Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  “Negative,” Jack had answered. “Not even close. Four are the personal detail for a cartel leader the Organization had an arrangement with down here, four are individuals who work alone—usually—and handle wet work for the government in a nonofficial capacity, and four are personal friends of Marcos. You’re right, it’s a mixed bag of tricks, but they’re more than adequately trained for what’s coming,” which was all Logan needed to know.

  Once introductions had been made, Jack revealed the main reason they’d rallied at the warehouse: sixty Perdix micro drones wrapped and stacked in the back of an Austrian Pinzgauer high-mobility all-terrain vehicle.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cole said, gawking at the drones as they stood inside the secured warehouse Jack had purchased more than two years before. “Jesus Christ, Jack, is there anyone you don’t know or anything you can’t get? I read about these last year. DARPA has been developing drone swarm technology over the past few years, even putting out a call to engineers and drone experts to participate in what they call ‘sprints.’ A few years ago, they dropped a hundred or so from two F-18s, and the drones operated as one artificial organism, successfully executing several swarm maneuvers. There were several news stories about it.”

  “There were,” Jack said. “It’s why the Organization reached out to DARPA—remember, our resources aren’t just monetary—and not only learned what they were doing but how. We obtained their software, and we purchased our own micro drone fleet to be used for a rainy day. When I realized I was coming to South America, I figured I might get a chance to try these little monsters out, and I figured right,” he added with a sense of satisfaction in his voice.

  “Great. You got some new toys, but how the hell are they going to help us? They don’t exactly have Predator missiles on them. They’re not much larger than my hand,” Logan said. “And looking at the propellers, they’re going to make a ton of noise.” Logan paused, his mind solving the riddle before he’d barely thought of it. “But that’s the plan, isn’t it? Rather than quick and quiet, these things are going to be a diversion, aren’t they?”

  “They’re going to do much more than that, Marine. They’re going to cause chaos,” Jack said. “And it’s going to be beautiful.”

  “Okay, smart guy. I can’t wait to hear this: what kind of Erwin Rommel master plan do you have up your sleeve?” Logan asked, referring to the brilliant German tank commander and tactical genius.

  “The easiest one of all,” Jack said, and actually smiled as he laid out the events of the upcoming evening’s festivities.

  CHAPTER 25

  Libertador Municipality, Downtown Caracas

  1700 Venezuelan Standard Time

  The convoy of six Tiuna military vehicles led by two black Range Rovers roared east through the middle of the crippled city down Avenida Sucre. Dust and smoke hung in the air like a cloak, as if threatening to suffocate the remaining buildings and infrastructure. General Cordones watched the wreckage from the earthquake as it passed by, a series of endless images with one thing in common—suffering. But not for much longer, he thought.

  The convoy into the city had encountered fewer roadblocks and obstacles than he’d anticipated. Thanks to the continuous state of chaos, emergency personnel assumed the convoy was on some kind of official business, and the Caracas citizens assumed the convoy was on the way to help some unfortunate souls worse off than they were. Just not in the way they might think, he reflected.

  The convoy exited the highway down a gradual ramp whose left side had collapsed to the ground below. A red SUV hung over the edge, its front wheels dangling in the air. Its passengers had abandoned it, a teetering carcass waiting to plummet to its permanent death at the next aftershock.

  “Mother of God,” Lieutenant Colonel Alfonso Gutierrez said as he navigated the exit ramp. He’d been with the general for the past five years, and like all of the men under his command, Gutierrez was committed to their mission. In Colonel Gutierrez’s mind, there was no greater cause than the preservation of the country he loved, for all its woes.

  “The darkness before the light,” General Cordones said. The convoy reached the bottom of the ramp and turned left. “It will all be over soon.”

  “And you’ve confirmed it’s going to happen?”

  “They’re in position,” General Cordones replied. “Everything is in motion. We passed the point of no return before we entered the city. Are you having second thoughts, Alfonso?”

  “Not for a second, sir,” Colonel Gutierrez replied. “No nobler cause than this.”

  The general nodded slightly and turned to the two bodyguards of his personal detail in the back seat. The soldiers nodded at their commanding officer, intense looks of determination worn like battle masks. He nodded in return, satisfied with what he saw. He’ll never see it coming. He can’t.

  A voice erupted from the encrypted portable UHF two-way radio the general held in his lap. “The press conference is underway. Just like you said, they’re holding it on Avenida Urdaneta. We’re in position and waiting for your mark.”

  “Roger,” the general replied, and depressed the talk button on the side of the two-way radio. “We’re less than ninety seconds out. Once we stop, you start. Maintain good fire and discipline until we leave. Then make your egress and meet us at the rally point. Radio silence until this is over. Good luck.”

  “You too, sir,” the disembodied voice responded. “Out here.”

  “How did you know they’d hold the press conference outside the palace? Seems reckless,” Colonel Gutierrez asked.

  “Politics, Alfonso. Politics. His handlers want to maximize his exposure during this crisis to try and ingratiate himself with the people. He’s no fool. He knows how unpopular he is, that people are fleeing Venezuela at an alarming rate, and that large segments of the population blame him. He might be a tyrant, but he’s no idiot. He probably thinks this is the best thing that could’ve happened to him,” the general finished.

