“Yeah,” Smith said, “a little over the top way of ending a partnership.”
“So who is his partner?”
“Forgive me if I repeat anything you already know, but here it is in a nutshell. We were monitoring El-Sayyed in Egypt. He received a cell call that we traced to Mexico—which is why you’re here. Turns out the call originated on a landline. We’ve been working with Mexican authorities to trace it. The call was made from a small village called Frontera.”
“Border.”
Moyer glanced at Jose. “What?”
“The word is the feminine for border.”
Smith nodded. “Makes sense. It’s not far from the U.S. border. Far enough away to keep it from observing eyes in the U.S. but close enough to be a problem. There is another town near by: Colina Verde. Neither is much to look at.”
“And our man is in one of these towns?” Moyer asked.
“No, but we think he might be nearby. The villages are small but the inhabitants seem to be doing well. They have no industry so that makes me think they work in drug processing.”
Rich arched a brow. “Does this man have a name?”
Smith frowned. “No, but the DEA and their Mexican counterparts hear stories of Lobito—Little Wolf. We do know that there is a mastermind who had managed to create a confederation of drug lords. The impact on U.S. cities has been stunning. Violence that used to be confined to border areas now extends as far north as Seattle. We think the mastermind of that coalition is the same guy that brought El-Sayyed into the picture.”
“And he tried to kill the world leaders because our president and the Mexican president are discussing a border fence.”
“Among other things. Those two were most likely his targets, but, by killing the other leaders, he would be making quite a statement.” He handed Moyer a photo. “We have satellite surveillance. We also have been allowed to fly an MQ-1 UAV Predator over the area for real-time recon.”
Moyer had seen the unmanned aerial vehicle several times. It had been used in Iraq, Afghanistan, Serbia, and Yemen. The remotely piloted vehicle could do anything from reconnaissance to hunter-killer missions. The MQ-9, a larger version of the MQ-1, was capable of firing Hellfire II missiles into ground targets.
“Here are some night shots taken earlier this evening.” Smith handed out the pictures. “The U.S. Border Patrol ran the mission. They were in place and ready to go. They also have experience flying the border area. As you can see, there are the two villages I mentioned. What else do you see?”
Both the daytime satellite photo and the Predator image revealed a sprawling mansion. “I see a house built by someone who likes his privacy.”
“Exactly. We think our man lives there.”
Moyer studied the images for a moment then handed them to Rich. “What about the hostages. Are they in this guy’s house?”
“Doubtful. Delaram gave us two bits of info that proved especially useful. One, her parents rented a car. She said they were prone to luxury vehicles because of her mother’s back.”
“You have to have a bad back to like a nice car?” Rich said.
“Their motive doesn’t matter. We checked with rental companies, and, sure enough, a Cadillac Escalade out of Mexico City has gone missing.” Smith removed another photo and handed it to Moyer. “This is from a flyover of Frontera.”
Moyer saw several boxy buildings lining a dark street. Had it not been for the low-light camera aboard the Predator, Moyer wouldn’t be able to see anything. A dark vehicle was parked next to a small warehouse. “That could be a Caddy. Doesn’t fit with the other cars, none of which looks newer than the mid-eighties. Still, how do you know this is their rental?”
“Recon over Colina Verde doesn’t show any vehicle that could be mistaken for a late model SUV, but the real kicker is this: Delaram gave us the cell phone numbers for her parents. We’ve been able to get their call records. The personal phone for her dad and the one for her mother haven’t been used since the abduction. In fact, there’s been no signal from them at all. We assume the phones were taken and destroyed.”
“Makes sense,” Rich said.
“But we caught a break. Delaram’s dad also carried a high-end smart phone for his business. She said that he would only check it a few times a day when he was traveling. He liked to keep it in the glove box of the car he was using.”
Zinsser nodded. “You triangulated the signal.”
“Yup. Believe it or not, there’s good cell coverage in the area. Many outlying regions get cell phone coverage before anything else. These two towns look like they should be in a third-world country, but they have Internet, satellite television, and cell phones. Most likely Lobito arranged for such things.”
