by Dale Brown
“An hour? That’s no good, Rick. I need to try to get in to see Maravilloso before she starts throwing more firebombs on TV.”
“As far as I can ascertain, sir, only half the normal contingent of Federal District Police are outside,” Sorensen said. “I called the Internal Affairs Ministry and they said the rest are clearing the first several blocks of the route.”
“Sounds normal to me.”
“The usual procedure is to have one platoon of police outside the embassy to surround the convoy as it leaves the compound. They deploy motorcycles or Jeeps to secure the route ahead of the convoy only after we’ve formed up. We’ve only got half the detail here now—and I can actually see only six. Besides, we don’t have any air support clearance yet.”
“But our choppers are standing by…?”
“Yes, sir, and they’ll launch with or without clearance,” Sorensen assured him. “But it’s damned irregular for the president to ask for a meeting and at the same time the Internal Affairs Ministry keeps us grounded. The left hand is not talking to the right.”
“After Maravilloso publicly admonished Díaz for that shoot down near El Centro, I’d be surprised if they even look at each other anymore, let alone talk.”
“That kind of friction only makes the situation worse, sir.”
“Rick, I need to get to the Palacio Nacional, ASAP,” Poindexter said. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but Washington is hoping that having the U.S. ambassador camped out in her outer office while she addresses the nation will coerce Maravilloso to say something to calm this situation down. Now, is there any actionable intel that you’ve received that leads you to believe we’d be in danger if we set out immediately?”
Sorensen hesitated, then shook his head. “No, sir. Just a hunch—that creepy feeling I get when things don’t look quite right. But I have no information on any specific action against us—other than the normal level of threats of violence, of course.”
“Then we go,” Poindexter said. He tapped the bulletproof vest under his shirt. “Wonder if we’ll ever get to the point where we won’t have to wear this shit whenever we go outside the embassy here, Rick.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, sir.”
Poindexter sighed, then clasped the DSS chief on the shoulder. “‘I only regret I have but one life to lose in the service of my country,’ eh, Rick? Nathan Hale.”
“Hale was sold out by a friend, captured by the British, refused a Bible while in custody, tortured, had all of the letters he wrote to his family burned, and was hanged without a trial, sir.”
“You didn’t need to remind me of all that, Rick. Let’s roll.”
The ambassador’s convoy was three armored Suburbans, one in front and one in back of the ambassador’s car. Each Suburban had four heavily armed Diplomatic Security Service agents in it, wearing bulletproof vests and armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and SIG Sauer P226 sidearms. A GPS tracking system recorded every vehicle’s exact position and would immediately notify the other DSS units along the route of any problems.
As soon as the convoy was formed up inside the parking garage, DSS notified the Federal District Police protective unit outside. The bus moved forward until it was past the gated garage entrance. Once in position, Rick Sorensen stepped outside the steel gate, his jacket unbuttoned so he could have fast access to the MP5 submachine gun underneath. He carefully scanned both sides of the block. The street was cordoned off by Federal District Police in riot gear in both directions, and the street was empty. The police had pushed the crowds back all the way across the intersection to the other side and blocked off the streets, leaving plenty of warning space. The windows and rooftops within sight appeared clear.
Everything looked okay—so far. Sorensen lifted his left sleeve microphone to his lips: “Bulldog, Tomcat, report.” All of the Marine Corps guards and DSS security agents reported in, followed by the controllers monitoring the fourteen security cameras outside the complex. When everyone reported clear, Sorensen waved to the Federal District Police bus driver to move out, then motioned for the ambassador’s motorcade to follow. He made one more visual sweep of the block. Everything looked good. The crowds were back, way back…good. No one in the windows, no one in the park across the plaza, no one…
It was then that Sorensen realized that the Federal District Police bus had not moved. The first Suburban was out of the compound and the ambassador’s car was following right behind, not yet clear of the steel gate—that was another mistake. Either the car was all the way in or all the way out, never in between. Sorensen glanced at the bus driver’s mirror…
…and noticed there was no one in the driver’s seat.
