Shadow of Death

by David M. Salkin

  “So far, this has been an extremely rosy picture, thanks,” said Cascaes.

  “Wait, I’m winding up to the big, happy ending,” replied Apo. “So Daesh is grabbing up land and trying to act like a legitimate country. Syria and Iraq have both proven that the only thing worse than tyranny is anarchy. The locals would rather follow Sharia law and pay taxes to sociopathic lunatics than have no law at all. Daesh is getting much more organized over there. They even started their own version of schools. Now little Mohammed can learn to fieldstrip an AK-47 at the same time he learns his Koran and why he should hate Jews and Americans.

  “You know Daesh doesn’t mind killing anyone that doesn’t go along with their version of the new world order. They’re happy to kill Syrians, Russians, Americans, Iraqis—they’re equal opportunity murderers. But they finally made a mistake. They pissed off the wrong people.”

  A few members of the team exchanged glances as they started guessing silently who might have been brought into the fray.

  “Turns out, the Mexican drug cartels have had their drug imports interrupted because of the civil war in Syria, and it’s because Daesh controls everything that moves in and out of that region. Who knew? Heroin imports from Afghanistan and Syria into Mexico pretty much came to a standstill. Now, Daesh can thumb their nose at the president of the United States and Russia all day long, but messing with Las Zetas or the Sinaloa drug cartels—tsk, tsk. That’ll get you killed.”

  Apo smiled and slowed his pacing.

  “You know how fucked up that is? I’m in eastern Syria, so deep undercover I don’t even know my real name anymore, and I start hearing Spanish. These guys don’t think I can understand them, so they’re just chatting away, and I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit, these guys are fucking gangbangers in the middle of World War III.’ I spent a lot of time with a small group of very dangerous men who were constantly trying to work their way up the chain of command to see who was who in the Daesh table of organization. When I tell you that I witnessed a meeting between Daesh and Las Zetas, my head just about exploded. The Zetas don’t exactly hang out with jihadists. At least, they didn’t before.”

  Chris sat back and folded his arms. “Interesting world we live in. Wasn’t too long ago we worked on a case with jihadists in the tri-border region in South America. Welcome to globalization, brother.”

  “No shit, huh?” said Apo. He began pacing back and forth again like a guy who had downed a dozen cups of coffee before a meeting. “I’ve been in and out of the Middle East more times than I can remember. Never in my wildest dreams did I think a Middle East gig would land me in Mexico. Quite frankly, I’m not sure which is more dangerous. I’m not talking sitting on a Cancun beach drinking a Corona—I’m talking real Mexico. Any of you ever do an assignment there?”

  No one responded; they just exchanged a few glances. Cascaes spoke up. “Apo, my team has had limited experience in espionage. We used to just go kill bad guys like regular Frogmen. It’s gotten more complicated the last year and half. But no, we’ve never worked in Mexico.”

  “Well, Mexico isn’t all beaches and waterskiing, gentlemen. It’s a failed state. All this talk about border security being national security isn’t bullshit. The damn politicians in Washington are too worried about Latino votes to get serious about the southern border—but mark my words, trouble’s coming, and there’s not so much as a speed bump on the way here from Mexico.

  “A few years back, Mexican president Felipe Calderón started a real war on drugs. Not like the one we say we’re doing here. I mean a real war on drugs. At the end of 2006, the Mexican government started Operation Michoacán. They used over four thousand Mexican army and navy personnel and went to war. Killed a lot of dirtbags and rounded up and arrested a bunch more, including about thirty government officials all on the take. Since then, the war on drugs has killed over a hundred thousand people in Mexico. A hundred thousand. But every time the Mexican government takes down a cartel kingpin, another one pops up. They got a real problem. Cartel Whack-A-Mole.”

  “What’s this got to do with us?” asked Moose, not used to speeches from strangers.

  “I’m getting to it. Back in Syria, that Las Zetas gangbanger was working a deal. I’m not exactly sure what was going on. There was something in the back of a truck that Daesh was transporting for these guys.”

