by Dale Brown
Zakharov looked as if he wasn’t listening, but a few moments later he shook his head. “Ten thousand a day for me, two for my men…and one hundred thousand dollars as a signing bonus.” Fuerza’s eyes widened in anger. “Take it or leave it, Comandante. Or else go back to using your own banditos and paying off corrupt cops to secure your drug empire. They do such a good job for you, no?”
Fuerza thought for a moment—actually, he thought about whether he could get away with executing Zakharov, but the Russian’s men were too loyal to try to pay off and turn on their leader, at least right at this moment—then nodded. “Prevoshodnyj, tovarisch polkovnik,” Fuerza said. He extended a hand, and Zakharov clasped it. “Spasibo.”
“You do not have to thank me—you have to pay me,” Zakharov said.
Fuerza watched as Zakharov turned to look at the television again, and he could almost feel Zakharov’s body temperature rise when the helicopter cameras tracked a man and two women running from an enclosure out to where the dead officer that had piloted the robot lay. “Who is he, Colonel? He is the one you want, is he not?”
Zakharov half-turned toward Fuerza and chuckled. “You are very observant, Comandante,” he said. “Yes, that is Major Jason Richter, commander of Task Force TALON, the one that defeated my forces in Egypt and Washington. With him is his assistant, Dr. Ariadna Vega, Ph.D.”
“Ariadna Vega? That is the name of a famous guerrilla fighter during the Mexican War of Independence,” Fuerza said, his face transfixed in surprise. “She is one of the most celebrated women in Mexican history.”
“Well, she’s one tough minino, that’s for sure,” Zakharov said. “I all but killed her in Brazil, and she was back in the fight just a few days later. The other one is Richter’s former partner and now the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Kelsey DeLaine. Learn their names and faces well—they will undoubtedly be after both of us. They must be defeated at all costs.”
Fuerza was staring at the television until the camera zoomed in on the decapitated body, cutting Vega from view. “So. Was Richter the one who shot out your left eye, Colonel?”
“He did not shoot out my eye, Fuerza,” Zakharov snapped. “He missed by a mile—the bullet ricocheted off my helicopter’s rotor, and a fragment lodged in my eye. A hack doctor in Havana told me the eye had to be enucleated or the uninjured eye would sympathetically shut down.” He removed his sunglasses, revealing an empty eye socket. Fuerza did not—rather, dared not—look away, afraid of appearing squeamish at the sight of the horrible injury. “I took one of his eyes in exchange for the one he unnecessarily took from me—unfortunately, his did not fit me, and it was too late to give it back to him.”
“Why do you keep it open like that?”
Zakharov chuckled. “It puts great fear into my adversaries, Comandante, forcing them to look into another man’s skull.”
“But the pain…?”
“The pain helps keep me focused on my objective.”
“Which is?”
“Acercamiento de camión, capitán,” the lookout at the window said. Everyone drew weapons, including Zakharov. Fuerza went to another window and watched as the pickup truck with a camper—a familiar sight in this part of rural southern Bakersfield, at the foothills of the Tehachapi Mountains. They trained their weapons on it carefully, looking for any signs of danger, even after the driver flashed the headlights in a coded “all clear” signal. Fuerza requested and received a coded “all clear” from his lookouts around the perimeter before signaling that it was safe to approach the cabin.
While two men kept watch on either side of the camper, three more men began unloading. They brought in two coffin-looking fiberglass canisters and several wood and metal boxes of assault rifles, pistols, and ammunition. The men quickly opened the crates and distributed guns and ammo to each other to check over, while Zakharov and Fuerza concentrated on the “coffins.”
It was their best and most potent weapon since beginning this operation months ago: a Russian-built advanced man-portable air defense system, known in the West as an SA-14 Gremlin and in the East as a 9K34 Strela-3. An advanced version of the venerable SA-7 Grail MANPADS, the SA-14 had a larger warhead, a broader detection and tracking window, better countermeasures discrimination, and improved reliability. Each coffin contained the weapon stock, which included the pistol grip, shoulder stock, electronics, fixed and optical sights, and battery holder; two missile launch tubes; and two spherical battery-gas generator canisters.
