by Oliver North
Felipe, seated on the floor of the dark hallway beside Bruno, had the task of keeping watch through his thermals on the two Iranian captives. Ahmad and Ebi, stripped to T-shirts and undershorts, were handcuffed to the plumbing in the hall bathroom with pillowcases over their heads. Major Macklin, ever the gracious British host, was kind enough to provide the prisoners with clean underwear, pillowcases, and handcuffs.
On the roof, Doan watched on the FLIR viewscreen as the four motorcycle scouts dismounted from their bikes outside the gate. They peered at the dark and apparently empty house and tried to force the heavy steel portals open. Failing to even budge the gate, one of them pulled what looked to be a handheld radio out of his pocket and held it up to his face.
Suddenly the entire cartel convoy began moving up the road toward Finca del Ganador. The first five SUVs and four of the motorcycles pulled past the entrance and stopped on the road leading to Felipe’s house. The sixth SUV stopped directly in front of the gate. A large man emerged and began to gesture and point toward the house.
For Doan on the roof and the pilots in the Gulfstream, all this was like watching a green-tinted silent movie without subtitles. The big man was apparently a cartel jefe, for after he waved his arms about, the four scouts helped each other scale the fence. They dropped inside and began to warily approach the house.
Doan sighed, said to himself, Here we go again. Dear Lord, please protect us, then simultaneously keyed both his tac-set and aircraft sat-comm mikes: “Everybody listen up. This is Rover. There are four dirtbags inside the wire and fifty to sixty more in and around vehicles on the roadway outside the gate. Big Eye, on my command, put one Hellfire on each of the last three vehicles in line so we can block their escape route. Newboy, tell Bruno to be ready to take out any vehicles parked near his claymores to the right of the gate. Doc and KK, your targets are the four dirtbags inside the wire. Coyote, Killer, and Fingers, use AT-9s to take out the first three SUVs to the left of the gate—then everyone take down all visible enemy personnel with rifle fire. Stand by.”
There was a quiet flurry of activity as everyone moved into position, searching through thermal scopes for their assigned targets. Doan, peering at the FLIR image on the sat-pac, waited until the lead cartel scout encountered the two dead Iranians on the driveway. The cartelisto stopped and motioned for his three comrades to join him. It was a fatal mistake.
When all four were standing over the bodies, Doan said quietly into his tac-set, “Doc, KK . . . Take ’em out.”
Their subsonic rounds dropped all four cartel scouts in a fewer number of seconds. As they fell, Doan was on both radios again. “Everyone: engage your targets.”
Five of Bruno’s claymores immediately detonated in rapid sequence from right to left on the roadway in front of the gate. One of the SUVs must have been parked directly atop one of the radio-controlled mines, because the vehicle erupted in a pillar of fuel-fired flame. Then the three AT-9 rockets launched by McNaughton, Connor, and Felton found their marks.
Seconds later, the Hellfire missiles from the Gulfstream struck. Their fifteen-pound warheads tore into the last three SUVs in line, showering the cartelistos’ escape route with burning debris. In less than a minute, nearly half the cartel killers were dead or dying.
There was a brief lull in the firing and considerable shouting and running around outside the gate as the attackers tried to regroup. Every time Macklin saw movement in one of his cameras he triggered another claymore, until he had fired all ten.
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes the Federation assassins tried to summon reluctant reinforcements from roadblocks they had positioned along their route. Doan told the pilots in the Gulfstream to use two more Hellfire missiles on cartel SUVs moving east toward Finca del Ganador, out of range of the AT-9s.
A few minutes later, a group of cartelistos fired a volley of six RPGs from a defile four hundred meters west of the house. Though the missiles caused no injuries to the defenders, Doan eliminated the threat by unleashing the last Hellfire missile on the RPG shooters’ heads. That finished the attack—proving drug cartel killers are long on brutality but short on courage.
Doan immediately dispatched Felton, McNaughton, and Smith on a foot patrol around the perimeter of the house to confirm that none of the nearby hotspots visible on the FLIR were still a threat. On the tac-net he said: “Listen up, people: As soon as Fingers, Coyote, and Doc get back, we’re heading to Objective Charlie in Major Macklin’s vehicles. Rally on me at the garage in five minutes. Bring the Iranians. Big Eye is going to run out of gas soon and I want their help getting out of here.”
