Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  They came in an almost continuous wave just seconds apart, each round landing in a different area as the gunners moved their sights incrementally after each round left the tube.

  Ten rounds per tube. Twenty rounds total. A crescendo of explosions that seemed to never end. Buildings blew apart. Windows shattered. The Presidential Palace ate three rounds that tore through its roof and exploded inside it like a pressure cooker blowing its lid. Even the Presidential limo -- the real one, not the two decoys -- took a hit to its trunk. Despite the thick armor along the sides, it blew the back end completely off.

  But the mortars claimed more than just buildings and vehicles. Guards in bunkers and those who had responded to investigate the first two shots were caught in the open by the explosions. Many caught shrapnel in chunks varying from the size of a pocket knife to smaller bits the size of a dime, all of which cut through them like shotgun slugs.

  Each round had a bursting area of thirty by twenty yards and there was little left untouched in the ten-acre compound. And while men in the perimeter lay curled up with their fingers in their ears, praying they might survive the next impact, the RPG team watching from the apartment raised their rockets.

  The three men targeted the Presidential Palace -- not so much for the men they might kill, but more for the permanent scarring their rockets would cause. Each man aimed at the walls between windows -- what good would a round fired through a window cause in a Presidential Palace that was mostly deserted at this time of night? They fired with alarming accuracy. At this distance, and with such wide walls to hit between windows, none of them missed.

  They blasted gaping holes into the walls with delight, and in the fury of the mortar barrage, it wasn’t until their final round that they were noticed. A guard on the line saw the flash of their firing and yelled out the position to a man near him before swinging his M240 medium machine gun at the spot.

  He loosed a burst -- more than ten feet off the mark -- and reoriented more accurately. Inside the room, the men had pulled back from the window and were packing up when the next set of bullets came flying into the room. Two of them took nasty hits before diving to the ground and crawling out.

  On the line, with the mortars no longer falling, other guards heard the friendly machine gun roaring in the night. And though they didn’t know the target, they could see the tracer rounds tearing into the apartment building across from them. First one, then others joined in to help suppress what must have been a serious threat. After all, they had just sustained the most potent attack any of them had seen. And while none of them could see targets, it was better to be safe than sorry, and so they began spraying wider and wider into rooms throughout the building.

  The four men who had started the carnage by firing the RPGs assisted each other as they carried themselves out of the building, exiting the far side with their duffle bags and weapons.

  Chapter 6

  It took hours to determine the full extent of the damage.

  President Roberto Rivera waited inside a conference room. He’d changed out of his pajamas and now three hours after the attack, he wore khakis and a polo. He’d shaved because if ever the country needed to see a solid, capable man, it was today.

  Yeah, right, he thought. He was standing in a conference room and he had two suit-wearing Secret Service members standing to each side of him. They carried submachine guns slung across their chests and wore thick assault vests outside of their suits.

  Hell, why stop there? Rivera wondered. Why didn’t they just put on helmets and hook a couple of grenades to their gear?

  Outside the room, twelve more men waited; these men didn’t bother with the decency associated with wearing suits. Instead, they wore camouflage full battle gear including helmets and full-size assault rifles. Rivera wanted to dismiss them, but it would do no good. The entire Presidential Palace Compound was covered with men: armed soldiers, firemen, and EMTs.

  It was just impossible to look in control when the place had been bombed out to the level of Sarajevo. Fires had burned for nearly a half hour before security allowed the firemen to fight them, and now Rivera was learning that the attack on the Palace was just a small portion of the disaster.

  A tired-looking advisor stood wobbly before him, unshaven and too shaken for Rivera’s dwindling optimism.

  “Sir, we lost them all,” he said.

  “Grab some coffee and explain,” Rivera said.

  “Sir, we’ve sent police out that way. The entire convoy was wiped out! All the men dead!”

  Rivera took a step toward the advisor and wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. He shook him lightly a couple of times.

  “Control yourself and pull it together.”

  Suddenly, another suited man barged into the conference room. “Sir, we must issue a statement. News agencies from across the world are demanding a statement. They’re calling it a coup attempt. They’re saying you were killed.”

  Rivera looked over at a high-ranking American from their Embassy, who sat in the corner of the cramped room. Shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Of course I’m alive. Look at me,” he said holding his arms out. “Do I look dead? Or injured? Or like I’m fleeing the country?”

  Rivera sighed, his anger on the verge of exploding.

  “Forget a statement from me. Just stall them. Tell them we’ve suffered a setback. We’re evaluating what happened. We don’t know how many casualties we have. We’ll bring the killers to justice. You know the deal. Get the hell out of here and make it happen. I have too much to do to be worrying about issuing a statement.”

  The man turned and left looking embarrassed. Another took his place.

  “Mr. President,” the man said. “The Mexico City Police Chief wants to meet and discuss their findings.”

  “Not now,” Rivera said. “Get out. Everyone out. I want everyone out now.”

  The room -- filled with aides, advisors, and military officers, far too many for Rivera’s comfort -- quickly emptied.

