by Bill King
The manhole was actually a, steel-reinforced concrete silo, about six feet in diameter, with a rebar ladder that led straight up to the ground level. It came out about forty feet west of the barn, protected from observation from the barn by a ten-foot high mound left from the construction process.
“Si, Graciela.”
She lifted her right index finger from the button, disconnecting the circuit, and returned her attention to the drone operator.
“Make one more pass, this time over Lipan Hill.”
Thirty seconds later, after it had circled around, the drone approached the hill from the east. Its infrared sensors picked up the impression of two men on the slope.
Then it went blank.
◆◆◆
“Who the hell is flying a drone in the middle of nowhere at this time of night?” said one of the SWAT guys left on the hill. He swung his rifle into position and fired two rounds, both of which hit their target.
“Beats the hell out of me,” said the other agent. “It was just a reflex reaction. I just hope it wasn’t one of ours.”
“I think we’d better let Johannsen and Cortez know what just happened.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 37
AS HE ROLLED DOWN the passenger window, Calderón could hear the soft sound of the running water from the Rio Grande. It was pitch black outside, with clouds covering what little moon there was. The driver cut the engine.
“Shine your headlights on bright,” he said to the driver. “I want to get an idea of the distance across to the Mexican side.”
He got out of the vehicle and walked toward the riverbank. When he got there, he waved his right arm above his head in a circular motion, signaling for the others to join him. The other three members of the team got out of the vehicle and walked down to the riverbank.
“Rafael, grab one end of the long rope in the back of the vehicle and swim across the river here,” he said to the young man, who was wearing a black tee-shirt and a soiled straw cowboy hat. “Also, let me know about the current and depth. Walk where you can walk and only swim where you have to…comprende?”
The young man nodded, then took off his hat and handed it to the woman standing next to him. He walked back to his vehicle, popped open the rear hatch and took out a couple of rolls of dark blue nylon rope. He closed the rear hatch and headed back down toward the river. Once he got there, he began slowly walking into the water toward the Mexican side.
He was able to walk about ten feet into the river before the water covered his head, forcing him to dog paddle. The current picked up as he reached the center of the channel. It was a relatively strong current and, even for an experienced swimmer like himself, it was powerful enough to force him to swim against it in order to stay on course.
Three minutes later, he reached the other side. He stood up and walked the final ten feet in the water before he climbed out and onto the bank. Rafael walked over to a sturdy tree about twenty feet from the bank and tied off the nylon rope before turning around and facing the opposite bank. He waved his arms back and forth over his head to signal that it was now safe to cross.
“I sure hope everyone can swim,” said Calderón as he grabbed ahold of the nylon rope and began walking down to the water’s edge. “Just hang on to the rope as you cross, one hand over the other.”
The vibration from his satellite phone was followed by the sound of his ringtone. Calderón checked the phone’s screen and saw that it was one of the numbers from the Bunker.
“Dígame.”
“Mateo, it’s Graciela. The armed intruders have disappeared. They may be on their way looking for you.”
“Well, if they’re traveling by vehicle, they’ll never get here in time. We’ve already sent the first man across to tie off the safety rope. I was just getting ready to cross over with the rest of the team when you called.”
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“Is there something else?”
“Well, none of the cameras by the old barn picked it up, but I’m pretty sure they came by helicopter. I sent a drone to fly over the area using an infrared camera and there is no sign of any vehicles anywhere near my location.”
“Carajo. You’re probably right about the helicopter then. That means they can be here at any moment.”
Graciela said nothing for the next five seconds.
“Your silence tells me there is something more you want to say.”
“Well, they left two men, probably a sniper team, on the top of Lipan Hill. It may be a coincidence but, on a confirmation pass over the summit, my drone went dark…just disappeared into thin air. I think they may have shot it down.”
“Somehow, I don’t think they were bird hunters out for a night of fun.”
Calderón pointed at the woman who had driven them all the way from Dallas.
“You stay behind to cover our crossing,” he said. “Once we’re on the other side, cut the lights on the vehicle, take the keys and throw them into the river. Then untie the rope on this end and swim across. We’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
He returned to his conversation with Graciela.
“When will your transportation be here to pick us up?”
“According to the GPS, they are only about five minutes from your location,” she said. “They should be there waiting for you by the time you get across the river.”
◆◆◆
“Look. Down there,” said Cortez excitedly into the intercom microphone. His arm pointed off in the distance, where a vehicle was parked, its headlights lighting up the area of the river in front of it.
“That must be where they intend to cross,” said Johannsen, the SWAT commander.
“Circle over them and let’s take a look,” Cortez told the pilot over the intercom.
As the helicopter approached the river, the pilot turned on the spotlight, illuminating the scene below. They could see three people standing on the U.S. side. The woman who had been designated as the rear guard opened fire on the helicopter.
She was immediately cut down by a fusillade of gunfire from above.
Fósforo and Isabela ran toward the river and dove into the water. Calderón managed to grab ahold of the nylon rope, but Isabela was not so lucky. Not just because the current was somewhat treacherous, but also because she could not swim. She thrashed her arms wildly in a futile effort to keep from being pulled under, but her panic doomed her as the current continued pulling her downstream.