By the time they were all assembled, Bruno had pulled the two vehicles out of his garage and opened the front gate with a remote control. Doan quickly issued his exfil plan:
“Vic number one, the green ’75 Land Rover. Strip the canvas off the bed, cut it in two, and wrap an Iranian in each half. Tape the canvas around ’em so they can’t move. Lower the windshield and fold the bench seats in the back.
“Driver is Lehnert. Shotgun: Knapp. Gunner in the front center of the bed, Felton.
“Doc Smith, you get in the back of the truck with me. Place the three remaining AT-9s at the front of the bed so we can get at ’em if we need ’em. Put the Iranians faceup in the back of the bed and make sure they can breathe. I don’t want anyone accusing us of abusing detainees.
“Vic number two is the gray Range Rover. It’s armored, so the windows don’t go down, but it has a top hatch/sunroof that opens.
“Driver is Bruno. Shotgun, McNaughton; left rear seat: Admiral Cohen; gunner in the top hatch: Connor.
“Felipe, you’re in the right rear. Put all the extra gear, ammo, and the Hummingbird UAVs in the space behind the backseat.
“Vic one will lead out until we reach the ring road east of Merida. When we get there, vic two will take the lead since Bruno knows the fastest way to get to the airport to link up with Tour Guide. We’re moving lights-out at ten-meter interval using thermals until I say otherwise. E-and-E plan is to rally at Tour Guide’s home address in Merida—the one I gave you on the airplane. We will all stay up on the tac-net until we get to the airport. I have sat-comms with Big Eye for as long as he can stay on station. Questions?”
Felipe spoke up for the first time since the shooting started: “Sí, Señor Doan. I have to pee. May I do so now?”
Instead of laughing, Doan looked down at the lad and said, “That’s the second good idea you’ve had tonight, Felipe.” Then to everyone he said, “You heard the boy. Do it now and load up.”
They did as ordered.
* * * *
As the two vehicles pulled through the gate and past the shattered cartel convoy, there was no celebration. Eight of the Federation SUVs were still smoldering and the smoke was filled with the unmistakable stench of burning flesh.
Newman, driving the lead truck, carefully maneuvered through wreckage and bodies for almost a mile before Doan tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hold up on the rise just ahead. Big Eye is painting some hotspots on his FLIR. He thinks it might be an ambush.”
James stopped just short of the crest and killed the diesel so they could listen. Behind him in the truck bed he heard Doan, talking quietly on the satellite radio, say, “Roger, Big Eye. Let’s try it.”
Then on the tac-net Doan told them all: “This is Rover. Big Eye has an SUV, two motorcycles, and eight dirtbags at an intersection seven hundred fifty meters in front of us. They appear to be trying to figure out how to set up an ambush but Big Eye is out of ammo. Vic one will press on and when we’re one hundred meters out, Big Eye will put on a low-altitude air show for ’em, and we’ll bust on through. Vic two, stay fifty meters behind us and be prepared to QRF. Let’s go.”
James started the truck, threw it into gear, then headed over the crest and down the long slope toward the intersection, now clearly visible on their thermal NVGs. As they closed on the hotspots, lights suddenly appeared just above the treetops and the
Gulfstream came screaming right to left across the intersection going three hundred miles per hour at an altitude of less than one hundred feet. Just before it reached the ambush, the jet pulled up with a horrendous roar—throwing a rooster tail of mud, dirt, and dead foliage into the air.
As Newman pulled through the intersection without incident, Doan suddenly shouted, “Stop!” Then, on the tac-net radio he said quietly, “Fingers and KK, check it out! Collect up any weapons and radios. Disable their vehicles. Vic two, close up on me.”
Felton and Knapp vaulted out of the truck and instantly plunged into the undergrowth. Thirty seconds passed in silence, then there were two shots from what sounded like an AK, followed by more silence.
Less than two minutes later, Felton was up on the tac-net: “We have six terrified dirtbags who are now deaf. We have one dead dirtbag who shot at us without effect and we have his boss who just offered me five million gex to let him go. We put AP rounds into the two motorcycle engines. All their weapons are in the SUV and we have their PIDs and radios. We have a block of C-4 with a three-minute time fuse inside their vic ready to light. I have the keys to their car. What do you want us to do?”
