Gringo Joe

by JD Davis

  “It looks like your patience paid off, Sergeant. Nice job, but what do we have here?”

  “Thank you, sir, but it was my team; their performance was extraordinary.”

  Joe walked over to the prisoners and rolled the American face-up with his boot.

  “Lieutenant Lee, meet Jihadi Johnson. This is William Johnson, age nineteen, from Malibu Beach, California. He says his dad is Huey Johnson.”

  “Huey Johnson … wait, you mean Huey Johnson the actor, hater of all things patriotic and American?”

  “Apparently so, sir. I don’t think the apple fell very far from the tree.”

  “All right, folks, let’s load ‘em up. Where do you want your prisoners, Chandler?”

  “I have orders to get them to the air base at Kandahar, and sir, I request permission to take my team if you have no objections.”

  “Permission granted. Where are you headed next?”

  “I’m not really sure about that, Lieutenant. With any luck—home.”

  “Well, listen, Chandler, I can always use a good man; let me know if you need a job.”

  Once the three prisoners were loaded and Joe, Doc, and Remi were aboard, the Black Hawk touched down just across the Arghandab River. Only Joe hopped out to help Liam load a backpack of ammo, a communication pack, a camo tarp, and his .50 caliber sniper rifle.

  “Good shooting, Liam.”

  “I have to confess, Sergeant, I was fine until Remi grabbed her gun and left. I guess I got used to the extra set of eyes. I was sure afraid I’d miss something.”

  “Well, pal, you didn’t miss a thing. Let’s go.”

  Lt. Col. Gunderson was only one of several interested parties on the tarmac when the Black Hawk landed. Besides the six MPs waiting to escort the prisoners to a detention center, there was a suit, and this one had a name.

  “Hell of a show, Sergeant; you made us all proud but I’d expect nothing less. Well done, soldier.”

  Joe nodded and turned to his team.

  “Colonel, I believe you know Corporal Remi Sørensen, but I’d be honored to introduce you to the rest of my team.”

  The colonel nodded and smiled broadly.

  “Sir, this is Specialist Liam Greer, sniper extraordinaire, and I believe you’ve heard of Petty Officer Third Class Doc Davis. Colonel, every one of these people performed heroically in the face of fire and saved lives today, mine included.”

  Gunderson looked each of them in the eye, shook their hands, and thanked them. As the prisoners were escorted away, a suit joined the group.

  “Sergeant Chandler, I’d like you and your team to follow this gentleman into one of our briefing rooms and listen to what he has to say. I’ll excuse myself but, again, you all did your units and countries proud today.”

  Joe called his team to attention; they saluted the colonel and turned to follow the suit.

  “I know what you all did today and I can only imagine how exhausted you are, so I will make this brief. My name is Howard Anderson—Dr. Howard Anderson actually, but my Ph.D. is in a silly random field, so I had to go to work for the US government. I am currently the liaison between NATO and a foundation that I oversee, but it is important that you know that my job carries a great deal of weight and authority. With that said, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. Your mission today was extremely important, but it is now classified. I am afraid there will not be an awards ceremony or any well-deserved metals handed out. I personally want to apologize, but it is critical that neither the Taliban nor the Mexican drug cartels learn what happened today. We’ll let them assume there was a disagreement that ended badly. The impact of your mission will most likely save hundreds of lives, which is why a citation of merit is being attached to each of your permanent service records. It is my sincere desire that each of you one day receives the recognition you deserve. Now, with that said, I’m afraid that we need to make this a bit more official, so another person will join you and you’ll be asked to sign a few documents, then you can go celebrate together.”

  As Dr. Anderson walked out, Major Horst—from Belgium, serving with the International Security and Assistance Force—walked in with a file under his arm. He introduced himself, said things which sounded a great deal like threats, then had each of them sign some papers. He read an international confidentiality document, but what they all heard was “blah, blah, blah.”

