by Marc Rainer
Reynosa, Tamaulipas, Mexico
February 24, 2011
"It's a ghost town now, Capitán." The lieutenant shook his head.
"I'm afraid you're right, Torres." Aguilar nodded sympathetically. They continued their patrol of the silent streets, riding in the front seats of an armored car. Torres was driving.
It had been almost a year to the day since several violent weeks of turf warfare between Los Zetas and their former employers in the Gulf Cartel had turned the northern border town into a combat zone. Any resident with transportation had fled the city. Others were hiding. Others were dead.
Aguilar looked about the streets of Lieutenant Torres' home town, knowing what the young man must be thinking. He sees nasty pockmarks left on the walls of the store fronts and houses left by the impacts of thousands of bullets. He sees empty streets that were full of people when he grew up here. He hears silence in the markets where he remembers laughter and conversation.
"We are making progress now." Aguilar patted the younger man on the shoulder. "We have them on the run, hiding. It will take time, but we will fill these streets again. People will return to their homes. And we will get Lazcano."
"I hope so, Capitán" The lieutenant paused. "I wish I could be sure."
"This is not for dissemination, understand?" Aguilar's tone shifted from sympathy to a stern warning, his voice to a whisper barely discernible over the drone of the vehicle's engine.
"Yes, sir." Torres took his eyes off the street to meet Aguilar's gaze. "I understand."
"We have a good man on the inside now. It's just a matter of time."
Columbia, Missouri
February 27, 2011, 8:23 p.m.
The ton-and-a-half pulled into the pumps outside the convenience store off Interstate 70 just east of town. Its driver, a small figure, hopped down from the cab and inserted the nozzle into the tank, then stood waiting impatiently for the dials to stop spinning. When they finally stopped, indicating that the truck was fully fueled, he looked into the plastic window for the receipt. He found two.
Somebody forgot to grab theirs.
He started to toss the extra receipt into the trash receptacle between the front and rear pumps, but caught himself before doing so.
That silly, paranoid bastard is making me keep receipts for doing dope runs, leaving a paper trail when we should be just scrapping everything. I take all the risks on the road, and he gets more money for it than I do. I've seen him add 'em up before he pays me for the expenses. He doesn't read 'em; he just adds 'em up and pays me. He wants receipts? I'll give him receipts.
He walked around the other pumps and found one more that had been left by another customer in a hurry. He mentally added the two slips of paper. Another $ 74.50 in my pocket. As long as I don't get too greedy, he'll never double-check these.
He entered the store, used the restroom, bought a couple of energy drinks, and climbed back into the cab. I can stay awake to St. Louis. I'll stop there for the night.
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
February 28, 2011, 8:30 a.m.
"What's the bad news this morning, Torres?" Aguilar looked up from his second cup of coffee.
"Plenty, I'm afraid, Capitán. The Federation Cartel apparently has a new tactic. The cops in Mazatlán found seven bodies hanging from a bridge this morning. A big sign—one of those narcomantas—hanging with them said that the dead were all members of the South Pacific Cartel. Guzmán's finishing off another rival gang."
"Wonderful." Aguilar's comment was heavily laced with sarcasm. "Next we'll see the Zetas copying that little trick over here."
"We do have some good news," the lieutenant said. "Our guys in Saltillo captured 'El Toto' yesterday."
"That is good news. The Americans will be pleased. When was their agent killed?"
"About ten days ago, sir. His name was Zapata. He was one of their Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials. He was ambushed on his way to Mexico City from Laredo. 'El Toto' and some other Zetas shot him in San Luis Potosi. Another ICE agent was wounded. The Americans identified themselves as diplomats, but the Zetas—about fifteen of them—just said they didn't give a shit and started shooting. The Americans were unarmed."
"That's right. I remember now. So another one of Lazcano's boys bites the dust; at least until he can buy his way out of jail. How's the other American agent doing?"
"He is expected to recover."
"Good. What's our latest information on where the Zetas are focusing their efforts?"