“Roger, Fingers,” Doan answered. “Good work. Flex-cuff the big shot and bring him with you. We may be able to trade him for something we need. Flex-cuff the others to a tree so they can see what happens without getting hurt and pull the igniter, lock the car doors, and hustle back here.”
Felton and Knapp burst out of the foliage dragging a fat, bearded man babbling in Spanish. Using his combat knife, Doc Smith stripped the prisoner to his underwear, tossed away the man’s shoes, stuffed his rolled-up socks into his mouth, and pulled the cartel jefe’s trousers down over his head and taped them in place. Smith, Felton, and Knapp then heaved the terrified drug lord—trussed hand and foot—into the bed of the Land Rover and stuffed him between the two Iranians.
They were three hundred meters down the road toward Dzilam Gonzalez when there was an enormous explosion and a fireball behind them. Doan reflexively ducked, then tapped Felton on the leg and asked, “How much C-4 did you put in that Federation SUV?”
Felton shrugged and said, “Just a couple of pounds. I told those guys it was dangerous to carry RPGs in a civilian vehicle.”
Doan just shook his head and resumed peering at the FLIR image on the sat-pac. Five minutes later the G-VII called on the sat-comm to report two motorcycles about two miles in front of them, speeding away. He told the pilot to go ahead and “swoop them.”
The Gulfstream made another high-speed, low-altitude pass, blowing the two bikes and their four armed riders off the dirt road. The two smashed motorcycles, four broken AK-47s, and three dead cartelistos were strewn in the ditch when Newman pulled up to the site.
Doan ordered Felton and Knapp out to pick up any PIDs or radios and they were on their way again when the pilots called on the sat-comm: “Rover, Big Eye. This is more fun than we can ever tell about, but we’ve got to get some fuel before we run dry. We’re not seeing any more activity in front of you on the FLIR. We’ll be at Objective Charlie waiting for you.”
“Roger, Big Eye; well done,” Doan replied. “Have a cold one for each of us. You’ve earned it.”
They hit the “hardball”—Highway 178—thirty kilometers east of Motul, where Doan had Connor launch one of the Hummingbird UAVs to scout the route ahead. Doan watched for a few minutes on the monitor as Connor “flew” the tiny device with its fisheye thermal camera down their intended route. Seeing no visible threats, Doan told him, “Bring it back here and retrieve it.” To the rest he said, “As soon as Killer has the bird in hand, vic one will take the lead and we’ll go lights-on the rest of the way.”
Moments later, Connor announced, “Bird in hand,” as he landed the tiny UAV on the hood of the Range Rover. They started their engines and headed out, Bruno in the lead. For the first time since they parachuted from the G-VII tail ramp, the men of the CSG HRU removed their NVGs.
Bruno stepped on the gas and soon they were going 75 kph all the way to Highway 281, the Loop Road around Merida. There they finally encountered light civilian traffic. Doan had them pull off at the first exit.
When they stopped, Doan ordered Connor to drop down from the hatch on his vehicle. He then helped Newman put up the windshield on the ancient Land Rover to make their vehicle less conspicuous and appear to be somewhat normal. With everyone back aboard, and their weapons no longer in sight, they resumed their motor march to Merida.
At 0335, Bruno’s Range Rover pulled up to the Sixty-Sixth Street Gate of Military Air Base #8, on the north side of Merida International Airport. Though the security building just inside the perimeter fence was dark, music was blaring from Tendejon Cindy, the little club just outside the gate on the right. As the two vehicles idled, a middle-aged male wearing a tan guayabera stepped out of the club, walked to the front of Bruno’s Range Rover, and motioned for the vehicles to follow.
At the gate, the man in the guayabera reached into his trousers pocket, took out a garage-door opener, pressed the button, and the rollback gate performed as intended. He then walked before them to a second gate, entered the nearby security hut, and in less than a minute the gate opened. He then led them another fifty meters into the base, pointed to two parking places next to a one-story building beside the apron, and waited for them to pull in. The men in the vehicles noted the CSG Gulfstream was the only aircraft parked on the apron.