  When he excused them, Joe stood and asked the major if he’d excused himself instead and let them have the room. Though he hesitated, he saw the determination in Joe’s eyes and walked out.

  Joe looked at each of them for a few moments before speaking.

  “I am a soldier, just like you. I did not join this fight for glory or ribbons, but today I’ll walk away with something more valuable. I do not care if another single soul ever knows what we did as long as we do not forget each other.”

  Doc was the first to respond. “I will not forget.”

  Liam was next, “I will not forget.”

  It was a longer pause for Remi, who tried to keep the tears out of her eyes. “Today I became a soldier, and I will never forget.”

  The other three stood, walked to where Joe was standing, and they joined arms and formed a tight circle. Joe spoke quietly, “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.”

  In unison they all said “Amen” and walked away.

  CHAPTER 8

  SAN MIGUEL

  On Highway 19, just four miles inside the US border with Mexico, is the town of San Miguel, Arizona. On the outskirts of the old village, you will find the Queen of Angels Mission built by Father Bonaventure Oblasser in 1913. It served as both a church and school and was constructed to educate the Papago Indians and spread the doctrine of Catholicism across the plains and mountains of the Sonora Desert. However, on a hot, dusty Sunday morning, more than fifteen police, county sheriff, border patrol, state troopers, and one Bureau of Indian Affairs vehicles were scattered across the parking lot. The FBI would be the last to arrive. They were all at the scene of a tragic and growing trend along the border. Inside an abandoned forty-foot tractor trailer were the bodies of sixteen girls, ranging from age thirteen to maybe as old as seventeen. They were all from Central America, in this instance, Guatemala, and each one had been murdered by a single gunshot to the head. That is, all but one, who was in shock, sitting in the back of an ambulance, shaking uncontrollably. Her name was Maria Perez and she had lived because her would-be assassin’s gun misfired and jammed. She was the next in line to be shot, but when the man turned around looking for enough sunlight to fix his gun, she had quietly lain down among her dead friends. Very quickly and quietly she rubbed a spot of blood in the middle of her forehead, and with eyes wide open she held her breath and lay very still. The man unjammed his pistol, shot the remaining four girls, closed the door of the trailer, and Maria drew a deep breath, and went into shock as he drove away. Junior Hernandez, a young janitor at the mission, heard the pop of the pistol, and watched the Ford pickup leave the parking lot. His Honda Trail 90 was parked on the other side. Junior knew what trouble was and he was scared, but he found the courage to call the police.

  Sometimes bodies were found locked in trailers, where they had died of starvation or dehydration, but the murder of these young, innocent girls was something new and extremely troubling. Smuggling women across the border to accommodate the burgeoning sex trafficking and slave trade business had grown exponentially. Some of the girls were enticed with money or promises of jobs but most were simply kidnapped from their rural villages, never to be seen or heard from again. These atrocities were carried out by systematic, well-funded, and ruthless organizations and, almost without fail, were associated with the drug cartels. The cartels were already seasoned smugglers, so young girls—and lately, young boys—were just one more commodity.

  Sherriff Monroe Culpepper, a thirty-five-year veteran of the police force, stood at
the crime scene shaking his head, considering early retirement.

  “Eddie,” he said to his senior deputy, “what in the Sam Hill has happened to humanity?”

  Eddie, a deacon at the First Baptist Church of San Miguel, said, “Sherriff, humanity has been broken since the dawn of mankind. There are some sick folks in the world, but this here, this is just pure-dee-ole-evil and it scares the jeepers out of me. Yes sir, it scares the absolute jeepers out of me.”

  From her office in Washington DC, Arizona Congresswoman Dr. Sally Marshall read the news release twice, picked up the phone, and dialed a number of which very few were entitled.

  Congresswoman Marshall was not only the tough, spitfire daughter of a Tucson cattle rancher, she was also a decorated Apache Helicopter pilot from Operation Iraqi Freedom. After leaving the military, she graduated from the University of Arizona College of Medicine, worked as an ER doctor until she ran for—and won a seat in—the Congress. Marshall was well thought of by her constituents and was quickly appointed to a coveted position on the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.