"We had reports last night of sightings of a Zeta convoy in Valle Hermoso."
"A convoy, Torres? How many vehicles?"
"About fifty, Capitán. Most marked with the 'Z' on their doors."
"Get the men together, Torres, and line up the chopper transports. I'm not going to have those bastards invading our towns like an army of occupation. We still have a government for now. We leave tonight."
Waldorf, Maryland
7:45 p.m.
Trask looked up from what had been a heaping plate of beef stew over rice. The plate was now empty. Trask was not.
"You know you could make a good living selling that stuff."
Lynn leaned over from her chair at the table and kissed him. "I'm glad you liked it, but I am not getting into the restaurant business. I'd want to shoot some of the customers even more than some of your gang-bangers. Did you hear from your reserve coordinator?"
"Yep. I'll be in lovely downtown Randolph later this month. Air Force circuit prosecutor conference. They've penciled me in as a guest lecturer. I just have to make sure the uniforms still fit, and come up with something to yack about for an hour. The rest of the two weeks will be consulting with the active duty crew on trial tactics. You know, telling war stories to the kids while they sit at my feet."
"You have a lot to teach them, and you should take it seriously."
He leaned over and kissed her this time. "And you know that I actually do. I just find some of the legend to be just that—legend—and a bit overblown."
"I lived some of that legend with you, remember? I'm not sure any other JAG could have pulled off some of the results that you did. Just teach them well. We'll miss you, but I know it will be worth it for the difference you'll be making. Clone that trial head of yours into some of those young pups down there, and spread the word."
"It helped that I had some great teachers, and the best undercover narc in the Air Force as a witness."
"I'd had a lot of other prosecutors plead my cases down to almost nothing. They were afraid of going to trial. You never were."
Trask leaned back, rocking on the rear legs of the chair. "It's like Lassiter used to say, "Trials are just a silly constitutional prerequisite to sentencing."
Valle Hermoso, Tamaulipas, Mexico
March 1, 2011, 7:34 a.m.
"How's the pain, Capitán?"
"I'll live, Torres. It's just a shoulder, and my left one, thank God." Aguilar said, wincing as the medic kneeling beside him finished the field bandage. "What's our count?"
"You are our only casualty, sir. We found the bodies of eight Zetas once the firing stopped. They tried to retreat into the brush once we repelled the ambush of our vehicles. We also recovered five of their SUVs."
"Good. Some of the bastards will have to walk, or ride in each other's laps."
Aguilar's quip drew appreciative chuckles form the marines gathered around him.
"We got some weapons, too, Capitán. Twelve assault rifles, a grenade launcher, four grenades, and about two-thousand rounds of ammunition."
"Good work, Torres. I expect you'll be in charge of things again until I get back." Aguilar looked at his bandaged shoulder; the blood was seeping through to the surface. "It looks like this one might take a while to heal."
Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico
11:48 a.m.
"Bad news, I'm afraid." Dominguez returned his cell phone to his pocket.
"What now?" Lazc
ano asked, looking up from his lunch. "More trouble with our former friends from the Gulf, or is Guzman pushing this way again?"
"Neither. The marines hit our convoy at Valle Hermoso. We lost eight more men."
"How many marines did they kill?"
"I don't know. At least one was hit, but he appears to have survived. That's the only good news."
Lazcano slammed his fork down with such violence that the plate jumped off his desk, rattling around for seconds before it came to rest again. "Why the hell is that good news?" he growled. "We try and train our recruits to fight, and the damned marines have one wounded to our eight dead. Explain to me why that is good news, Ramón."
"My apologies. I should have explained my remarks at the beginning. The wounded marine was their commander, Aguilar."
Lazcano sat back in his leather chair, thoughtful for a moment. "Give the man who wounded him an extra ten thousand dollars; that is, if our man's not one of the dead. Tell all the men that we'll pay fifty thousand for the man who brings me that bastard's head. He's caused us enough trouble. I want him dead."