“The phone in the car is still working?” Zinsser pressed.
“Yes. I doubt it will last much longer without a charge.”
Moyer looked from Smith to his team. “So we have two missions. A rescue mission in Frontera, and a late-night visit to the mansion.”
“You may want to forget Frontera,” Smith said. “We have grave doubts about any hostage being alive. These are not nice people we’re dealing with.” Once again, he removed a photo but held onto it. “This isn’t pleasant.”
Moyer held out his hand and took the photo. He glanced at it, closed his eyes, and tried to keep his stomach down. He handed the picture to Rich, whose hand began to shake. The photo made the rounds. When it reached J. J., Moyer heard, “Blessed Jesus.” Had the words come from anyone else, Moyer would have heard it as a meaningless gut reaction. Coming from J. J., the words were a sincere prayer.
He swallowed. “I take it those are the missing women. There were only three bombers that we know of. We found evidence of there being ten or so women.”
Smith cleared his throat. “Yes. A man named De Luca found this van. The bodies were inside. Preliminary coroner’s report says each had been shot in the head and the van set afire. At least they were dead when the fire got to them.”
Every muscle in Moyer’s body tensed as one desire, one dream, burned inside him: strangling the people behind this. He forced the thoughts to the back of his mind. “We go after the hostages first. Then we pay a surprise visit to the man in the mansion.”
“Colonel Mac said you’d go for the hostages no matter what. He appears to know you very well.”
“At times, too well.” Moyer stood. “Anyone here feel like setting things right?”
“HOOAH!”
CHAPTER 34
IT SEEMED LIKE DAYS ago when Smith appeared on TP-01 and briefed the team, but Zinsser knew it had only been a matter of hours. Since then, they had gathered what gear they had brought with them, entered the catering truck that hid their exit from prying eyes, and rode in the trailer as it lowered on the scissor lifts and was delivered to a spot beneath one of the airport’s terminals. From there they were driven to a private jet that flew them to Base Aérea Militar No. 14 near Monterrey.
An Army captain waited for them in one of the hangers. Two long folding tables held gear, which Zinsser immediately recognized. The items didn’t surprise him, nor did the C-130 warming up on the tarmac.
The captain returned salutes. “I’m Matthew Boyle, Fort Bliss. I hear you need a ride.” He was lanky but solid. He seemed a tad older than most captains, and Zinsser assumed he began his career as an enlisted man.
“We appreciate that, Captain. We’d be on foot otherwise.”
Zinsser watched the officer eye Moyer and detected approval.
“Your men have fifteen minutes to check their equipment, hit the latrine, and get on board the C-130.”
“Understood. We’ll be on time.”
“Good. I want to get the thing back before the base commander knows it’s missing.”
Moyer looked surprise. “You’re kidding me, right, sir?”
“Yeah, I am. Just trying to lighten the moment.”
“A little levity is always appreciated, sir.”
“Unfortunately we have to get down
to business.” Captain Boyle turned to the unit. “Gather up, men. I’ve only got time to say this once.” Zinsser and the others formed a semicircle around the man. “I will be your static jumpmaster for this mission. That means I’ll be going up with you, but you’ll be leaving alone. You already know some of this, but let me give you the details. We will be wheels up in fifteen and head north to the target area. We will come in at 30 feet and 30 miles out you will make a HAHO jump. The moment the last man is out, we will stay in area until we hear a report of safe landing. An extraction team will be in the air shortly and in area an hour after you bail. They will take on fresh fuel before crossing the border. You will bear in mind that these guys will need time to come in. If they get too close, anyone on the ground can hear them—so try and stay out of any kind of trouble that requires immediate aid. Clear?”
As usual, Moyer spoke for them all. “Clear, sir.”
Boyle eyed the men. “I’m told that each of you has done High Altitude, High Open jumps. Is that fact?”
“Fact, sir,” Moyer said.