  Another left turn, and the convoy moved north on the east side of the palace. So close to avenging you, Daniel. He closed his eyes and remembered the boy he’d raised, pangs of grief and guilt penetrating the veneer of toughness he wore like armor.

  The vehicles drove between the trees on the left side of the road and the buildings on the right, an urban canyon of wood, concrete, and steel. Victor glimpsed images of the palace through the dense canopy of foliage.

  The Range Rover stopped at Avenida Urdaneta. To the left, the section of street in front of Miraflores Palace had been blocked off. Barriers had been erected and were manned by four men in dark suits and red ties—the president’s personal bodyguards. Three hundred feet past the barrier were a throng of reporters and a podium that had been hastily erected near the main vehicle entrance from Urdaneta. Victor couldn’t see the president, but he knew he was there, broadcasting live on the air.

  Fortunately, every member of the president’s personal security battalions knew General Victor Cordones, and he was about to take advantage of that fact.

  “Let’s go,” General Cordones ordered, and the Range Rover accelerated as it turned, aiming straight for the point between the two barriers. The rest of the convoy followed close behind.

  The four men raised their weapons instinctively, black assault rifles trained on the approaching Range Rover. But they didn’t fire, as they recognized the four military vehicles as part of the Venezuelan army.

  The Range Rover slammed on its brakes, and General Victor Cordones leapt out, already screaming in Spanish as the Tiunas behind him stopped and blocked the intersection midturn, a vehicular snake that stretched out more than eighty feet.

  General Cordones rushed to the nearest guard, who lowered his weapon at the appearance of the army’s commanding general. He didn’t give the clean-cut man in his midtwenties a chance to respond, but instead started talking.

  “You know who I am, I assume? Good. Move these barriers right now. There is an imminent threat on the presid
ent’s life. I’ve been trying to get through to his personal detail for the last thirty minutes, but comms have been in and out. Now move the barriers and let us pass,” he finished forcefully.

  The young man stared at the general for a moment and, to his credit, spoke into a microphone, relaying the information General Cordones had just provided.

  Smart. Too bad he’s on the wrong side of this, Victor thought, and cut the young man off. “The longer you delay, the greater the danger you place the president in.”

  The young man paused and opened his mouth to answer when the first shot rang out, echoing off the surrounding buildings. Just in time, Victor thought, and sprang into action, even as the first scream arose from down the street near the press conference.

  “Too late,” General Cordones said, and jumped back in the Range Rover as it drove through the barriers, trying to cover the distance before the inevitable panic ensued. The convoy accelerated, distracting the security, but more shots rang out, and the assembled crowd began to flee in all directions in hopes of avoiding a random bullet. Victor noted that the only ones who remained truly calm were the media cameramen, likely having been through worse.

  The Range Rover skidded to a halt less than thirty feet away from the president of Venezuela, and Victor leapt out once again. As rehearsed, the vehicles stopped behind him, and the doors on all six Tiunas and the second Range Rover opened. The armed men within stepped out of the vehicles and began to scan the surrounding buildings with their AK-103s and H&K MP5s. In the middle of the bedlam, the effect was exactly as he’d intended—the cavalry showing up to rally to the president’s side.

  Victor ran up the stairs to the landing, even as the president’s closest bodyguards held up black rectangles of Kevlar bulletproof fabric in order to shield the president.

  Another shot rang out, and Victor heard a woman scream. He felt a pang of regret but pressed on, finally reaching President Ernesto Pena.

  A slightly overweight man just under six feet tall in his early sixties who had somehow aged well, even under the stress and relentless pressure of his office, he looked at his chief of the army with concern—not panic—on his face. The current attempt on his life had not been the first.

  “Sir, you have to come with me! I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour since we picked up the threat, but I couldn’t get through,” General Cordones said quickly. “I can explain, but you have to come with me.” He leaned in closer, his voice measured amid the pandemonium around them. As if the two of them were enclosed inside an invisible bubble, he delivered the last piece of information he knew would play into the president’s paranoia. “It’s not safe at the palace. They have men inside.”

  Another shot rang out, followed by another scream. Several of his guards fired indiscriminately toward a fifteen-story building two hundred yards away. The president’s eyes flared for a moment, anger widening them. “Are you sure?” he responded.

  “Yes, sir. I am. I have a safe location secured, but if we don’t leave now, who knows what’s going to happen,” Victor said. “But it’s your call, sir.” The last part was intended to make the president feel like he had a choice, but Victor knew better. The second the shooting had started, his choices had narrowed significantly. And then, for good measure, Victor said, “Bring four of your men. There’s room in the vehicles.”

  His decision made, President Pena gave instructions to the head of his detail who stood to his right. “Antonio, you and three men that you trust the most are with me. We’re going with General Cordones, and we’re going now.”

  The last footage the citizens of Caracas—and later, the rest of the world—would see of the embattled president of Venezuela was him being ushered into a convoy of military vehicles and whisked away into the heart of the city.