“Prevoshodnyj,” Fuerza said. “They look to be in excellent shape.”
Zakharov examined each one carefully. “They were painted to look new, but the data plates are missing—I would estimate the gas generator is at least twenty years old, maybe twenty-five,” he said. “And if they used regular lead-based paint on those gas generators, the heat could cause them to catch on fire as soon as the operator pulls the trigger.”
“Are you sure, Colonel?” Fuerza asked angrily.
“I do know my Russian-made weapons,” Zakharov said drily. “Trust me, I know what I am talking about.” He continued his examination. “Overall the electronics and components look to be in good order, but the data plates are missing from the missiles as well, so I would guess they are as old as the gas generators. That means they are at least five and probably ten years over their service life. If you paid more than a thousand dollars apiece for these, Comandante, you got ripped off.”
Judging by the color in his cheeks and the bulge in his eyes, it was obvious Fuerza had paid much more than a thousand dollars for the missiles. “I do not get ‘ripped off,’ as you say, Colonel—I get even,” he said darkly. “The dealer who sold me these weapons will gladly give me a full refund and suitable replacements—especially if he wants to keep his fingers and balls intact.”
“I think you should take one or two fingers anyway just to ensure he does not try to steal from anyone else,” Zakharov suggested. “We have been here too long already, Fuerza. I suggest we split up until it is time to rendezvous again to carry out our next operation.”
“Soglasovannyj,” Fuerza said. “Agreed. You are the chief of security now.”
Zakharov examined the other boxes of weapons, found the ones he was looking for, opened six of them, looped two small cylindrical canisters over his shoulders and gave the other boxes and canisters to an aide. “I will have need of these, I am sure of it,” he said. “My next two squads are scheduled to arrive at the rendezvous point at Esparanza in two days. You will arrange the border crossing for them and transportation to Amarillo, Texas.”
“Two days? Impossible, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “The entire El Paso and Fabens border crossing area will be swarming with American Border Patrol and Mexican Internal Affairs border patrols for at least a week, maybe more.” He thought for a moment; then: “The best chance for a crossing in that time frame will be Arizona,” he said, smiling. “Have your men go to the rendezvous point in Nogales and await my signal. They will…”
“Nogales! That’s at least six hours west of the original rendezvous point!”
“Your first assignment, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “Perhaps your men will get a little field training and target practice in at the same time.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Your men will come across others on the trail,” Fuerza said. “If and when you do, you must deal with them…appropriately.”
“More Border Patrol agents, Fuerza?” Zakharov asked irritably. “They will be ready for us this time. Pick a different crossing point, Fuerza. What about Agua Prieta or Palomas?”
“Western and central New Mexico are already overrun with migrants,” Fuerza said, smiling. “My intelligence reports indicate that the Border Patrol and perhaps some civilian border patrol groups will concentrate their efforts there.”
“Civilians? You mean the vigilantes? You are going to put my men on the same trail as some of those American commando wannabes?” As Fuerza expected, the Russian terrorist bro
ke out into a grin. “Well, that’s different, Ernesto. My men would enjoy an easy night of target practice.”
“I thought you might enjoy it,” Fuerza said. “But you must deal with them carefully.”
“My men and I are always careful…”
“Do as I suggest, Colonel, and I will create an atmosphere of paranoia and fear that will cause the entire border security debate in America to shatter,” Fuerza said.
“Explain.”
“The Americans are going to put more robots on the border and, if that fails as it appears it has, they will bring armed troops in,” Fuerza replied. “They will do this because they think they have the upper hand.”
“Militarily, that is unquestioned.”