"I understand."
"And, Ramón—"
"Yes?"
"I am tired of the Americans coming to Mexico City and demanding things. How many of our men were arrested for that incident with the American agents?"
"El Toto and seven others, I think."
"The Americans send their police to our capital city to make demands, and that weak bastard Calderón bows and obeys. Their ATF gives guns to Guzmán, and his men hunt us with the Americans' weapons. We need to send them a message. A clear message. Be looking for an opportunity to do that."
Hospital Naval de Tampico
Tamaulipas, Mexico
10:41 p.m.
Aguilar's eyes blinked open and he began to focus on his surroundings. He became aware of the sling around his shoulder, and noticed that he was lying back, inclined. His eyes followed an IV line from a bottle hanging on a rack down to a bandage on his left hand. Hospital bed. I wonder how long I've been out. He heard voices outside the room, and saw the door open a crack, then fully. He recognized the figure that entered the room.
"Hello, Torres. What time is it?"
"Almost eleven, Major."
"What, why did you call me—?"
"You had a visitor, sir. Admiral Campos came by before you woke up. He left you three presents. The first is a set of major's epaulets. The second is this."
Aguilar looked to the table by his bed where Torres was pointing. A military decoration was lying next to a bottle of medicine with his name on it.
"Congratulations, Major. You've been awarded the Condecoración al Mérito Naval."
Aguilar nodded. The Naval Medal of Military Merit. The decoration meant little to him personally. He would announce it as a tribute to all the men in his unit. I wonder if it's actually for merit, or for being shot. "Any other news, Torres?"
"Yes, sir. The doctor said that your surgery went well, but you've been placed on non-combat status for six weeks."
"You'll have the unit for a while, it seems."
"Yes, sir." He smiled. "I've been promoted as well."
"That is excellent news, Capitán Torres." Aguilar started to stretch forward, extending his right hand, but a jolt of pain in his wounded shoulder stopped the movement.
Torres stepped forward and returned the handshake. "Rest easy, sir. Your third present from the admiral is that you're being rotated into the consulate in San Antonio as an attaché until you're fully healed. I assumed you'd be staying with your wife. She called. I told her your wound was not serious, and that you'd be seeing her soon. Don't worry. I'll take good care of the men until you get back."
"I know you will, Capitán." Aguilar said. "Stay safe yourself."
"I will, Major."
A nurse entered the room and smiled at both of the men. She injected something into Aguilar's IV He started to say something else, but the injection did its work, and his eyes were closed before he could form the words.
San Antonio, Texas
March 7, 2011, 1:36 p.m.
Trask saluted the gate guard and drove toward the "Taj," as the locals called the base headquarters building due to its modest resemblance to the center of the Taj Mahal.
Randolph Air Force Base. Oops! Joint Base San Antonio, now. Trask mentally corrected himself. Some general or DOD bureaucrat made another star or promotion charting all the savings these inter-service consolidations would provide. So now Kelly AFB, Brooks AFB, Lackland AFB, and Fort Sam Houston, the Army post, are all under one big umbrella. I'll give it five to ten years before another bigwig proves that it would be cheaper to split them up again, and then it'll be just like the good old days. Separate bases and forts. That guy will get promoted for saving millions, too. Our government at work.
He found the check-in desk for the visiting officer's quarters or "VOQ," got his room key, and drove the rented Ford Edge to a parking spot in front of what once had been the living quarters for pilot trainees during World War II. The West Point of the Air. Before blue suits, when the Air Force was the Army Air Corps. Aviation Cadets learning to fly, and others learning to be instructor pilots.
He'd spent years traveling from base to base in his former life as an Air Force JAG circuit prosecutor, and the memories flooded back to him. Get to one base, prepare for a week, try a General Court-Martial, then drive to the next one and start all over again. New base, new case. Great professional experience, miserable personal life. Three-hundred days a year on the road. He'd learned to hate VOQ rooms, but those at Randolph had always been a pleasant cut above the rest. He looked up at the old two-story building with its open verandas, a white-washed stucco structure with a red tile roof, two wings extending forward from a long center section. Nice architecture. Spanish Colonial Revival style, I think.
