Captain León knew that it would only take a single lucky shot for one of his Marines to die.
The question why Vicealmirante Abalos wanted him to make a push for the prison before support arrived still troubled him. His men couldn’t possibly hope to take the jail alone, not without exposing themselves to unacceptable risk. Not while taking fire from above.
The job involved risk, León knew that.
Even the possibility of death or disfigurement. It was a choice he made every morning when he kissed María goodbye and drove to work. But there was supposed to be a contract between officers and men, and the leaders of armies and those who did the actual fighting. In some conflicts soldiers could be convinced to sacrifice their lives in service of their cause: the kamikaze pilots of World War II, or suicide bombers in the Middle East.
But his Marines were not supposed to be sacrificed on the roll of a loaded die. Altiplano was ringed by a ten-foot-wide outer wall, then an electrified fence, and except for the rocket propelled grenades that he could not spare, and a few underslung grenade launchers carried by his men, he had no explosives. This meant that only a head-on assault could possibly work.
Which, of course, meant attacking the most heavily defended section of the prison.
A white wall, rising from a section of yellow paint at its base, came into view on the left of the convoy, with a squat municipal office building just behind. It was topped by a section of chain-link fence and a thicket of razor wire. León remembered that it protected the Institute of Security and Justice. He’d spent several days there a year or two back, attending lectures on ethics in urban combat.
We should have been based there, he thought grimly. At least then we’d have had a chance.
A shout from the head of the column snapped his attention back to the present. The Scorpion he was riding in jerked to a halt, its nose abreast of and slightly to the left of the one ahead, causing the men advancing in its wake to come to a stop also.
Shouts for
the captain rang out at the head of the column. The captain jumped out of his Scorpion and jogged to the source of the commotion. A few of his men were crouching around a Caucasian man in a suit. The guy had his hands thrust into his pockets and seemed entirely indifferent to the gunfire in the distance.
A sergeant shrugged as León asked what the hell was going on, with the studied indifference of a man who knew from long experience that it was better not to ask too many questions in situations like this. “Found a gringo. He said he wants to help. And he wouldn’t fuck off when I told him to.”
León looked with some incredulity at the man in the suit pants and polished black oxfords. He was wearing a tie but no jacket, his sleeves rolled up just under his elbows. “Who the hell are you?”
“Burke. Raymond Burke. Call me Ray. I’m DEA.”
“Ramirez!” León spat, fingering his weapon for comfort as his junior officer approached from behind. “Keep the men moving. Where are the rocket teams?”
“In place, captain,” the lieutenant reported. “I just heard.”
“Good.”
“Give me a gun,” Raymond Burke pressed, his hand outstretched. “Looks like you boys could use all the help you can get.”
Furious with the cocky American for holding up his operation, León spun on his heel, not bothering to look at the man as he spoke. “Get out of here. Keep your head –”
He stopped dead. For a second, he looked up at the almost cloudless sky. The two transport helicopters were in a wide circle around the prison, far enough from his current position that there was no chance of hitting them. Even if he could spare the ammo.
“You said DEA?” León asked, turning back.
“That’s right,” the man replied in a suppressed but still just about evident southern accent. He flashed a set of credentials like he was right off a movie set. “I was down at the Institute giving a talk. Figured someone was fixing to show up when I heard the fireworks popping off over the road. You boys got here right in time. Like I said, get me a weapon, and maybe I can be of some use. Your government don’t let me carry one south of the border, but I’m guessing I can prevail on you for an emergency dispensation.”
“I can’t ask for your help,” León said as an idea began taking seed in his mind. Vicealmirante Abalos didn’t seem to have much of a problem sacrificing his own pawns. But a federal agent? That was a different kettle of fish entirely, wasn’t it? The norteamericanos didn’t like their people getting into trouble. DEA agents didn’t normally like even leaving their embassy without at least an armored car for protection.
So perhaps Agent Burke could be of some use after all.
12
Captain León waited, belly flat on the dirt by a wall of a building that was situated about thirty yards from the walls of Altiplano Prison as a constant stream of updates echoed over the radio net as his men emplaced themselves. Occasionally a few stray rounds would impact within a few feet of his position, but the defenders on the walls didn’t have the right angles to do any real damage.
Not yet, anyway.
But in no time at all, that would change.
“So big guy—” Burke grinned, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of gunfire. He looked faintly ridiculous in his dusty business suit in the middle of a mass of armed Marines. “What can I do?”
“The truth?”
“Sure.”
León ducked as a ricochet splintered the concrete a few feet above his head, then immediately got back to business. “You have a cell phone?”
“Sure,” the DEA agent replied, patently not understanding why he was being asked. “Your comms down?”
“The most useful thing you can do for me right now, Agent Burke, is call your embassy and tell them exactly what you’re planning on doing. And then tell them to contact Vicealmirante Abalos, so he too knows where you are.”
“Abalos?” Burke frowned. He seemed to want to say something else.