When Bruno, Doan, and the others disembarked from their vehicles, their guide said, “Gentlemen, I am A. J. Jones. I work for the U.S. government—such as it is. Welcome to Mexican Air Force Base number eight. Please expedite bringing your cargo and equipment under the portico behind me so we minimize the time we’re visible from overhead ISR and any local surveillance video cameras. This building is a Mexican Air Force Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Your pilots are already inside getting some rest. We’re the only ones here.”
It took Doan and the CSG team less than three minutes to offload their weapons, equipment, and prisoners into the reception area of the BOQ. After shackling the two Iranians and the overweight Mexican to a steel pipe in the kitchen, they gathered around A.J. in the dining area.
When they were all assembled, A.J. said, “First some administrative matters. I have given Major Macklin keys to nine rooms in this BOQ so you can get some rest. You should be relatively safe here, but I would suggest you keep someone on watch throughout the night.
“Since you gentlemen are here on a post-disaster humanitarian aid mission, the U.S. Consulate in Merida has already paid the per diem cost of your rooms plus two meals. I must remind you, this does not include any alcohol or other amenities. If you don’t know what I mean by ‘other amenities,’ please refer to Secret Service Regulation 12-375B for your edification.
“It is my understanding you may also have with you persons of other nationalities. If this is correct, please complete Form 9375-P so the USG can seek reimbursement from their respective governments. A copy of the form is provided in Mr. Doan’s and Mr. Lehnert’s rooms. Are there any questions?”
“What time do we launch for CONUS?” Newman-Lehnert asked.
“I’m not sure yet. There are apparently some diplomatic issues regarding your aircraft—some kind of complaint about deviating from a flight plan. I hope to have this matter resolved by dawn. Just in case we need to find an alternative mode of transport, do any of you know the identity of the overweight, distraught Mexican gentleman now resting in the kitchen with a pair of socks in his mouth?”
McNaughton reached into a pocket, pulled out a PID, and said, “According to this, his name is Manuel Gustavo Lenin Felix.”
A.J. smiled and said, “Ah, the notorious Machine Gun Felix. Number two in the Federation Cartel and one of the wealthiest men in the world. I am well familiar with Señor Felix, having overheard many of his instructions about eliminating various members of his own government and American citizens as well. You have caught a prize fish, ge
ntlemen.
“I would be grateful if two or three of you would transport him down the hall to room eleven and place him faceup on the bed. Please do not remove his fetters. If one of you would be so kind to assist me, I need only a towel from the bathroom and a bottle of water for a brief conversation with Señor Felix.”
Doan nodded and said, “KK, Coyote, Fingers, take the dirtbag down to room eleven. Stay with him until I get there with A.J. Doc, break out your little defibrillator thing in case I need you.”
Knapp, McNaughton, and Felton left to do as ordered. That’s when Marty Cohen asked, “Is there any way I can call my wife and children to let them know I’m alive?”
A.J. thought for a moment and said, “Yes, Admiral. I think I can make that happen. Please come outside beneath the portico with me, sir.”
OFFICE OF CHIEF OF STAFF, THE WHITE HOUSE
1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2032
0900 HOURS, LOCAL
Muneer Murad was at the very edge of complete exhaustion. In the nine days since the terror attack on Houston he had been at his desk or in the Situation Room nearly nonstop, day and night. Once, in a moment of extreme hubris, he told a media sycophant, “I use information technology to manage events.” Now, overwhelmed with a deluge of “high-tech” information but almost no HUMINT, he had scant ability to alter outcomes.
Throughout the night of 19–20 September, Keker, encamped at the Special Intercept Unit pod in the FBI Command Center, kept Murad apprised of every intercepted sat-phone conversation to and from the “suspects” in Mexico. Though the SIU had yet to break the encrypted satellite data exchanges between A-Jay and Caperton, they dutifully recorded and logged each transmission to and from “Rover” and “Big-Eye”—which they concluded was the call sign for the Swiss-owned Gulfstream VII aircraft. By dawn Murad knew the plane landed at Merida International Airport and someone—they suspected it was A-Jay—had somehow short-circuited the effort to have Mexican authorities impound the aircraft.