“Good, then I’ll leave out the trivial stuff, but to make sure we’re all on the same page, I’ll hit the highlights. You’re opening high so the aircraft noise and the noise of your chutes won’t alert the enemy. We are assuming the area to be hostile with heavily armed bad guys. At angels thirty you’ll exit the aerial platform and deploy fifteen seconds out. Who will be first man out?”
Moyer nodded. “That’d be me, sir.”
“Very good. Your gear and that of your men have a compass and GPS. You will be landing in the dark, two hours before sunup. I hear you had to leave equipment behind in the previous theater of operation. Do I have that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Moyer said.
“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing night vision gear and a few other items you may need, including the items you requested. Questions?”
No one spoke.
Boyle looked each man in the eyes, then smiled. “I’ve done a lot of missions, and part of me wishes I was going with you, but now that I think of it, I’m glad I’m not.”
Several of the men chuckled. Zinsser was new to the team but he couldn’t imagine anyone of the unit offering his spot to the captain.
The captain clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t know you personally, but I know your kind. I’m one of you. I’m going to ask a question and I want the straight skinny: Does anyone have a reason not to make the jump?”
No reply.
“I don’t have the time to ask you individually, so it’s up to you to tell me.”
Zinsser caught Rich glancing at him. He refused to return the gaze. Instead he kept his eyes on Boyle.
Boyle turned to Moyer. “It’s your team, Sergeant Major. You wanna ground anyone?”
Zinsser knew why Boyle belabored the question. They were about to board an aircraft, fly to an altitude where temperatures were well below zero and the atmosphere too thin to hold sufficient oxygen for a man to breathe, leap out the back, try to sail thirty or so miles to the landing zone, and not one of the men had more than a few hours of often interrupted sleep over the last thirty-six hours.
“No,” Moyer said. “We’re good to go.”
Boyle looked at the others. “That true, men? You’re ready to kick some bad guy butt?”
“Hooah!”
“You have fifteen minutes to check your gear and dress. Fall out.”
WEARINESS BURNED J. J. eyes, but his mind raced with the work before him. He donned the polypropylene knit undergarment to help fight the cold he was about to face, checked his chute, examined the oxygen bottle he would be carrying, and checked the altitude gauge and GPS unit. He went over what seemed like a hundred details. He did one thing none of the others in his team did. He slipped his small field Bible into the leg pocket of his ACU and sealed the Velcro flap.
Thirteen minutes later, he sat in one of the fold-out chairs along the side of the C-130. On his head rested an MICH helmet with modified mask connectors that allowed him to wear night vision goggles. An oxygen mask hung to one side. J. J. buckled himself in and attached his oxygen mask to a feed that would deliver 100-percent oxygen to his lungs, helping him purge nitrogen from his bloodstream. High-altitude jumps, especially those where the soldier opened his canopy early, forcing him to stay at high altitudes longer than a low open jump, could lead to Cassion’s Disease—decompression sickness—because of the rapid rise of the jump aircraft. At altitude, the lack of oxygen could lead to hypoxia.
The C-130 rumbled down the runway and slowly lifted into the air. The sound of the landing gear rising rumbled through the hull. Unlike a commercial aircraft, this plane was designed to carry cargo more than people, but its ability to lower a tail ramp while flying made it ideal for jumping.
The first time J. J. jumped out of a plane, he prayed all the way up and all the way down. He saw no need to change the habit now, except he felt no compulsion to pray for himself. He made eye contact with each member of his team. They had been together long enough to know what he was doing. Not one of them followed his faith; not one of them was critical of it. He looked at Moyer and prayed not only for his leader’s safety, but wisdom. Moyer returned the gaze and nodded an unspoken thank you. Rich did the same, as did the others. When he set his eyes on Zinsser, the man blinked.
J. J. prayed for something else too. He prayed for the captives, should they be alive.
He breathed the oxygen in steady inhalations. Strapped to his body was a small oxygen bottle he would use when he left the aircraft.
