Fortress Doctrine (Maelstrom Rising Book 5)

by Peter Nealen

  “Two Bravos Actual, this is Tango India Six Four.” His voice was a rasp almost as hoarse as Wallace’s own regular speaking voice, and he started looking around until Lovell, apparently reading his mind, handed him an open water bottle. Keeping the handset to his ear, Hank took a long swig. It didn’t taste great; they’d run through the supply they’d brought across the Rio Grande a while ago and had been filtering what they could get from the rivers since then.

  Wallace came on surprisingly quickly. “Six Four, this is Two Bravos. Give me a SITREP.”

  Hank laid out what had happened over the last couple of days, and what they’d seen in Camargo. His headache seemed to get worse as he wracked his brain, trying to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. He almost did, though, and went back to describe the strange skull mask he’d gotten a glimpse of in Potrero de Llano.

  “Might be something. Might be nothing. Maybe one of the La Linea thugs found a cooler Halloween mask.” But something in Wallace’s voice was still thoughtful. “Keep an eye out, though. So, Camargo.” He got businesslike again. “What’s your planned course of action?”

  “From where I sit, it looks like exploiting the rivalry between the Soldados and the Vengadores is our best bet. It sounds like this is a Triad-run op, though possibly as a proxy for the CCP.”

  “Pretty sure it’s CCP,” Wallace interjected as Hank paused, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve got a couple people searching, but this CAIAI outfit sounds like a textbook ChiCom front.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Do we have any idea what the end goal is?” Hank was temporizing; he had a general course of action in mind, but there were still a lot of details to work out, preferably after he’d at least gotten a couple hours of sleep.

  “Oh, it’s pretty obvious by now.” Wallace was grim. “They’ve forced a corridor from the border to the West Texas oil fields, and are extracting crude and trucking it back across the border. The chaos that their proxies are creating have been doing a pretty good job of slowing down any concerted response, too.

  “Somebody drove a VBIED into the border crossing at Presidio. It’s gone. We haven’t been able to get the National Guard down to Lajitas yet, because the mobilized units have been tied up with a siege of the Presidio County Courthouse in Marfa. That seems to have been mostly MS-13. In fact, it looks like Mara Salvatrucha is the primary mover and shaker for a lot of the diversionary chaos on this side of the border.”

  Hank thought he remembered hearing that MS-13 had often acted as mercenaries for other organized crime groups, so he supposed that made sense.

  “The siege is getting mopped up now, but it’s still going to be a while before the Guard can get moving. However, we’ve now got four Triarii infantry and armor sections rolling with a State Guard unit toward Lajitas, with mortar and air support. One of those infantry sections will be pushing across the border directly and moving to link up with you. If you’re right about Camargo being a major hub for this operation, then you’ve got priority.”

  Hank paused for a moment before answering. “Is Chang coming, too?” Aaron Chang was the team leader for Grex Luporum Team II. Hank and his section had worked with them for a while south of Phoenix, then on the incursion into California.

  He asked the question with a mix of hope and trepidation. On the one hand, Chang had a lot more training and experience in unconventional warfare, and could take over.

  On the other hand, Chang would be taking over.

  “Chang’s busy elsewhere. This is your show.” Wallace paused, but Hank didn’t have any comment to make. “This is going to get more common, I think. This war ain’t conventional in any sense of the term. And there just ain’t enough of us.”

  “Are they bringing vehicles? Because we’re on foot unless we use the cartel vehicles we captured. And we don’t have enough cash to buy off the local economy.”

  “They are, but not enough for everybody. That would be a bit too big of a footprint. But Torres is bringing some op funds, so you should be good.” Again, Wallace paused, but Hank was just too tired to offer anything more. “I’d ask if there’s anything more you need, but if there is, we’ll have to air drop it. We don’t have the resources to send anything else.”

  “I think we’re stuck with what we’ve got.” Hank sighed. “I’m more concerned with the locals. Without enough of them deciding to stand up to these people, we won’t get far.”

  “You’re on the right track already.” Even through the distortion of the radio signal, Wallace sounded faintly amused. “You’ll be an unconventional warfare warlord in no time.”