He knew what the room would look like before he unlocked the door. Good. This hasn’t changed. Two-room suite. Sitting room with a couch and TV, bedroom and bath in the back. I can stand two-weeks here.
He unpacked and checked his uniform in the mirror. The short-sleeve light blue shirt still fit. The epaulets bearing the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel were properly buttoned on the shoulders. The "gig line"—a phrase he'd picked up at the Air Force Academy—was good, with the edge of the silver belt lined up with the row of buttons on the shirt. He checked the flight cap to make sure the rank insignia was mounted at the proper angle. Good to go. Back in blue. He walked back down to his car and headed across the base.
All of the Air Force's traveling prosecutors had convened in San Antonio for their annual training and status meeting. Trask walked into the back of the circuit's conference room just as the "CTCs" were breaking from their second session of the afternoon. One of the captains—the last name "Castle" displayed on his name tag—beamed when he saw Trask, and walked over to shake his hand. Trask recognized him as a former trial assistant from a court-martial he had tried three years earlier at one of the bases in Florida.
"How are you, Josh?" Trask asked. "It's been a while since I saw you at Tyndall. So you're a circuit prosecutor now?"
"Yes, sir. I'm just trying to follow in your footsteps. I'm really glad you could make it for this. I'm sure we'll all get a lot out of your presentation."
"Had to squeeze my active duty tour in somewhere on the schedule. Seemed like a good fit. When am I on?"
"Twenty minutes. Sixteen hundred. You're our final speaker today. They left it up to me to draft the schedule and I figured you could wake everybody up."
Trask laughed. "I'll do my best." He looked around the room at the conference attendees. There were about twenty-five majors and captains, the current trial elite of the Air Force prosecutors, and one uniform Trask didn't recognize. He walked over to the officer, a short, powerfully built man whose left arm was in a sling.
"Jeff Trask," he said offering a hand.
"Very glad to meet you, Colonel," the man said, bowing his head slightly. "I am Major
Luis Aguilar of the Naval Infantry of Mexico—what you would call the marines."
"Welcome," Trask said. "Would you by any chance be attached to your consulate here?"
"Yes. I just arrived this week."
"Oh, I thought you might have spoken at another conference recently—one an FBI friend of mine recently attended."
"No, that would have been Major Castillo. I am replacing him for a while, at least until this heals." The major nodded at his left shoulder.
"How did that happen, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I was wounded in a firefight with some of our cartel gunmen. They are our biggest problem at the moment."
"From what I hear, they are our problem as well," Trask said. "Are you speaking at our conference?"
"I am," Aguilar nodded. "Tomorrow morning."
"I look forward to your presentation," Trask said. He saw that Captain Castle was giving him the nod from the front of the room. "It was good to meet you, Major. Looks like I'm up."
Trask walked to the front of the room and stood beside Captain Castle, who made the introduction.
"Our final speaker of the afternoon is Lieutenant Colonel Jeff Trask. I had the pleasure of trying some courts-martial with Colonel Trask at Tyndall Air Force Base. Colonel Trask is, in civilian life, the Senior Litigation Counsel for the Office of the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia in Washington. I could try to list all of his trial accomplishments for you, but we'd be here until after dinner. Let me just say that our profession is full of folks with super-egos. You'll probably run into one of those attorneys in the future who claims to be the gold standard of trial attorneys. I have. I told the last one who made that claim that I've seen the gold standard of trial lawyers, and that his name is Jeff Trask."
Castle stepped aside, offering the floor to Trask, who nodded while the applause died down.
"Thank you, Josh. A very kind introduction which I'm sure I'll completely fail to live up to." Most of the attendees chuckled politely. Good. They're still awake. Trask picked up a remote and a drop-down screen descended at the front of the room.