He immediately lifted his microphone: “Code red, code red!” he shouted. “Contain! Contain!”
The first Suburban, which had cleared the steel gate, stopped in position to guard the entrance, its gun ports immediately open. The driver of the ambassador’s Suburban jammed the transmission into reverse. But just before he cleared the gate he rammed into the Suburban behind him, which was following too close behind. Both vehicles stalled…
…and at the same time the heavy gauge steel car gates, propelled by small howitzer shells to ensure the gates could be closed even without electricity, slammed shut—crushing the ambassador’s SUV’s engine compartment, trapping it between the gates…
…and at the same moment, two hundred kilos of TNT hidden underneath the bus detonated. Sorensen and the Suburban outside the gate were immediately obliterated by the explosion. The engine compartment of the Suburban stuck in the gates exploded, propelling the SUV backward into the embassy compound and flipping it up and over the third security vehicle.
JUST SOUTH OF RAMPART ONE
BORDER SECURITY BASE, IN MEXICO
THAT EVENING
Major Gerardo Azueta was awakened by that unexplainable soldier’s sixth sense of impending danger. He quickly swung out of his cot, pulled on his uniform, and slipped into his body armor vest and web gear. He grabbed his M-16 rifle, donned his Kevlar helmet, and hurried outside. He was on his way to the command vehicle, but saw Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, the duty officer and second in command, speaking with a noncommissioned officer and went over to them instead. It was probably an hour or so before dawn, with just a hint of daylight to the east, but even in the darkness he could tell there was trouble. “Report, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, report from Scout Seven, about ten minutes ago,” Salinas reported. That scout unit, riding U.S. military surplus Humvees, was about thirteen kilometers to the east. “They saw a group of about fifteen migrants captured by what appears to be a civilian border patrol group.”
“Those Watchdogs again?”
“Yes, sir, I think so,” Salinas said. “About six heavily armed individuals in military gear, but they were not National Guard.”
“Status of the California National Guard units in the area?”
“Slight decrease in numbers, sir, especially the TOW-equipped Humvees,” Salinas said. “They were pulled out yesterday evening. Still several active patrols out there, but fewer in number and firepower.”
“Damned renegade vigilantes,” Azueta murmured. “Did you observe anyone getting badly hurt?”
“Yes, sir. Our scouts report some of the men were being beaten and physically restrained, and one woman was being pulled into the back of a truck with several Americans with her—no one else. It appeared as if she was resisting.”
“Sir, we have to do something!” the noncommissioned officer in charge, Master Sergeant Jorge Castillo, interjected hotly. “This is in retaliation for the accident near El Centro and the embassy bombing. Are we going to stand by and watch as our women are raped by these meados…!”
“Sir, we know which camp they took them to,” Salinas said. “It’s only three kilometers north of the border. We will outnumber them with an extra patrol unit. Request permission to…”
“Denied,” Azueta said. “I will report this incident to re
gimental headquarters and await instructions.” But as soon as he said those words, he knew he had to reconsider them: even the young lieutenant was itching to get into action. “What’s your plan, Lieutenant—or haven’t you thought of one yet?” Azueta challenged him.
“The master sergeant recommends flanking the camp with two patrol units,” Salinas replied. “We will come in from the east and southeast and sweep in, with one patrol unit attacking the camp and the other guarding the road to the west to cut off any response from the nearest National Guard patrol units.”
“That’s your plan, Lieutenant? What resistance do you expect? What weapons? What reserves do you plan to bring? What will you do if the California National Guard responds? Do you even have any idea who those people are and why they were being taken…?”
“Sir, we are wasting time,” Castillo said. “The scouts say they outnumber the Watchdogs right now. We have only observed fewer National Guard forces out there, not more. We may never get another opportunity to help those people. I respectfully recommend we proceed, sir.”
“‘Respectfully recommend,’ eh, Master Sergeant?” Azuerta mocked. “Your ‘recommendation,’ no matter how respectful, will not soothe my agony when I stand over your dead bodies, nor soothe my wife and children when I am thrown into prison for approving this insane idea.”