By the time Calderón reached the far side of the river, he could find no trace of Isabela. She was definitely not clinging to the rope behind him. Of course, he thought to himself, there was always a chance that the she could have eventually made it across without drowning but, at the moment, Isabela’s wellbeing was not his primary consideration.
Calderón emerged from the water in a low crouch and scurried toward a clump of brush about ten feet from the riverbank. When he looked back to the American side, he saw that the helicopter had set down. The searchlight had been extinguished, so all he could see was the pale green light emerging from the chopper’s open door. Five shapes were gathered next to the Black Hawk. He had no idea whether they were men or women, not that it made a difference.
The Venezuelan glanced at his watch, which was still working, despite the three minutes it had spent on his arm in the river. It was now nine-forty-five on Saturday night.
That’s when he noticed the headlights of a vehicle coming up from behind him.
◆◆◆
“Boss, he’s already crossed the river into Mexico,” said Cortez into the secure satellite phone onboard the helicopter. Jack Gonçalves was speaking to him from the JTTF operations center in Houston. “We have eyes on them, but I’m not sure for much longer. It looks like a vehicle has just pulled up behind him. Must be his ride out of there. Please advise.”
There was an awkward silence, during which Gonçalves did not reply, as he thought through the implications of the situation. In m
ost cases, the answer would be simple. Notify the Mexican authorities and let them handle it. However, this was not just any case. There would be hell to pay no matter which course of action he chose.
He either violates Mexican sovereignty and kicks over a hornet’s nest of bureaucrats in Washington, or he lets a team of Venezuelan terrorists escape, the same people who may have planted a nuclear bomb in Dallas that is set to go off at God knows when. Not to mention the fact that they were also responsible for setting off bombs at three Federal Reserve banks during the past few weeks.
“Boss, did you hear me?” said Cortez, the rising volume in his voice reflecting the unmistakable urgency of the moment.
“Damn, I had a feeling when I got up this morning that this would be one of those days,” he said, a tone of resignation in his voice. “This is why guys like you and me have no future in this business. The book says to stand down, that we have no authority to operate in Mexico, that we should coordinate with the Mexicans and ask them to pick them up and deliver them to us.”
“The book is bullshit,” said Cortez. “That’s why I’m asking you. What do you say?”
Gonçalves said nothing for a few moments before responding, “I say you go over and grab that SOB and bring him back.”
“Thanks, boss. I knew you’d see it my way. I’ll call you back when it’s all over.”
He terminated the call and walked back over to where the SWAT leader was standing.
“It’s a go,” Cortez said to Johannsen. “We’re going to cross the river and snatch him.”
“I thought hot pursuit only worked across state lines,” said a smiling Johannsen.
“Tell that to Black Jack Pershing and Pancho Villa.”
“Okay then, let’s load up,” shouted the SWAT commander, circling his arm over his head to signal the rest of the team to get aboard the idling helicopter. “Time’s a wasting.”
Once inside, Cortez sat in one of the three nylon seats directly behind the pilot and put on an intercom headset.
“Do whatever we need to do to stop the vehicle and capture Calderón alive. I don’t really care what happens to the rest of the folks in the vehicle…dead or alive, it really makes no difference to me at this point, but Calderón, we need alive,” said Cortez, as the pilot lifted the Black Hawk from the ground and made a sharp turn to the north, away from the river, and began its rapid climb.
The pilot hoped this would lead the Venezuelans to believe that the helicopter was leaving the area and that their crossing the border gambit had worked. There was virtually no moon visible, so they quickly disappeared from vision in the dark night sky.
About thirty seconds later, the pilot dropped the helicopter down to three hundred feet and veered west. His plan was to circle around to a position in front of the SUV carrying the Venezuelan to safety. The helicopter crossed the river about three miles to the north of where the terrorists were and then doubled back.
“There they are, over there to the south,” said the pilot a minute or two later over the intercom to Cortez and Johannsen, who were sitting right behind him. He was pointing in the distance at what appeared to be the headlights of a vehicle heading westbound on Mexican highway two.
“Sniper. Target below. Vehicle heading westbound,” said the SWAT commander to his sniper, who was positioned by the right door. “Stop the vehicle anyway you can. I’ll have the pilot swing around to give you a better angle.”
“Roger that.”
“As soon as you have a clear shot, take it.”
“Roger.”
The pilot turned the nose of the Black Hawk to give the shooter a clear view of the oncoming vehicle. A bead of sweat rolled down the man’s cheek as he concentrated his view of the target through the night vision optics mounted on the GA Precision HRT sniper rifle. He squeezed the trigger softly, sending the .308 caliber round on its way.
The bullet pierced the windshield and continued through the driver’s forehead, killing him instantly. As his body slumped over, the SUV took a sudden swerve to the right as it left the road and bounced across an open field for about fifty meters before hitting a mound of dirt. It flipped over several times before sliding a few more meters and eventually coming to a rest on its side.