  Mexican President Roberto Rivera wasn’t the only elected leader trapped in a room filled with too many government types. Twenty-five hundred miles to his northeast, the president of the United States sat in a remarkably similar situation, but with far less sense of panic.

  “What the hell happened?”

  It was 9 a.m. and he had his CIA Director, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of State, and the National Security Advisor in a room, along with their deputy directors, aides, intel analysts, and who knew who else; nearly two dozen folks in all.

  It was more than the President preferred to have in a room for a top-secret meeting, but the Directors would all share the information with aides anyway -- usually as soon as they left the room -- so what did it matter? And besides, half the department heads didn’t know the information they were supposed to be on top of, so the President had learned to just get the info straight from an analyst or aide who did -- completely unfiltered, and immediately, instead of waiting. Plus, he could ask questions of them this way and get a more honest look at what was really going on.

  Apparently in answer to his question of “What the hell happened?,” an Army major stood and clicked a handheld pointer that lit up a projector.

  “Mr. President, the Defense Department worked with the CIA and the State Department to pull together this update for you. It’s our combined analysis as of now, but I must warn you that information is still pretty sketchy. It’s coming together, but we’re not there yet. Here’s the gist of what we know, though.”

  The President nodded impatiently and the major clicked a screen that showed a smoking, battle-scarred Mexican Presidential Palace.

  “Sir, at approximately 3 a.m. this morning, the Mexican Presidential Palace came under a devastating attack. It began with a mortar barrage that included a significant RPG rocket attack, as well.”

  The major clicked to an aerial view that showed impact craters dotting the landscape. The aerial view also offered a better perspective
of the damage from the widespread mortar attack. Vehicles were wrecked, buildings still smoldered, emergency crews blanketed the area.

  “Jesus!” the President said. “How many rounds were fired?”

  “We’re not sure, Mr. President. But it was enough to suppress the entire defending force and we’re estimating as many as fifty rounds right now.”

  “How does that happen?” the President asked, looking over at the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  The four-star general cleared his throat and said, “We’re not sure of their firing location yet, sir, but we’ll know soon enough. We’re measuring the impacts and trying to determine the caliber, which would give us the range of the mortars. At this point, we think the assault force used 81 mm mortars. Once we’ve confirmed that, we’ll find where the mortars were fired. That should lead to some intel and hopefully some witnesses. But the short answer to your question is this: All you would need is men to secure a perimeter, and then about six or eight guys to fire the mortars. And obviously you’d need the mortars, but those wouldn’t be too hard to get.”

  The general saw the President raise his eyebrows with alarm, so the general added, “At least not in Mexico.”

  “Mr. President,” the major said, trying to get the briefing back on track. “The news gets a bit worse unfortunately. The man in charge of protecting the President managed to get him and his family to safety. That’s the good news. But, eight guards were killed and at least forty were wounded in the barrage.”

  The President shook his head but felt relief that the news wasn’t worse.

  The Major saw this reaction and wondered how to bring up the next part. He didn’t earn enough money to deal with this kind of stress when it should have been the Joint Chiefs of Staff briefing the President.

  “Sir,” the major said. “That wasn’t the bad news. The bad news is the guards on the line spotted the RPG firing position and those guards engaged.”

  The major paused, uncertain, and the President leaned forward, waiting.

  “Well, sir, other guards along the line joined in. They’d been getting pounded pretty bad by the mortars and had seen a lot of men go down or get cut in half. And, well, they fired a hell of a lot of rounds before they finally got under control. I figure they must have really been shaken. And we’re talking thousands of rounds here.”

  The President seemed exasperated. “Just tell me, damn it.”

  “Sir, the RPG position was in a five-story apartment complex that overlooks the Presidential Palace. And Mexican forces killed at least fifty civilians in their return fire. Maybe as many as eighty. And at least a hundred more were wounded. These people were piled in pretty tight in this apartment complex, and the emergency services and hospitals were completely caught off guard by so many casualties. So, a lot of people died who shouldn’t have. In fact, we’re still not sure how many actually did die. They’ve enacted triage operations and have yet to even get identities or a firm number on how many patients they’re even treating.”

  “Did they get the men who fired these RPGs or mortars?” the President bellowed, slamming his fist on the table.

  The major didn’t have it in him to answer and looked to his boss, the four-star general. The Joint Chief looked to the President and nodded “No, sir, they didn’t.”

  “They found some blood trails,” the general said, “but the blood was mixed with those of the civilians, so we don’t think the Mexican forces killed any of their targets.”

  “Ho-ly hell,” the President said. “I thought we were training these men. Spending billions each year and sending them weapons. We’re doing this year after year and apparently they can’t even defend their Presidential Palace or hit what they’re aiming at.”

  The Joint Chief shrugged, and a couple of people reached for coffee mugs in complete embarrassment.

  “What are we going do?” the President asked.

  “Sir?” The major was speaking again. The President looked at him, clearly annoyed. The Major would have rather been back in the mountains of Afghanistan dodging rounds than meet the President’s stare, or say what he was about to say.

  “Sir, there’s more,” he said, but paused to wait for permission.