“Sir, they are only civilians—they have probably been drinking all night, they are tired, and they are too busy abusing our people to expect a counterattack,” Castillo said. “We should…”
“Hold your tongue, Master Sergeant, or I’ll put you in irons myself!” Azueta said angrily. “You are just as crazed on vengeance as those Americans.” But he looked at their excited, energized faces, thought for a moment, then nodded. “But we’re out here to protect Mexico and its people, and that includes those who want to work in the United States.” Castillo slapped a fist into his hand in glee. “Very well, Lieutenant. Get two more scout units moving toward that location to cover your withdrawal, and advise me when the two scouts are in position and ready to go in. If there is any observed change in opposition force deployment or numbers, terminate the mission and return to your patrol positions—don’t ask for reinforcements, because you won’t get them.” Salinas immediately picked up his portable radio to issue the orders.
It took less than fifteen minutes for Azueta to get the message that the team was in position—Salinas and Castillo must’ve set a land speed record for driving a Humvee cross-country. They took command of the strike team, with one of the patrol units on the border withdrawing to a defensive position to the southwest, ready to cut off any pursuit from a California National Guard patrol whose last known position was only two kilometers from the Watchdog Project’s camp.
That proved the National Guard’s duplicity in this horrible action, Major Azueta thought: there was no way they would not know what the Watchdogs had done. Azueta knew the National Guard was out there to watch the Watchdogs as well as look for migrants. That made it much easier for him to issue the order to proceed across the border. When the last patrol unit was in position, Azueta ordered Salinas to go.
“We go,” Salinas said to his men. “Now listen to me carefully. Our mission is to rescue as many of our people as we can. We are not here to engage the Watchdogs or the California National Guard except as necessary to accomplish our mission.” He touched Castillo’s sleeve. “Specifically, we are not here for revenge, Master Sergeant, is that clear?”
“Entendido, Teniente.”
“We go in, rescue the woman and as many men as we can, and get out, with a minimum of bloodshed,” Salinas went on. “Fire only if fired upon, understood? We have watched these people for days: most of them are old and frail, and they will have been outdoors all night and are probably sleepy and cold. We use that to our advantage. Be smart, be safe. Paseo rápido y duro, amigos. Mount up.”
On Master Sergeant Castillo’s suggestion, the two Humvees went in with headlights shuttered, at full speed, and with an American flag attached to their radio antenna. They angled in from the east, trying to avoid the last known location of the Watchdog’s lookouts and to put the rising sun at their backs to screen themselves, but it was almost dawn so they had no more time to be stealthy. Three hundred meters from the camp, they dropped off two soldiers, who would proceed in on foot to set up an overlook position and warn of any responders. At the last moment, Salinas ordered a third Humvee to drive north with only the driver on board to pick up as many captives as it could hold, and the fourth Humvee was standing by with soldiers ready to repel any pursuers.
Just thirty meters from the camp, they spotted the first lookout—he appeared to be an older man in cold-weather camouflaged hunting gear, lying on an aluminum and vinyl-webbed beach lounge chair, with a thermos of coffee beside him, a monocular night vision device hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and a walkie-talkie on a strap around the arm of the lounge chair. The man looked up, tipped his hat back to get a better look, then appeared to wave as the Humvee raced past. Salinas waved to the man, then ordered Castillo to radio his position to the dismounts. “One lookout, no weapon observed. Avoid him if you can.”
They encountered a group of ten or eleven migrants just a few meters farther, sitting and lying on the cold desert ground about ten meters outside the large eight-person tent that was the American Watchdog Project’s base camp. Salinas pulled up between the migrants and the tent. The men slowly shuffled to their feet as if they were drugged or injured, some helping others up. “Vamos, amigos,” Castillo said. He radioed for the third Humvee to come in, then quickly assessed the men. He picked two of the healthiest-looking ones. “There is one lookout down the road—secure him and make sure he doesn’t report in.”