“Take her down and drop us off,” barked Johannsen into the intercom. “SWAT team, as soon as we touch ground, disembark and deploy tactically toward the SUV. Remember, Calderón is the tall one.”
“I sure hope the bad guys received a copy of the script and know that they’re supposed to stand up so that we can sort out our targets,” said Cortez, hoping against hope that the next few minutes didn’t turn into a South Texas goat-roping.
The Black Hawk was on the ground for less than ten seconds before the pilot, with the sniper still aboard, took her up again to establish an aerial overwatch position. By now, three men had managed to extricate themselves from the overturned SUV and were standing beside it, obviously still a bit dazed.
Cortez raised his binoculars to his eyes for a better look. The tallest of the three—by almost a foot—was definitely Mateo Calderón.
“Six-seven-Romeo, Calderón is the tall one,” said Johannsen to the pilot, who was monitoring their frequency. Six-seven-Romeo was the pilot’s callsign. “Sniper, take out the other two ASAP.”
“Roger,” said the sniper, who was in the helicopter hovering at one hundred feet, roughly two hundred meters away from the wrecked SUV. Two seconds later, one of the men with the Venezuelan went down, followed by the second man a few seconds later.
“Two down. The tall one is still standing. Please advise,” said the sniper.
“Stand by.”
The sudden sound of an amplified voice caught Calderón’s attention.
“Oye, Pelícano,” barked Cortez into the bullhorn the SWAT team always deployed with. He pronounced it pay-LEE-can-oh.
Calderón, who had darted behind the upside-down SUV after Graciela’s men were shot, jerked his head in the direction of the voice. Pelícano, or pelican in Spanish, was the nickname his classmates had given him back in first grade, when he was at least a head taller than the rest of the six-year-olds in Caracas. By the time he was nine years old, nobody—not even the older kids—dared to call him that, so who the hell was this guy? His mind was racing.
“Pelícano, throw down your weapon and come out with your hands in the air,” said Cortez over the bullhorn, speaking in Spanish. By now, the pilot had positioned the helicopter to where the searchlight illuminated the SUV. Cortez continued to use the nickname he knew Calderón despised because he knew it would irritate and distract the arrogant Venezuelan.
Fifteen seconds went by without a word being spoken. In the meantime, Calderón removed the satellite phone from his backpack and, using his thumbs, typed in the following text message in Spanish: “TRAPPED. AMERICANS DISABLED VEHICLE. KILLED DRIVER. SEND HELP.” He tapped the send button.
“Six-seven-Romeo, circle around behind the vehicle and shine a light on him. Let’s make sure he’s still alive,” said the SWAT commander over the radio to the pilot. “And Fred, put a round on the ground right next to him.” Fred was the sniper.
Calderón was still huddled behind the SUV when the searchlight from above bathed him in light. Several seconds later, a round pierced the metal door of the SUV, not two inches from his head.
“I surrender, I surrender,” he shouted in Spanish, tossing his pistol to the side and raising his arms in the air as he stood up. Then he slowly began walking around the wrecked vehicle towards Cortez and the FBI SWAT team, all the while bathed in light from the helicopter’s searchlight.
Cortez and three black-clad SWAT officers began quickly walking toward the Venezuelan. Less than ten seconds later, they transitioned from darkness into the bright light spilling out from the searchlight. They stopped once they had gotten within about ten yards of Calderón.
“Smart move, Mateo,” said Cortez in Spanish. He removed his ball cap so that Calderón could get a better look at h
is face. “Now, if you’re really smart, you’ll tell us where you planted the bomb and when it’s timed to go off.”
Calderón just stared at Cortez for about five seconds before replying, simply, “Besa me culo, Pete.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 38
LESS THAN FORTY-FIVE minutes had elapsed before the Black Hawk set down inside an off-the-books paramilitary compound somewhere west of San Antonio. The forty-acre property was hidden away in a remote location of the Hill Country, far from the touristy towns like Fredericksburg that attracted throngs of visitors from around the world seeking to experience the artsy side of Texas.
Calderón, a black cotton sack secured over his head to prevent him from knowing his location, was roughly removed from the helicopter and manhandled toward a rusty metal building.
It was just past midnight on a moonless night and a solitary spotlight mounted on a tall wooden pole cast just enough light to reveal two heavily armed men standing guard in front of a windowless building. Each looked as if he could have been a starting offensive lineman for an NFL team.
As Cortez and Johannsen approached with Calderón, one of the guards turned slightly to his left and, grasping the steel handle, opened the door to the building. As he did so, a soft green light spilled out into the night. Once the three men had entered, the guard closed the door behind them and resumed his watchful position.
“Careful, Mateo, watch your head,” said Cortez in Spanish, putting his hand on top of the bag covering the Venezuelan’s head.
He pushed his head down gently as they passed through a doorway definitely not built to accommodate someone of his height.
“If you think these theatrics will intimidate me, Pete, you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he spat out bitterly. His arms ached from having his hands zip-tied behind his back for the past hour. “You Americans are weak, especially when it really matters. We can always count on you to blink at the critical moment.”