  “Drugs?” asked Moose.

  “No. If it was just drugs, they wouldn’t have been acting the way they were. The Daesh fighters are fanatic sociopaths, but they don’t take drugs or drink alcohol. Drugs have no value to them other than to generate cash for weapons and, more importantly right now, ammunition. When they haul drugs around, they don’t treat it like something special—it’s just bags of stuff they throw in the back of a truck. And it’s not like they ever worry about anyone stealing it. Everyone’s terrified of them. But like I said before, the cartels didn’t like their drug supply interrupted, which means they worked a deal.”

  “But you don’t know what that deal is?” asked Ripper, his veins bulging out of his arms after power-lifting all morning.

  “Right. I don’t. I failed that part of the mission. Quite frankly, if it wasn’t for a lucky sandstorm, I’m not sure I’d be here right now.”

  “You did say you had a point. So where’s this all going?” asked Moose quietly.

  “It’s going to Mexico. And it’s going to be complicated . . .”

  CHAPTER 9

  Baghdad, Iran

  Ministry of Intelligence

  Director of Intelligence Ali Ahmadi was chain smoking as he listened to the briefing from his assistant director of foreign operations. That man, Vahid Turani, would mean the difference between Ali gaining in power and respect or being thrown out of his command position.

  “The package arrived in Ras al-Bassit before dawn. It was transported by boat to a larger ship near Cyprus later this morning, and will change ships again when it reaches Morocco. That ship should arrive in Tabasco, Mexico, in eight days. Our new friends in Tabasco have guaranteed the container’s delivery across Mexico, where it will be put aboard another ship on the Pacific side bound for Los Angeles.”

  Director Ahmadi lit a new cigarette off the old one. “I still can’t believe this was the most effective route and mode of transport.”

  “It isn’t, merely the safest. The container will be untraceable, and the markings on the interior of the container are ISIS propaganda. If the Americans were to find it, they’d blame either the cartels or ISIS.”

  “They will blame us. No one else other than the Russians or Chinese would have the technology for such a device.”

  “They can blame us all they want. They will have zero proof. The cartels have access to billions. They could buy such a device . . .”

  “Neither the Chinese nor the Russians would sell such a weapon to drug cartels. The Americans will blame us.”

  “The Americans will be devastated, Director. With their economy collapsing around them, they can yell and scream at the UN all they want. They will have no proof. Every component of that device has been sanitized. There’s no way they could know where any piece of that weapon was manufactured.”

  The director let out a long stream of blue smoke and leaned back in his chair. A smile slowly crossed his face and his mood lightened. “It is a wonder, isn’t it? Who would have thought we could have ever developed such a device.”

  Vahid cleared his throat, quietly reminding the director that it was the Russians who sold them the technology for two billion euros.

  Ali snapped at him. “Yes, yes, the Russians were helpful, but our scientists took it to a whole new level. The Americans will blame us, the Russians, the Chinese, the cartels—even the North Koreans! So what? In the end, they will be crushed, and with the money freed up from the treaty, we will emerge as the new superpower. Five years! That’s all we need. Five years and we will destroy Israel, take parts of Syria and Iraq, and then focus on the House of Saud. In twenty years, the map of the world will
be a different picture.”

  Vahid nodded. “Yes, and when oil prices go up again, there’s even more money to be made.”

  “Don’t miss the bigger picture, Vahid. With lower oil prices, the Americans will suffer the most. Their people smile because gas is cheap for their cars, but their retirement portfolios collapse because big oil companies lose profit. And their entire fracking industry goes out of business if prices stay low. Their stock market loses money. Their entire economy is a house of cards. With the detonation of our weapon, their entire economy will collapse!” He smacked his hands down on the table so hard it made Vahid jump.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the teams that transported the weapon?” asked the director.

  “We leaked their location to Assad forces. They were rounded up and executed after the shipment left. All loose ends have been taken care of. The only people who know about the container are in this building, or with the cargo to detonate it.”