“But in every other respect, they do not,” Fuerza said. “Perhaps on the question of their right to secure their borders from terrorist monsters like you, they win. But in moral, social, political, economic, humanitarian, and cultural terms, they fail. When the Americans realize they do not control what happens on their own immense borders, they will rush to return to the status quo, just as the American people’s response to your attacks just a year ago has been to simply return to the status quo.”
“This is gibberish, Fuerza,” Zakharov said, pouring himself more vodka. “I am not playing along with this cultural psychobabble. You want to kill some American vigilantes, do it yourself.”
“At the very least, you get to practice your night-hunting skills, and save some money on border-crossing fees,” Fuerza said. “At most, you will start an insurrection in this country that I guarantee will result in the borders being thrown wide open for you.”
Zakharov thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Fuerza. But if we expend any ammunition or lose any men or equipment, it comes out of your pocket, not mine.”
Fuerza fell silent himself, but only for a moment: “Very well, Colonel, it is a deal.” They shook hands, both eyeing each other warily as they did so. “Nice to do business with you, Colonel,” Fuerza said; then he added, “You still did not tell me what you and your men intend to do in this country, Colonel,” he said. He motioned to the television. “You want those robots, do you not?”
“First I want Richter and Vega as my prisoners, and then I want those robots,” Zakharov said. “They will teach me how those robots are maneuvered and controlled. I will use the robots to capture other robots and other weapons, and soon I will be the most powerful mercenary warlord in the world.”
“Such a force would be extremely valuable to me, Colonel,” Fuerza said.
“Use my robots to protect your dope deals, Fuerza? Not a chance. There are dictators that will pay me a hundred times what you are paying me now to have those robots fighting for them.”
“So you want to capture some of those robots to form a mercenary fighting force?”
“A fighting force, yes,” Zakharov said. “A ‘mercenary’ force—no. I have one specific objective in mind.”
“In Amarillo, Texas? More oil refineries, I assume?”
“You should assume nothing, Comandante,” Zakharov warned, “or if I am discovered, I will ‘assume’ that you told them, and if I survive I will be coming after you.” He paused, then murmured, “They have some things in Amarillo that belong to me, and I want them back.”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Fuerza said. “I have excellent contacts throughout Texas, and of course I do a great deal of business there.”
“We will see how good your information is in Arizona first,” Zakharov said. “But perhaps you can be of help to me later on.”
“We will talk, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “If it is money you want, I can get it for you.”
“Keep your end of the bargain and don’t try to screw me, Fuerza, and then you can talk to me all you want.” He got on a small walkie-talkie, checked in with his security detail to be sure the way was clear, and departed.
As soon as the Russian departed, Fuerza ordered, “Keep an eye on them. I do not want those bastards coming back for this money. They have enough weapons now to lay waste to this entire county.”
“No confío en aquel ruso, Comandante,” one of Fuerza’s men said. “I think he would turn us in to the federales in an instant.”
“Concordado,” Fuerza said. He nodded toward the duffel bag filled with money. “Zakharov thinks he has bought our cooperation as well as those weapons. But we do not need his help. We will use him as much as possible, then dispose of him.”
He went into the living room, moved a couch, a rug, and several pieces of plywood, revealing a hidden door. He carefully removed a trip wire on the handle to deactivate a booby trap explosive device, then opened the door. One by one, he started handing out kilo bags of white powder, securely wrapped in duct tape, and more bundles of cash. “Guns and missiles are good,” Fuerza said as he handed the bags out to his men, “but they are a dime a dozen in this country. Get control of the money, and you get the real power.” He held up two bags of cocaine, worth several thousand dollars each. “This is the real currency in the United States of America, not guns—and certainly not nationalism or revolution. Get the money, and you get the power.”