“It’s probably the only way we’ll get reinforcements while they still have a chance of mattering,” León said grimly. “Now I must go.”
“I’m on it,” the American said, still looking troubled. “Get back to your men.”
León nodded and crawled up toward Lieutenant Ramirez. “Are they ready?”
“Yes sir. On your command.”
“Do it.”
Ramirez nodded, grimly acknowledging the command. His face was filthy with the dust generated by the earlier fight, and rivulets of sweat had cut valleys into the dirt. He reached for his radio and related the command.
The captain turned and faced his remaining Marines. He had a dozen and a half of them with him, and several smaller groups were waiting in different locations. There were not enough of them. Perhaps the American could help with that, but he doubted it would do much good. Certainly not in time.
“You know your duty,” he called out. “I’ll be right there with you. You all know your objectives?”
His men nodded. Some were nervous, the others just looked blankly into the distance as they prepared themselves for the fight. Most were younger than Ramirez, and yet so experienced at their craft. It wasn’t right to ask this of them. And yet they would follow him anywhere.
“The second the fireworks start, we go.”
Two of the choppers circled above the prison, their rotors a rhythmic drumbeat, occasionally putting suppressing fire onto one of the towers – though this was becoming less and less frequent as the few remaining guards either died or decided that continuing the fight wasn’t worth their lives. León didn’t blame them. They’d never signed up for this.
One of the choppers hovered right over the nearest section of the prison’s walls to the party of Marines. It was almost close enough to reach out and touch.
León trained his weapon on it. He held his breath. It was close enough to shoot.
But he didn’t need to.
The smoke trail of a rocket-propelled grenade arced out of a thicket of bushes nearby and surged toward the hovering bird. It seemed to take minutes but closed the distance in just seconds. The rocket hit the chopper just above the pilot’s cabin and exploded.
For a moment, nothing happened. The rotors still turned. The helicopter still hung above the walls.
And then its nose dipped. The engine noise seemed to die, and although the rotors kept spinning it was more out of habit than anything the pilot was doing. In fact, it was highly likely given the location of the rocket impact that he or she was dead.
Without either airspeed or height, the chopper was doomed the second it was hit. It tumbled out of the sky, colliding with the prison walls. The blades shattered against the concrete, stopping dead as the helicopter turned from a sleek machine of death into a broken, crippled thing in an instant.
Just the impact tore a large section out of the top of the wall. The gas tank exploding did the rest. León stared at the sight for a few moments, stunned by the testimony of his eyes. He’d fought the cartels his entire career. But never had he seen anything like this. This was real war, not a gunfight between gangsters.
The explosion wasn’t like the ones in the movies. There was little to see other than a momentary flash and a large plume of black smoke. But he felt the impact in his chest, and in the ringing of his ears and the way the ground trembled as the wreckage of the helicopter ripped through the wall as if it was constructed of nothing more solid than dust.
Not sure if his men could hear, he screamed his orders. “Go, go, go!”
Overhead, several more RPGs danced across the skyline. One came within a few feet of the other hovering chopper, but just missed. After seeing what had happened to his friend, this one quickly got the message and climbed out of range. But his men had done everything he asked of them. They didn’t need control of the skies forever. Just long enough to get inside the prison.
They made it inside without encountering any further resistance from the walls, heading straight through the hole the helicopter had torn. It was jagg
ed and uneven, and strewn with scraps of super-heated metal. Either the defenders had pulled back, or they were dead.
The beat of the rotors of the multiple surviving – and unseen, now that they were in the corridors of the prison – helicopters overhead was an ominous reminder of the sheer power of the forces arrayed against them. And yet León felt enormous pride in the way his men ran toward danger, shoulder by shoulder with their comrades.
The first sniff they had of the battle that had taken place inside these walls was a streak of blood along the bare concrete floor of one of the hallways. It looked like a man had been shot and his body dragged back to safety. The bloodstain led deeper into the prison, toward the exercise yards in the center.
“Captain,” his radio crackled.
“Go,” he said, squeezing the transmit button as he ran, his lungs straining for breath.
“The helicopters are leaving. We’re out of grenades. There’s nothing we can do to stop them.”
“Roger,” León replied tersely. A grim sensation settled in his gut.
His unit made their way through the hallways of the prison without once meeting resistance. They occasionally encountered the bodies of guards and prisoners alike, but never any belonging to the attackers. Twice they came across loose groups of prisoners who briefly looked like they were spoiling for a fight – only to shy away when confronted with the Marines’ weaponry.
They burst into the courtyard and found several bodies on the ground. Executed, with single gunshot wounds in their skulls – inflicted at close range.
But the attackers were already gone.
León squatted onto his haunches, supporting himself with the butt of his rifle. “We’re too late.”
13
The villa was modest in size but opulent in finish. It sat in the Sierra Madre mountains northeast of Culiacán, somewhere between the foothills of the range and its jagged rocky peaks.