  “Excellent. When the shipment arrives, I want to be notified at once.”

  Vahid left the office feeling his stomach in knots. This was, without question, the riskiest operation in modern Iranian history. If it was successful, he would be a hero. If it was a failure, it might just get him hanged.

  CHAPTER 10

  CIA Special Ops HQ

  The Gym

  Apo had been on a roll, talking for over ten minutes straight, but there was still so much more to discuss.

  “It’s the tip of the iceberg, gentlemen.” He stood up. “You’re SEALs. I’m sure you’ve been in situations where you’re outnumbered and outgunned, am I right?”

  They exchanged glances and smirks. “A time or two,” responded Cascaes sarcastically.

  “Well, you have an advantage that doesn’t exist in Mexico. The bonds between all of you mean that you’re more than the sum of your parts. The trust—the brotherhood—the esprit de corps—this doesn’t exist in Mexico. Because of your loyalty to each other, you become something bigger and fiercer than most people will ever understand. It’s almost the exact opposite in Mexico. No one can trust anyone. Ever. It’s a huge problem. Half the government and police are on the take.

  “The very first drug cartel started with a Mexican Federal Police agent named Miguel Gallardo. He’s supposed to be a lawman, right? Instead, he’s running all the coke and grass in and out of Mexico. And we, the CIA, knew about it and didn’t care because he was helping us with the Contras in Nicaragua. I’m not here to give you a history lesson; I just want you to understand, everywhere you look in Mexico, you find corruption. And, when someone is occasionally brave enough to stand up to the cartels, you usually find his head in a bag along with his family and friends.”

  “Sounds to me like the Mexicans don’t have the exclusive on corruption,” said Ryan O’Conner quietly, referring to the Iran-Contra scandal that Apo had glided over.

  “CIA’s motives were strategic. Amoral just the same, but it wasn’t for personal profit. In the end, they arrested Gallardo for killing a couple of US agents. My point is, just as your trust for each other makes your team stronger, the total lack of trust in Mexico makes their ability to combat the cartels impossible. At every level of government, someone is on the take. It makes for a very bad environment to run operations.”

  “Do you ever have any good news?” asked Ripper.

  “Afraid not,” said Apo with a shrug.

  Moose looked at Cascaes. “So you’re telling us we’re going to Mexico?”

  “It would appear to be the location of the next mission.” Chris hesitated, and then painfully said, “But I’m not going with you.”

  That brought a lot of scowling, confused faces.

  Chris took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, I apologize to each and every one of you, but I’m retiring.”

  They stared in disbelief.

  “Julia is also retiring.”

  The faces of his men softened. Jon finally broke the awkward silence. “Oh man, Skipper’s in love . . .”

  The SEALs laughed out loud. “That it, Skipper?” asked Moose.

  Chris’s face turned bright red. He shrugged. “Guilty as charged. I’m sorry, guys. I stay single any longer, McCoy’s going to start looking good. It’s time I bailed out. It wasn’t an easy decision, trust me.”

  “Yeah, choosing between McCoy and Julia must have been rough,” answered Ripper with a big smile. He stood up and walked over to Cascaes, extending his hand. “Congratulations, Skipper.”

  The rest of the team stood up and surrounded Chris, showering him with smacks and handshakes and bro hugs. Chris wiped his eyes quickly before anyone could see. He cleared his throat. “Apo is going to be running this operation. I wanted to be here for the change in command. With Mack and me gone, Moose and Ripper are team leaders. I spoke to Dex. You two will be getting promoted. Congratulations, Senior Chiefs. The rest of you, try and stay out of the brig, please. Gentlemen, I’m taking my leave. You all have my cell phone and e-mail, I expect you to stay in touch. That’s an order. I’m buying beers when you get back. Alpha Mike Foxtrot.”

  Cascaes turned and walked out of the gym, lest his men see his eyes watering again.