He took another look at the men who made up his unit—men he called friends. Jose held a photo of his family; Rich bobbed his head to music only he could hear—probably something from a musical; Pete drummed his fingers on his leg; Moyer stared straight ahead, no doubt working and reworking the plan in his mind; Zinsser stared at the door.
MOYER WAS SECOND-GUESSING HIMSELF, something he seldom did. Maybe he should have pulled Zinsser. What if Rich was right, that the man was a liability?
He studied Zinsser, noted how the man stared at the back of the C-130. Where they’d jump. Was Zinsser thinking of suicide?
You couldn’t find a much better way to end a life than to walk out of an airplane.
IT WOULD BE EASY.
Zinsser tried to push the thought from his mind, but he had to admit it was perfect. If this were a static line jump, then he would have to hook a release to a line running along the ceiling of the aircraft. The line would deploy the chute. But that wasn’t the case. Every man of the team would waddle to the open end, turn, and jump. Once he did that, he’d be in complete control of his destiny. He could lower his head and raise his feet like a diver, and take the plunge into solid ground.
Someplace in the darkness of his mind he heard gunfire . . . felt the heat of Somalia . . . and saw his now-dead friend.
Yup. No better way to end it all than stepping out of an airplane.
CAPTAIN BOYLE RELEASED HIS harness and stood in the aisle separating the port-side seats from the starboard. Moyer watched his men’s eyes shift to the officer. Boyle clapped his hands several times, then held out his arms before him. A second ticked by, and he motioned up with his arms. Simultaneously the men switched from onboard oxygen to the small metal bottles strapped to their gear, released their safety harnesses, and stood. Moyer took his place at the front of the line, followed by J. J., Pete, Jose, Zinsser, and Rich. Rich had promised to push the line forward if anyone hesitated.
Moyer doubted the act would be needed.
“Check your airflow,” Boyle ordered. Moyer checked his gauge. The tank was full, and cool air flowed into his mask.
“NVGs on,” Boyle snapped. Each man activated his night vision goggles. The inside of the aircraft went black.
Boyle said something into his headset. He stood for a moment, then the rear ramp of the massive plane began to lower. Freezing air poured in. Moyer pulled at his gloves. It wouldn’t take long to get frostbite at this altitude.
“Go on my mark.” Every eye turned to the light panel. It went from red to yellow. Moyer could hear himself sucking air and willed himself to slow his breathing.
Over the com system he heard Pete. “Hey Colt, you really gonna jump with that chute? It doesn’t look right to me.” Pete chuckled.
“Yeah, whatever, Junior. If things go bad, I’ll just take a seat on Boss’s rig. He won’t mind.”
“Can the chatter,” Moyer ordered.
The yellow light went out and the green came alive.
“Go!”
Moyer waddled forward, his leg movement hindered by the large chute on his back and the air pack full of equipment that hung down and between his legs. Every protective instinct in his mind sounded—a chorus of sirens and ships’ horns. No matter how well trained and experienced, there were moments when the rational mind said, “Sane people don’t jump out of aircraft five miles above the ground.” He took several awkward steps until he reached the end of the ramp and, in a single motion, turned on one foot and fell backward out of the C-130.
The night enveloped him.
The air, thin as it was, whipped around his mask, goggles, and helmet. It shrieked in his ears.
“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” Six more counts until he activated his chute.
His stomach climbed into his throat. Below he could see nothing but darkness. In the sky, a fingernail moon watched him plummet. In the distance, faint lights glowed on the ground.
“. . . eight . . . nine . . . ten.” He opened his chute and felt his velocity change. It was as if a rubber band attached to his back had jerked him skyward. It was an illusion. He was still descending, but at a much slower rate.
He looked up to check his parachute. It was nearly impossible to see, but he could make out the rectangle of the steerable parachute. The purpose of a high altitude open was to give insertion teams time to find their landing zone and come in as quietly as possible. If things went well, they would land a mile south of Frontera.
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