The bullets ripped across the small area, shattering the windows and tearing up a small control panel.
“Don’t kill him!” Pena shouted. He was just coming up the ladder. Right behind Pena was Santiago, the handles to the bags he had carried on the jump slung over his shoulder.
Just as he was about to sweep the other side of the small shelter, Falcon held his fire and raised the muzzle of his weapon. With the stuttering sound of the suppressed submachine gun gone, the tinkle of falling glass could be heard along with a high-pitched sobbing. Pena walked up to the shelter. Looking in, he saw Sergeant Munson scrabbling around against the wall, crying and refusing to look at who was standing at the door. After a moment, Pena could make out the words Munson was saying.
“No one was supposed to be killed,” he kept repeating in a high-pitched whine. “No one was supposed to be killed. There wasn’t supposed to be any shooting.”
“Munson!” Pena said.
“No, no, no,” Munson cried as he put up his hands, thrusting them out toward Pena. “Don’t let him kill me. Please, don’t let him kill me. I did what I was told.”
“Don’t worry, Munson,” Pena said in a calm voice, “I won’t let him kill you. You did what you were supposed to.”
“That’s right,” Munson said as he finally looked at Pena. “I did what I was supposed to. Stevens wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Pena said, as he gestured to Falcon to give him the submachine gun.
Falcon looked to Santiago, who was opening up his bags and pulling bundles of equipment out. Santiago looked up for a moment and nodded.
“We don’t have time for this,” he said.
Quickly unsnapping the MP5K-PDW from the sling he had looped around his shoulder, Falcon handed the stubby weapon to Pena.
“And don’t be afraid,” Pena said quietly to Munson as he took the weapon from Falcon. “But we must make it look good, as if you had no part in this whatsoever.”
“Uh, okay,” Munson said with his voice still shaky.
“But you really shouldn’t have spoken badly about my brother,” Pena said and he pulled up the submachine gun.
Before Munson could do anything more than stare with bulging eyes at the weapon, Pena pulled the trigger. The frangible 9mm projectiles tore into the prostrate guard, shoving him across the floor of the small shelter. The power of the rounds almost exploded the man’s chest, the cloth blowing into tatters as blood and tissue sprayed across the area.
“Time!” Santiago called out.
“One minute,” answered Falcon as he looked at his watch. Pena handed him back his weapon and Falcon clipped it back into his sling.
The situation at the guard shelter seemed to be under control, so while the men were talking, and Munson was dying, Reyes had turned back to his job. Along one of the poles supporting the fence on the west wall, Reyes was cutting free the chain-link mesh. Using a short pair of bolt cutters he had pulled from the pouch on his left thigh, Reyes had cut free the fencing as high as he could reach. Now, he was doing the same thing along the bottom of the fencing, where it was wired to a pipe running around the edge of the wall.
While Reyes was opening a hole in the fence, Falcon was standing guard, watching across the area of the rooftop with his MP5K-PDW in his hands.
“Here, put these on,” Santiago said as he handed Pena a set of boots. They were the same kind of Han Way Fly 2000 boots that the rest of the team were wearing. “We can’t afford you breaking an ankle when you land wearing those sneakers you have on.”
Stripping off the cheap canvas and rubber sneakers all the prisoners wore, Pena pulled on the boots and laced them up tight. When he looked up, Santiago was holding out a set of protective Centurion pads. The velcro straps that held the pads were quickly secured around Pena’s elbows and knees.
“Thirty seconds,” Falcon said.
By this time, Reyes had finished cutting free the fence flap and had pulled it back—securing it in place with a loose piece of wire. Now he was opening up a container that had two pieces of rope tied around it. As he pulled them out, the contents of the container could now be seen to be another parachute rig. As Reyes began to put on his harness, Santiago was holding an identical rig up in front of Pena.
“Now this,” Santiago said as he started to help Pena into his rig.