“¿Quiénes son usted, señor?”
“Master Sergeant Castillo, Army of the United Mexican States,” Castillo replied. “We’re here to take you home.” The men stood around, looking at each other in confusion. Castillo motioned to his Humvee. “Put your injured inside—the rest will have to ride outside the vehicle. We have more vehicles on the way. Where’s the woman?” The migrant pointed at the tent, his finger shaking, and Castillo jabbed a finger at the tent.
Lieutenant Salinas led the way, his M-16 rifle at the ready. They took only a few steps before they heard screams coming from inside. Castillo bolted for the front of the tent before Salinas could tell him to wait. Castillo stooped down low, then using the muzzle of his M-16, he opened one of the door flaps. He saw four men standing around a camp table, one man on a stool in front of the table…and a woman lying on her back on the table, her dress pulled up around her neck, screaming in agony as the men watched. Two battery-powered lanterns brightly illuminated the scene. Most all of them wore camouflage gear, with a few sporting bright orange hunter’s vests. The man on the stool had close-cropped hair, while the others had longer hair and beards. Some were grimacing, but a few were smiling and joking with one another despite the poor woman’s screams…
…and at that moment, one of the bearded men looked up and noticed Castillo kneeling in the doorway with his M-16 aimed at him. “Hey!” the guy shouted. What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”
Something exploded in the veteran Mexican soldier’s brain. “¡Muerte a América!” he shouted, and he started pulling the trigger. He surprised himself at how calmly he operated: with incredible control and accuracy, he picked off the four standing men. His targets were very close—centimeters away, close enough for the muzzle flash to hit the closer targets—but he kept himself steady, his weapon on single-shot, and his breathing perfectly measured.
Four targets, four trigger pulls, four down.
“¡Pare el tirar! Cease fire! Cease fire!” Salinas shouted. He threw open the tent flaps and swept the interior with his .45 caliber automatic, finally aiming at the only American alive inside. The soldier—a U.S. Army officer—that had been seated in front of the table had curled up into a ball and dropped under the table when the shots rang out, coweri
ng in fear from the muzzle blasts thundering around him. Now he was on his back halfway under the table, his knees folded up against his obese belly, his hands covering his ears, his eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed spectacles bugging out wider than Salinas had ever seen before. His entire body was trembling so bad that his teeth rattled…
…and to Salinas’s horror, he noticed that the soldier’s hands and the front of his fatigues were covered with blood. Blood dripped from the table, huge pools of blood were on the floor—it was the most horrendous sight he had ever seen.
“Who…who are you?” the soldier screamed, his voice screeching and uncontrolled. Through the smell of cordite hanging thickly in the air, Salinas could smell feces and urine—the smell of fear, the smell when the guilty knew they were about to meet their just punishment.
“Su repartidor,” Salinas said. “Her avenger.” He pulled the trigger on his .45 Colt and kept on pulling until the magazine was empty.
“Sir.” Salinas couldn’t hear anything through the roaring of blood pounding in his ears for several moments. “Sir.” Salinas looked up at Master Sergeant Castillo, who motioned at the woman on the table. After several long moments, Salinas holstered his pistol and looked…and his throat instantly turned dry as the desert, and his mouth dropped open in complete shock. “Mi Díos, Teniente…!”
“Get…get everyone loaded up and out of here, now,” Salinas ordered. “Get some men in here and help her up, carefully.” He turned to the sergeant major and said, “Have the dismounts meet up here on the double.” Their eyes locked, and Castillo nodded, signifying that he understood the unspoken orders.
Castillo directed four men to help the women into his Humvee, then issued orders to the dismounts when they came over to meet up with the team minutes later. Salinas slipped behind the wheel of the Humvee, waiting for the camp to be evacuated. Two shots rang out from outside the tent, but Salinas was too stunned, too horrified to notice. Within minutes, the Mexican patrols were on their way, and less than five minutes later, they were safely across the border with their precious cargo.