  When the call was answered somewhere near Langley, Virginia, and transferred to the intended party, she simply said, “It’s time.”

  The murders, the countless interviews of young Maria, the miles of paperwork, and the subsequent phone call to Virginia had all taken place three weeks earlier. In the meantime, an outstanding US Army Ranger, with a native grasp of the Spanish language, had recently returned from Afghanistan. There were inquiries, files pulled, calls made, and it was already decided—Sergeant Joseph Chandler just might be the man.

  CHAPTER 9

  CIA 201

  Mexico

  Joe’s flight from Bagram Air Force to Andrews in Washington DC landed at 7:50 AM. Fortunately, he had gotten a few hours of sleep after the layover in Germany. His commanding officer at Ft. Benning had sent him orders to report to the George Bush Center for Intelligence in Langley, Virginia. A car had been sent for him and the Marine driver, once through the gated checkpoint, had dropped him in front of a familiar office building. Again, an MP escorted him down a long hall, an elevator ride up two floors, and through a set of double doors. In minutes, Colonel Pike’s smiling face appeared and welcomed Joe home.

  “We’re very proud of you, Sergeant Chandler, and there are some people waiting to meet you. Please follow me.”

  Joe was looking forward to rejoining the 75th Rangers at Fort Bennington and, quite honestly, he’d seen this movie before and he was a bit concerned.

  When he and Pike entered the large office, a man in a suit, without introducing himself, said, “I took a look at your linguist records. Arabic and Spanish—where did a gringo get such a command of the Spanish language?”

  “Well, sir, there is a family by the name of Palmero who lived with us since I was a child. His English was marginal at best, and hers was almost nonexistent. We used to sing a lot, sir.”

  The man considered that for a moment then said, “Yes, we Mexicans do like to sing. Please, have a seat. I also see by this report from Afghanistan you know how to get things done.”

  “I had a great team, sir, and we caught a few breaks.”

  The man looked down at the file and then back at Joe.

  “It looks to me, Sergeant Chandler, like you created most of your own breaks. Regardless, nice job and now there are some things we need you to consider. If you agree to help us, Sergeant, as usual, they’ll be a bit of paperwork. I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.”

  The man rose and without acknowledging anyone else, walked out of the office. Joe looked at Colonel Pike who had his arms crossed and a grin on his face.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I get the feeling you are about to reassign me again.”

  “Sergeant, I can’t tell you a great deal until you are formally read into the mission. However, I promise that you will have the chance to rejoin the 75th or request another assignment if you refuse this mission and no one will think the less of you. Let’s get you downstairs and some formalities out of the way and everything will be explained in detail.”

  Outside the office, two Military Policemen confirmed his ID and escorted him down a long hallway, a flight of stairs, and through multiple security doors. IDs were checked and rechecked. There were searches and inspections of orders, but finally they arrived at an empty office where he was instructed to have a seat and wait. His escorts stood outside the door until they were dismissed by a commanding female voice.

  “That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you very much.”

  A beautiful woman of Hispanic descent walked in reading a file, sat down, and did not look up for quite some time. Still reading, she smiled and shook her head.

  “Well corporal, if only you boys would live up to your reputation, we’d get along just fine, but you guys rarely do.”

  “Actually it’s Sergeant, ma’am. I’m not a corporal.”

  When she did look up right into those ridiculously green eyes, she lost her train of thought and got a bit flustered. Trying to regain her composure, she looked back at the file.

  “What I was going to say Corp—uh, Sergeant,” as she looked at the file again; “was” then she did it again. Her face flushed and she completely lost her thoughts.

  “I apologize, ma’am; I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “Uhhh, no, ah … no, not at all. It’s that I was expecting another knuckle dragger from Special Forces and well, you … uhhh … oh, never mind!”