  Within a mile of departing Miraflores Palace, the convoy split up, vanished, and swapped out Tiuna military vehicles for SUVs and sedans with tinted windows, which were nearly as common as the daily horde of motorcyclists.

  CHAPTER 26

  General Cordones’s Base Camp

  1915 Venezuelan Standard Time

  The plan was simple in concept—a flanking maneuver from east to west with the drone swarm serving as a diversionary element cutting through the middle of the camp from north to south. A double envelopment would’ve increased the risk of friendly fire, which was the last thing Logan needed. The plan was to cause as much chaos as possible and use the bedlam to mask their movement until they’d infiltrated the camp from the two eastern corners. The base didn’t have a perimeter fence, and Logan figured the remote location provided General Cordones with a sense of security, for which he was about to be proven wrong. Once inside the camp, all enemy combatants were to be treated as hostile, and deadly force was authorized for everyone except the vice president.

  The sun had set thirty-five minutes ago, allowing the mountain and its plateau to be shrouded in darkness. Parts of the base were bathed in a harsh white light from the mounted floodlights, and the running generators sent out a low, thrumming sound that carried across the mountain. The nighttime noises had emerged, contributing to the auditory symphony.

  Thirty meters below the northeastern lip of the plateau, Logan West and his Hunter Team waited. The decision on how to break up the assault force had been an easy one, and one that Logan had insisted upon. With Logan was Santiago, Marcos—whom Logan refused to let out of his sight—and six shooters, including the four cartel enforcers and two assassins. On the southeastern side of the mountain, Cole Matthews and Jack led the Killer Team, including the four friends of Marcos and the other two assassins. Everything north of the railroad was Logan’s responsibility; the south was Jack and Cole’s.

  Marcos had asked Logan why his friends couldn’t work with them, and Logan had replied, “Because I don’t trust you. And the thought of you going rogue with four of your BFFs doesn’t instill a real sense of security in me.”

  Marcos’s only reply had been, “And I thought you were a big, badass Marine,” to which Logan had answered, “Bad enough to take you once before. Don’t forget that. And don’t make me have to do it again, or worse.”

  Marcos had shrugged indifferently, and that had been the end of the conversation.

  The communications plan was also simple—there was none, at least not until the shooting stopped. In the event of an emergency, Logan and Cole both carried a coyote-brown Motorola SRX 2200 Enhanced Combat single-band radio with a wired microphone looped over the front of the black Kevlar vest each wore.

  Each man of the ad hoc assault force carried his personal preference of assault rifle and sidearm with a suppressor on each, with the intent to maintain the tactical advantage for as long as possible. The only downside of an assault force consisting of shooter’s-choice weapons was that ammunition would not be interchangeable in the event that one man went down and another ran low on rounds. Just another thing on the long list of things I’m not a fan of on this trip, Logan had thought to himself.

  In addition to the weapons, the men wore solid black tactical fatigues that Jack had provided, black boonie covers, black camouflage paint, black Kevlar vests with magazine pouches on the front and a medical pouch on the back. Some had knives on their belts, some had sheaths attached to the vests, and others adopted the minimalist approach with only firearms and ammunition—the essentials.

  Once the raid commenced and the vice president was secure, the extraction plan was to use several of the multiple vehicles maintained on the mountain and drive them down the access road that ran alongside the railroad tracks.

  If all went according to plan—although Logan and every member of the assault force, including the criminal elements, knew it never did—they’d be off the mountain in less than thirty minutes, depending on what they found.

  Logan glanced at the dark, shadowy figure of Marcos on his right and wondered what the former cartel enforcer and onetime member of the Organization was thinking, although he suspected he knew—his murder
ed wife, just like you would be if you were him.

  Logan felt a tap on his left shoulder and turned to see the outline of Santiago pointing up into the night sky, an outline against the black backdrop of the mountain forest.

  And then Logan heard them, and for the first time of the chaotic day, he thought, This might actually work.

  * * *

  Josh Baker had remained in the command post since General Cordones’s team had left. Two soldiers had provided him with dinner, and he’d watched news coverage of the president’s rescue—in reality, a carefully staged and precisely executed abduction—since the event had occurred. Globovision—and he assumed the rest of the national and, likely by now, world media—continued to broadcast that the president was being held at a safe location until the extent of the attempt on his life could be determined.

  General Cordones had told Josh he planned to permit the Venezuelan president to call his vice president and assure him he was safe in order to maintain the ruse, and Josh assumed that action had been completed. There was no sense of panic in the reporting, let alone a hint that anything was truly amiss. He knew the shock and chaos from the earthquake had contributed to their level of gullibility, and he was grateful for it.

  A few more hours, and this will all be over. He glanced at his encrypted cell phone, a spare that only one person outside South America had the phone number to, and he hadn’t heard from him in the past thirty-six hours. He knew that part of his plan was in position and prepared to be let loose like a precision-guided munition on the unsuspecting targets if General Cordones’s plan failed. The presence of Logan West and his Task Force Ares had reassured him that he’d made the right decision in planning for that eventuality, though he knew it was his death sentence if he executed it. But what choice do I have? They’re down here, and I have to shake their resolve.