The parachute systems were Vertigo Warlock containers and harnesses, each container being packed with a specially rigged Dagger 277 canopy. Only Falcon’s rig was different, his Warlock container held a Dagger 222 canopy. The systems were specially made for BASE jumping, the low-altitude parachute jumping from buildings, antennas, spans (bridges), and earth (cliffs). Each man strapped into his own harness. Since he was standing guard, Falcon was the last man to don his rig.
“Okay,” Santiago said. “These are static-line opening rigs. You don’t have anything to concern yourself with about opening the canopy. You jump out and take up a good free-fall position. Don’t look down, don’t look to either side. Keep your head up and look at the horizon.
“You have to fall free for a couple of seconds to build up enough speed to open the canopy properly. Once she pops, you steer across the street. There’s a good-sized patch of grass and bushes just fifty to sixty meters to the southwest. An easy drop. Steer the canopy with the toggles and keep away from the building. People do this all the time for fun.”
“You consider this fun?” Pena asked.
“Oh, this is a blast,” Santiago said. “You can tell me how much you liked it when we’re on the ground. Any questions?”
“Where’s the reserve?” Pena said as he looked down at his rig.
“There isn’t one,” Santiago said, “and you wouldn’t have time to use it anyway. Once you land, there will be a gray van waiting on the street, right next to the south end of the grass patch. The van will have the name ‘Princesa’ on its side.”
“Princesa?” Pena said, “why Princesa?”
“It’s the name of the other part of this ride,” Santiago said. “Now, once you get to the ground, don’t try anything fancy. Just do a standard parachute landing fall (PLF). A regular PLF, understand? Don’t try to land standing up, just roll with it.”
Santiago handed Pena the last item from the gear bag, a black Pro-Tec helmet.
“Ready?” he asked as Pena secured the helmet to his head.
Pena looked up at Santiago and a wide smile crossed his face.
“After you, please.”
Stepping up to the hole in the fence, Santiago wrapped the wire coming out from the pack of his parachute container to the steel pole the fence had been attached to. Snapping the flat metal clip to the wire, he turned to the edge of the wall. Leaping forward with his arms spread and his elbows bent, Santiago dropped from sight.
Falling almost a third of the way to the ground, Santiago dropped for over a second before the wire stopped playing out from the container on his back. With his head tilted up, the ex-SEAL held a perfect, stable modified-frog free-fall position as he dropped to the street below. The static line wire pulled open the container on his back and drew out the parachute canopy inside. The canopy streamed out from the container, trailing its suspension lines behind it. As the air rushed into the cells of the canopy, the 277 square feet of F-111 cloth bulged and took shape.
Less than sixty feet from the ground, Santiago’s fall slowed and he took control of the parachute. Pulling on the toggles, he turned the canopy and started gliding across the street. He reached the patch of grass and missed the low bushes. The area was very dark, only the light from a few streetlamps reached into the shadows. The fall of the parachute canopies was silent and the early hour and cold had kept anyone from being around. It was only a few minutes before six o’clock in the morning. Traffic hadn’t even really started yet in the city.
Looking up, Santiago could see a second parachute falling to the ground, following roughly the same path he had. The cloth of the canopies was black and it was lik
e watching a giant bat glide across the dark sky. The man hanging below the parachute landed with a grunt as he hit the ground with his feet held tightly together, knees bent, and body relaxed.
Falling in a controlled roll to his legs, side, and shoulder, Pena completed a PLF, spreading out the impact of his landing over the length of his body. As Santiago dropped his rig and went over to Pena, Reyes jumped off the roof in the same manner as the first two men. Then it was Falcon’s turn.
With his weapon dangling from its sling, Falcon attached his static line to the same pole the other three men had. The wires from their parachutes were now hanging down along the side of the building, all but invisible in the dark. Turning to make one last look across the roof, Falcon swept the area with the muzzle of his weapon. Satisfied everything was clear, he turned and leaped from the wall. Only he was standing too close to the pole and the jagged edges of the fence wire still attached to it.