FBI FIELD OFFICE, SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
THE NEXT MORNING
“Getting fired seems to be part of your regular routine now, eh, Jason?” FBI Director Kelsey DeLaine said with only just a hint of humor in her voice. With her was her assistant, Special Agent Janice Perkins, a friendly and rather demure blonde who was very quick with a smile and a handshake and who, armed with a seemingly endless array of PDAs and smart cell phones, always seemed to have any person or every bit of information requested of her instantly at her fingertips. They were approaching the FBI’s San Diego field office headquarters north of San Diego near Montgomery Field Airport on a bright, clear California morning.
“I don’t see the humor in it, Kel,” Jason said somberly. With him was Ariadna Vega, looking beautiful as always although she dressed down in a plain pantsuit and casual jacket against the chill of the gradually lifting morning marine layer, still visible to the west toward San Diego’s Pacific coastline. “What are we doing here, anyway? We’ve been debriefing you guys for the past eighteen hours already.”
“I have some folks I want you to meet,” Kelsey said.
“What for? We’re not part of Operation Rampart anymore.”
“And you shouldn’t be…you said so yourself,” Kelsey said. “For once, I agree with you: as you said, you need to be out in the field chasing down the bad guys, not waiting for them to come to you.” She looked at Jason earnestly and added, “And frankly, I think Task Force TALON was a great success. The FBI can sure put your capabilities to good use.” Jason made a show of clearing out his ears as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Kiss my ass, Major. I still think you’re a loose cannon, but Task Force TALON is for sure the future of special operations and high-risk law enforcement.”
“I’m touched by your concern for me, Kel.”
“It’s nothing personal, Jason—some men can lead, others can’t,” Kelsey said matter-of-factly.
“Don’t hold back, friend: tell me how you really feel.”
“Your training, education, and background have been in research and development, not leadership. You’ve always come through in the end, but usually at the expense of one or two of your best people. To me, that’s not true leadership.”
Kelsey’s last comment hurt—Frank Falcone’s horrifying suicide was just a couple days earlier, and he and Ariadna had been grilled about it and all the events leading up to the riot at Rampart One for most of yesterday. “So you want to take over?” Jason asked bitterly. “You want to make TALON a big bad FBI terrorist-hunting force?”
“As FBI director, I’m in a great position to see to it that TALON gets the funding, equipment, support, and taskings that can quickly turn it into the world’s most high-tech and fearsome security, interdiction, and law enforcement team,” Kelsey said. “I’m not trying to cut you out—
there’ll always be a place for you on TALON…”
“Just not as commander, right?”
“As technical team leaders, designing, building, and deploying the latest weapons and technology, there’s no one that could replace you and Ariadna. As tacticians and field commanders…”
“You think we suck.”
“I think you need to learn how to build a fighting team, rather than slap on the armor yourself and rush out into the middle of a firestorm—or, worse, creating a firestorm,” Kelsey said. “I think I can do that. Now that I better understand how your technology works and what it’s capable of, I think I have the organizational skills to take TALON to a much higher level.”
“And that would sure make you look good, in or out of the FBI, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m not doing this to make myself look good,” Kelsey snapped. “Sure, it would be a great legacy for me to bring that force up to full operational status as quickly as possible before I leave the Bureau. But I really believe in Task Force TALON too. I think it can be as big and as important as the U.S. marshals—heck, I think it could eventually replace the U.S. marshals.”
Jason had to admit to himself that he had never thought of TALON in that way before: TALON becoming its own federal law enforcement agency. He had only thought of it as a tool of the FBI or the armed forces, like choosing a different gun or vehicle to do a specific task. “Are you willing to take the added scrutiny?” he asked.
“‘Scrutiny’? I call it ‘universal condemnation,’” Kelsey said, only half-joking. “But to answer your question: yes, I’m willing to take it. To tell the obvious truth, I’m already tainted by my actions with TALON—I’m not long for the directorship. I was nominated because of what I did to help hunt down the Consortium. But I don’t play well with Congress, the Attorney General, or the Washington bureaucracy, the three players that you need to win in that town. So I might as well help TALON hunt down whoever is invading America now, then take my retirement and head off to a nice comfy private sector consulting job.”