  “Go on, son. Spit it out! We don’t have all day.”

  “Sir, at approximately the same time, Mexican forces were accompanying an American SEAL Team on a mission to take down a drug cartel warehouse. We’re still not sure what happened, but we lost contact with the SEAL Team and we’re pretty sure we lost them.”

  “Lost who?” the President asked, still annoyed. He wasn’t overly concerned with how many more Mexicans were killed. He had a more pressing thought on his mind.

  “The SEAL Team Platoon,” the major said.

  “What do you mean we lost them? Don’t they have GPS’s and weapons? I seriously doubt they took down a SEAL Team. Now you’re just being pessimistic.”

  The President looked over to the Joint Chief, a man he considered too old and pessimistic anyway. But the man looked sick to his stomach and the President knew it was true.

  “How do we lose a god-damn SEAL Team?” he said leaping to his feet and slamming both of his fists into the conference table. “These are the best men we have!”

  “Sir,” the major said, “we’re still not sure yet, as the snipers we had on the target site have not been found yet. They’ll know for sure, but aerial reports from helicopters we had in the air show that the entire building that the SEALs were assaulting exploded and collapsed on the SEAL Team once they were all inside.”

  “Are we digging them out? How many survivors are there?”

  “Sir,” the major said, his eyes on the ground, unable to meet the President’s. “Sir, we’re not even on the location yet. A quick reaction force of Mexican troops sent to reinforce the SEAL Team raid was ambushed and completely wiped out. And these men were in Humvees with heavy weapons. We’re not sure how many were killed in that ambush, but it was probably another fifty. And we also lost a helicopter, sir, to a ground-to-air missile. We’re afraid to send more aircraft to the area at this time, so we’re not sure how many SEALs may be alive, whether the aircrew may be alive, or whether our snipers were able to escape the area.”

  The President returned to his seat and leaned back, stunned. And his pressing thought returned. His re-election effort was just kicking off, and he knew that more than likely, his campaign was over before it had even started. He sat there in complete shock. A SEAL Team Platoon? An entire SEAL Team Platoon? Dead? It just didn’t seem possible, and yet it had happened. And with their deaths, his re-election bid was almost certain to fail.

  Chapter 7

  If Hernan Flores thought the largest anti-government attack in Mexican history might push Juan Soto from the country, he calculated wrong. Within two hours of catching the news of the assault, Hernan Flores’s fellow billionaire Juan Soto was touring the devastation at the Presidential Palace.

  Rubble and debris littered the ground and Juan stood by his friend President Roberto Rivera. More than fifty armed soldiers stood around them, alert and dangerous, while military helicopters buzzed overhead. News cameras watched Soto and Rivera closely -- they were, after all, Mexico’s two most powerful, non-cartel men -- and both stood tall and determined, like confident leaders. Men who were unshaken and full of resolve.

  Hernan Flores saw the footage live, as did nearly everyone else in Mexico who had access to a TV. This was a national tragedy reminiscent of America’s 9/11 and all work had stopped as the country sat paralyzed in complete shock, wondering if more was to come -- their country would break down into complete chaos.

  Flores watched the two men on a massive TV, and he assumed Soto was there only because the President had begged him to be. Surely in the shock and ruin of the morning light, Rivera had needed his strongest supporter to come forward and reassure him.

  But President Rivera hadn’t even asked. Instead, Juan Soto had heard of the attack from an assistant, turned on the news, and
texted his friend to tell him he was on his way. Now they stood, on full display, while millions of shocked and worried Mexicans watched their every move.

  “You coming here means more than I could possibly say,” Rivera said, his hand on Juan’s arm.

  “It is nothing,” Juan said. “I saw the chaos and destruction and I felt my grandfather’s eyes on me, God rest his soul.”

  “I think,” Soto said, then paused. He looked at a still-smoldering, wrecked Humvee near them and he gritted his teeth. Some blood on the side of it had darkened from the heat of the fire, but hadn’t burned off. It added a sweet, sick smell to the chalky grittiness that came with the smell of cordite, dust, and blasted concrete.

  Juan Soto looked away from the blood, swallowed hard, and continued. “I think my grandfather, with his single fishing boat that he borrowed to the hilt to buy, would have stood up to the kind of men who would do this.”

  He turned to look at the wrecked Presidential Palace -- once a source of pride for all Mexicans. Juan swung around and faced the President, his friend for nearly ten years, and he said, “Roberto, my friend I am pledging to you now, on my soul, and on the soul of my grandfather, that I will not leave this land. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  Rivera saw a fire in Soto’s eyes and wondered what it meant. Ten minutes later, when the two arrived in a private conference room inside the Presidential Palace, he asked about the look of anger, but all Soto would say was that he was planning some additional assistance to the government of Mexico.

  Rivera got the feeling this wasn’t financial aid. Or anything that was even remotely legal. But whatever it was, he enjoyed seeing the old fire in his friend again. The second-to-none businessman who never showed his cards. The man who never gave up, regardless of the odds. The man who had faced bankruptcy and never blinked or panicked.