As Falcon leapt, the sharp end of a wire brushed against his pant leg and dug into the cloth. The tough Nomex of the flight suit resisted the pull of the wire and refused to tear at first. Then, the sharp edge of the wire cut through the cloth and Falcon’s leg was free. But by then it was far too late.
The small man might have survived the pull on his pant leg throwing him off balance. But Falcon made the final mistake of looking down at what had caught him. With his head turned down, he wasn’t in a stable free-fall position. He tumbled forward and continued his fall. The wire of the static line kept paying out as Falcon fell, but as he dropped, he began to turn over.
Within the first second of his fall, Falcon was too terrified to even make a sound. As he dropped, the canopy was pulled out by the static line, only it didn’t inflate from the air pressure pushing against it. Instead, the black cloth wrapped around Falcon as he dropped and kept turning. It covered him like a shroud as he hurtled to the ground. The only final mercy that Falcon had was the fact that it took less than four seconds for him to fall the twelve stories to the ground.
The small, squeaking scream that finally made it out of Falcon’s mouth was cut short at his impact with the hard concrete of the sidewalk. The thud was flat, dull, and final. Falcon was moving at more than fifty miles an hour when he hit the ground, the impact more than enough to instantly kill him in spite of the protective clothing and equipment he was wearing. The MP5K-PDW submachine gun that he had been carrying and practiced with so much was driven deeply into his chest by the impact—smashing his sternum and ribs, and crushing his heart.
Chapter Four
Across the street, Santiago and Pena witnessed Falcon’s final seconds of life. Reyes hit the ground lightly and remained on his feet. Turning, he collapsed his canopy, and heard the sound of Falcon’s impact with the ground.
The loss of a man on a mission was something that just happened. Santiago had made certain that no piece of equipment, clothing, weapon, or ammunition, could be traced to him. He had paid top dollar to have the gear all sent to multiple cut-outs in order to confuse the trail to him or to Pena’s organization. Where possible, labels had been removed and serial numbers cut out. Not one of the men were carrying anything that could identify them personally. And there were no witnesses to their action.
“Come,” Santiago said. “There’s nothing to do for him. The van is right here.”
Parked under a small tree not twenty meters away was a very sorry-looking van. Dented and beaten, the rear bumper of the van was tilted and looked to be held on with wire. The entire machine didn’t appear to be capable of making it two blocks, let alone making a getaway from what was essentially a prison break. But the muffled sound of a well-tuned powerful engine rumbled out as it was fed some gas. The tires looked dirty and scuffed, but the treads were almost brand new. The men hastily gathered up their parachute canopies and dashed to the vehicle.
Pulling open the back doors of the van, Santiago waved Pena into the van and climbed in after him. Stepping into the van, Reyes pulled the door shut behind him. There wasn’t a sound or any lights coming on in the building just across the street from where they sat.
“Go,” Santiago said.
In the front seat of the van, Jago Diaz shifted the transmission into drive and pulled away from the curb. He drove south down State Street, quickly, but not fast enough to draw any attention. The beat-up outside of the van was nothing but a cover for the very well maintained machine inside. Reaching the corner at G Street, Diaz turned right and headed toward the waterfront less than a kilometer away.
While Diaz drove them toward the water, the men in the back of the van began stripping off their harnesses, equipment, and protective gear. Reyes pulled up a barracks bag and opened it. After passing out bundles of clothing to Santiago and Pena, Reyes opened a bundle for himself and began to change clothes.
“If you can’t strip out of those jail clothes fast, we’ll cut them off,” Santiago said as he handed Pena a bundle.
For a mad few minutes, the three men almost rolled around the back of the van, pulling items of clothing on and off. When the van finally reached the waterfront area off Harbor Street, it wasn’t two commandos and a prisoner who climbed out of the back of the van. Instead, it was the rough-clothed workingmen who manned the fishing boats—the same kind of boats that were tied up to the commercial pier in the Tuna Harbor right next to them.