  “Thanks, Two Bravos.” Hank squinted up at the sky. “I think.”

  “Torres should be in position to link up in about twenty-four hours. Stay safe until then, Six Four Actual. Two Bravos, out.”

  Hank put the handset down, glancing at Lovell. True to form, Lovell tilted his head toward the town. “So, any pretty señoritas down in town? It’s been an awfully long dry spell. Terlingua had hardly any girls at all.”

  Hank snorted. “If I’d been looking, you think I’d tell you? The last thing we need is you getting caught in a cartel honey trap.”

  It was dark, but Lovell put his hand on his chest in mock offense. “Me? I don’t get caught in honey-traps, boss. I catch women in honey traps.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “You really have such little faith in me?”

  Hank just walked away, shaking his head, as Lovell chuckled.

  ***

  A day later, the phone still hadn’t rung. Spencer had led another recon team into town; Hank hadn’t wanted to expose the same faces too much, especially around the cartel-controlled parts of the city. Spencer was on the way back, but hadn’t yet arrived. Hank was waiting on the back of the truck with the radio, his burner cell phone sitting on the tailgate next to him, just in case. Spencer had sent the number of his own burner as soon as he’d purchased it, but Hank wasn’t going to call them unless the patrol base got hit.

  He might not have been extensively trained in this clandestine stuff, but it was easy enough from a tactical point of view to figure out that a phone ringing at the wrong time could be disastrous.

  “Tango India Six Four, this is Tango India Seven Three.” The transmission was faint and scratchy, but Hank snatched up the handset.

  “Seven Three, this is Six Four. Send it.”

  “We are holding about two klicks southeast of Camargo. Confirming the linkup coordinates.”

  Hank peered down at the map and checked the numbers as they came over the radio. “Affirm.” The rendezvous point was at a crossing point over one of the tributary creekbeds, just over a thousand yards from the patrol base in the main arroyo. He figured he could walk there in about the same amount of time it would take Torres and his men to reach it.

  “Roger that. See you in a few.” The other voice signed off.

  Hank got to his feet, slinging his rifle and picking up his helmet and NVGs. “Etienne.”

  LaForce stuck his head out of the truck’s cab. “What’s up, boss?”

  “Torres is on his way in. I’m going out to meet him. You’re in charge until either Spencer or I get back.” He almost went through the full five-point contingency plan, but they’d already gone over that when Spencer had left. None of the details had changed, and of all his Triarii, he trusted LaForce to remember such things more strictly than any of the others. “If West gives you any grief, refer him to me.” It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Gray Man, but he was an outsider to the rest of the section, no matter how senior he was. LaForce was the next one in line.

  “Roger that.” LaForce stuck a thumbs up out the open door.

  Hank pulled his helmet on, adjusted his NVGs, and headed out into the dark and the brush.

  ***

  He waited in the prone, watching as the blacked-out RAM 2500s threaded their way along the unimproved road. Torres had apparently gone with a lower profile rather than greater firepower; none of the trucks featured machinegun mounts, and t
he beds were all covered by canopies.

  Hank reached up and triggered the IR illuminator on his NVGs three times. The lead truck slowed, stopped, and then a pair of flashes blinked from the front. He replied with a single flash, and got to his feet, threading down into the arroyo between the sagebrush and cactus.

  The lead vehicle had held position at the top of the bank, and the vehicle commander’s door came open. A medium-height, slender man got out and came down to join Hank in the dry ford.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Hank Foss.” Hank held his hand out, and the slender man, who stood a few inches shorter, shook hit firmly.

  “Ralph Torres.” He looked around. “Where are the rest?”

  Hank waved toward the west. “Just over that rise. Come on. I’ll lead you in.”

  ***

  The buzz of the burner phone woke him up just after dawn.

  Stifling a groan, Hank rolled over and grabbed for it. The crunch of the sandy dirt under him reminded him where he was; he’d been dreaming about spending time with a willowy brunette in a cabin in the mountains.

  That meant he was well and truly getting strung out. He only had dreams that pleasant when he hated his life so bad that even the nightmares stayed away.