  Finally regaining her composure, she continued reading.

  “So, you are from the 75th and you are a linguist, and I do see here you are a sergeant—I apologize. Your test scores are remarkable. Hmm, let’s see: you have a degree in political science with a minor in Middle Eastern studies—is that correct, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that is correct.”

  “Quite frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t take another career path and be somewhere other than here.”

  “I’m sure that’s what my parents are thinking, and with all due respect, ma’am, I’m not exactly sure what I am doing here, but I assume either you or someone will explain.”

  Quietly, yet a bit too audibly, she mumbled something about modeling, but finally cleared her throat and formally introduced herself.

  “First of all, my name is Ms. Mendez and I’m going to have you sign a few disclosures stating that you will be shot if you repeat anything you read or hear in this meeting or any such meetings going forward. Is that clear?”

  She removed a sizeable stack of papers from her folder and asked Joe to read them carefully. Assuming he would do as all the others, she instructed him accordingly.

  “Take your time and make sure you know what you’re signing. Or if not, please initial each page at the bottom then sign and date the last page.”

  Ms. Mendez was surprised and somewhat disappointed as Joe began reading page one. She glanced at her watch, but much quicker than she expected, he seemed to actually read and comprehend each page. He asked a few pertinent questions and even pointed out a misspelled word on page thirty-eight.

  “All right, I believe I got it.” After signing the last page, he laid down his pen. Ms. Mendez looked at him for a moment then pushed a button on the phone. Immediately, another woman—this one a very attractive Navy lieutenant—walked in, looked at the file, confirming each initial and the signature before taking it with her. When she turned to walk out, Joe was standing at attention.

  “At ease, soldier. If you keep doing that in this building, you’re going to get a cramp. There’s enough brass around here to outfit several orchestras. Unless a colonel, a general, or the president walks in, feel free to keep your seat.”

  Then the lieutenant glanced at his butt, looked at Ms. Mendez, raised her eyebrows, smiled, and left the room. Ms. Mendez did not like the lieutenant, nor did she like the insinuation the lieutenant made with her eyes.

  “Please sit down, Sergeant.”

  Ms. Mendez explained to Joe that he was going to
be “read-in,” as the saying goes, to some extremely sensitive and top-secret information.

  Although it sounded somewhat condescending, she said, “Regardless of the pretty lieutenant’s laissez-faire demeanor, she is an attorney and has the necessary credentials to brief you.”

  It was quiet obvious that it pained Ms. Mendez terribly to lend any credence whatsoever to the pretty lieutenant. Joe didn’t miss much, including how fit Ms. Mendez was, and that she carried herself like a woman not to be messed with. He knew it was pouring gas on a raging fire but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Yeah, she is rather pretty, isn’t she?”

  Ms. Mendez’s eyes narrowed, her lips seemed to stiffen, and with obvious reluctance picked up the phone, pressed the same button, and after a few seconds said, “We’re ready.”

  Immediately the cute Navy lieutenant walked back in and asked Joe to follow her. Several turns and one large set of double doors later, they entered a secure conference room where she pointed toward a chair and asked him to have a seat. She opened another file and, looking a bit more serious, told him to pay attention. Joe nodded and she began unfolding a condensed version of two years of surveillance, intelligence, and research on an operation she referred to as Widow Maker. She pulled five pictures, all of death and destruction, from the file. There were bodies, bombed out buildings, and previous gangsters who were hanging from a bridge.

  “These unfortunate souls used to work for our target.” She pulled out the last two pictures. The first was a Mexican man, twenty-nine years of age. He was wearing dark sunglasses and a natural silk jacket.

  “Recognize him?”

  “Sure, I just saved his life in Afghanistan.”

  “We think he works for a man who recently ordered this.” She shoved the last picture across the table. It showed the bodies of sixteen dead teenage girls from Guatemala.

  “I think this was the final straw. Are there any questions?”