  Apo waited a few minutes out of respect, and then asked everyone to be seated. When they had returned their attention to him, he spoke softly. “Tomorrow at 0900, we’ll meet and discuss the operation in detail. I know you and the skipper are tight. I respect that, and I know I’m not him. I’m going to leave you all to discuss the new situation amongst yourselves. You can talk to me or Dex tomorrow if this is a problem. The mission will be dangerous, as they always are. And we will need to trust and rely on each other. You’re either one hundred percent in with me, or you’re out. Simple as that. And I’ll understand either way. See you tomorrow at nine, or I won’t.”

  Apo stood and walked out, leaving the remaining six SEALs feeling very small in the large gym.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tabasco, Mexico

  Puerto Ceiba

  The new police chief had closed the road that led to the dock. He personally watched the unloading of the marijuana into the convoy of trucks to make sure no one would interfere. His officers were spread out along the route to make sure cars and pedestrians were kept out of sight. The unloading of the ship took over an hour, even with six men working continuously. The ship, an eighty-foot commercial fishing vessel, had been filled with eleven tons of pot grown in Panama and shipped to El Gato.

  El Gato’s lieutenant on the scene, Felix Espinosa, watched the unloading while leaning against his black SUV. “Such a pain in the ass. Heroin is so much easier,” he complained.

  “Twice the work for half the money,” grumbled Marco. “We should make the pigs unload it for us.”

  Felix laughed, and watched the sheriff. “They have been very cooperative lately, huh?”

  Marco smiled, showing his gold tooth. “Funny how that works.”

  “It annoys me to have to give him anything,” said Felix.

  “So don’t! We’ll split it.”

  Felix shot him a nasty look. “El Gato says we give it to him, we give it to him.”

  Marco’s face fell. “Hey, man, I was just kidding. You know I wouldn’t take El Gato’s money. Just a joke.”

  Felix walked down the road to the new chief of police and handed him an envelope. “El Gato thanks you for your cooperation.”

  The chief looked scared. “I can’t accept this. I’m just happy to help Señor Gato.”

  “Keep it. You don’t want to offend him.”

  The chief bowed ever so slightly. “Thank you very much.”

  Felix patted him on the shoulder. “Always better to cooperate, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Felix watched his men close the back of the tractor-trailer and get into the truck. The chief hustled off to his car to give the truck an escort to the warehouse where the shipment would be stored until being sent to its final destination.

  Felix and Marco
hopped into their SUV and drove back to El Gato’s mansion. It was payday for them, too.

  CHAPTER 12

  CIA HQ

  Moose and Ripper sat on the grass under a tree and caught their breath. They had just finished a three-mile run, during which Moose confided to Ripper that Theresa had ended their brief romance. They had arrived early for the meeting with Apo and the team.

  “So that’s it? She’s gone?”

  “Yeah. Africa freaked her out a little, I think. She said she wanted to work at a hospital or something. Just wants to help people now—not kill them.”

  “What about you?” asked Ripper.

  “I’m good at killing people.” He shrugged.

  Ripper gave him a fist bump. “That you are, Frogman.” He leaned his head back against the tree. “Man, sometimes I think, by the time we’re old enough to enjoy retirement, we’ll be way too fucked up to enjoy retirement.”

  “Damaged goods,” replied Ripper, making a face.

  During the R&R, after Theresa gave him the ax, Moose used some of his time to visit his family. One of his sisters had just had her second baby boy, who Moose held for the first time on his visit.

  “I saw Maggy and Pat last week when I was back in Jersey. Her little guy’s name is Alfonzo. Little Moose.”

  Ripper smiled. “That’s cool!” He gave Moose a fist bump. “All right, man! Way cool. He going to be a Frogman like Uncle Moose?”

  “No fucking way. Don’t get me wrong, I love what we do. Couldn’t see myself doing anything else, ever. But shit, man—let the little dude grow up and be a doctor or something. Have a wife and ten kids and be normal.”

  “Yeah, we sure ain’t normal,” said Ripper. “I’m not sure our particular job skills have set us up for a life after the navy, either.”