Leaning back inside the van, Santiago flipped the cover back on a haversack lying on the floor of the vehicle. Choosing one of several small green cylinders inside the haversack, he lifted up the one with a tag on it that said 15. Pulling the ring of the M60 fuse igniter, he lit off the delay to the incendiary charge in the haversack. In fifteen minutes, the two AN-M14 TH3 incendiary grenades would ignite. The more than three pounds of thermate in the two grenades combined would burn at 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit, spraying molten iron as a byproduct. It would be only seconds later that the five-gallon container of gasoline under the haversack would burst into flame and completely consume the van, the equipment, and parachutes left inside it. It would be a spectacular fire.
Coming out of the van, Santiago pulled back the sleeve of his left arm and looked at his watch. Pressing some buttons on his Casio G-Shock watch, Santiago looked up at the men around him.
“We’re running nearly five minutes ahead of schedule,” Santiago said.
“This is a problem?” Pena asked.
“Not really,” Santiago said, “besides, it gives us a moment to grab a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” Pena said in astonishment. “You want coffee? Now?”
“What I want is for you to be seen for just a second by a witness,” Santiago said as he handed Pena a ten dollar bill. Pointing to a small coffee shop next to the docks, he told the stunned man:
“Cream, two sugars please. We’ll wait here.”
Not completely understanding the situation, but trusting the man who had saved him from a probable death sentence, Pena went to get the coffee.
It was just ten minutes later that four apparently commercial fishermen walked up the dock to where the nearly fifty-year-old thirty-six-foot trawler Princesa lay tied to her moorings. Lights were on in the cabin of the salmon trawler and the sound of an engine could be heard rumbling softly. The men walked past another fisherman standing on the dock near a thirty-three-foot trawler that was tied up.
“Going out today?” the man said as he turned to the four walking on the dock.
“Yup,” Santiago said. “Going to try our hand at some channel rockfish.”
“Well, you’re sure going to have to catch a bunch of them to pay for the gasoline that engine uses,” the fisherman said. “I can’t see why you don’t change over to a diesel, it’s a lot safer. Cheaper, too.”
“No argument from me,” Santiago said as the rest of his men walked past him. “But the skipper says we’ll get a new engine the next time this one needs an overhaul.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Walking over to the Princesa,
Santiago followed the others and climbed aboard.
“Let’s go,” he said to the man standing at the wheel.
“Let go forward,” Captain Naldo Flores said as he leaned out the port to his left, “let go aft.”
Standing up on the dock, Diaz removed the last restraining line from the dock bollard and tossed it to Reyes up on deck. Then he jumped aboard. Reyes quickly joined Santiago and Pena in a small cabin aft of the wheelhouse. Going into the wheelhouse, Diaz took up a station in the back of the compartment. Where he could watch Captain Flores at the wheel.
Captain Flores was more than capable of taking the boat out on his own. He gunned the engines as he backed away from the docks and turned the bow of the Princesa south to the opening in the breakwater that led out to San Diego Bay.
“I can’t believe you intend to make our escape in this old tub,” Pena said. “She’s so old that the wood in her hull is rotting.”
“Not quite,” Santiago said. “The important parts of this boat are sound and dependable. And she was chosen in part just because of that wooden hull you mentioned.”
“Still, I can’t see escaping in this slow pig,” Pena said.
“Oh, we won’t get away in her,” Santiago said. “But this is a good boat for you to die on.”
Pena stared at the man standing in front of him. This made no sense, who would go to all of this trouble just to kill him. It would have been easier just to let the American legal system have its way with him.
“Relax,” Santiago said, as if he knew what Pena was thinking. “If we wanted to kill you, you would have never gotten off of that building. Those very high-priced drug lawyers you hired all said the same thing. Even if we broke you out and got you back into Mexico, you would be a hunted man. The U.S. government could bring enough pressure to bear on Mexico that they would have to do something about you, no matter who you had control of. Or, you could end up with a price on your head so high that some bounty hunter might get lucky and take you down.”
Hostile Borders Page 4