  Squinting through gritty eyes, he found the phone and answered. “What is it?”

  “Foss, it’s Torres. Listen, you might want to get your boys up and get ready to move into town. We’ve got a lot of activity in here, and it doesn’t look like business as usual.”

  Hank levered himself up into a sitting position. “What have you got?”

  “Looks like it might be a gang getting ready to make its play.” Torres’s voice was muffled, as if he was holding the phone out of sight while he observed the unfolding situation. “About a dozen young men have gathered at a baseball diamond about six blocks from our primary target. And they’re all armed.”

  “Can you describe any of them?”

  “Teenagers to early military age. We’re not seeing any gang tattoos, or overt gang-related clothing, but they’re definitely organized, and they’re definitely looking for a fight.”

  That didn’t sound like any of the groups they’d observed so far in Camargo. The Vengadores wouldn’t try to be sneaky. And something about that description didn’t fit the Soldados, for some reason.

  “I’m going to make another call,” he said. “Then we’ll be on our way. Keep an eye on the situation.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.” Torres hung up.

  Hank quickly dialed Elizondo. “Yes, what?” The older man sounded surprised and worried.

  “Do you know where Geert and his friends are?” If Hank was short, it was because he was already pulling himself up onto his feet and grabbing his gear, which he’d left piled next to him where he’d slept.

  “No, I…” The older man suddenly stopped. “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “It is not Geert, I do not think, but one of his friends. Miguel Ibarra has a grudge against the Aztlanistas.” He sighed. “I wish you had not put these ideas in their heads. Now they will get themselves killed.”

  Hank ignored the condemnation. “If you can get through to them, do it.”

  “It is too late.” Any condemnation had drained away; Elizondo just sounded defeated. “There is nothing I can say that will change their minds.”

  Hank didn’t have time to try to reassure him. “Try.” He hung up and looked around. “LaForce!”

  LaForce was bedded down under a tree nearby. “Huh? Wha?”

  “Get First Squad up. We’ve got trouble.” He started to shoulder into his chest rig.

  The Seven Three vehicles had joined the patrol base, and the newcomers had integrated into the security plan. Hank’s own section was tired enough that they would have gladly turned the entirety over to Torres’ section, but those guys had been driving across the desert all through most of the previous day, and were almost equally tired.

  He grabbed his gear and weapon, and then looked down at the phone. With a sigh, he hit “Redial.”

  Elizondo might not want to cooperate, but they needed more intel. And Hank would have some answers, even if only to go in and pull some potential allies out of the fire before they threw their lives away.

  Chapter 25

  Torres was waiting on the corner, about a block from the baseball diamond. He and his recon team were sitting in their truck, the windows rolled up, pulled just far enough up to the corner that they could watch down the street.

  Hank, LaForce, Faris, and Taylor were in another of the Seven Three trucks. Hank really hadn’t wanted to ride an SdA vehicle into town this time around, and the timing was too tight to try to walk.

  They pulled up next to Torres’s truck and Taylor rolled down the window. Torres followed suit.

  “Right up there.” He pointed. “You recognize any of ‘em?”

  Hank was already studying the small crowd gathered in the shadows of the short palm trees that lined the street. None of them looked like Castaneda, or any of the others who’d been with him, at least not from a distance. But he couldn’t be sure.

  All the same, they couldn’t just let this go forward. Those kids—and they were little more than kids, he could tell that much—were going to get slaughtered, even if half of them did have AKs.

  But before any of the Triarii could make a move, the boys suddenly started moving, running around the corner and toward the industrial park that had been turned into an organized crime fortress.

  “Shit.” Torres started to open his door. He was still in his tans, wearing his gear except for his helmet, and with his rifle right next to his leg.

  “Hold up,” Hank snapped. “Let us take lead on this one.” The four of them in the vehicle were dressed in civilian clothes, their gear at their feet. “We’ll move up, get eyes on, and see if we can salvage this.”

  He tried not to think about Arturo and his friends. He didn’t want to end up in a position where he had to leave another group of kids to die.

  Taylor started them rolling, careful to maintain a normal speed instead of tearing around the corner like they were about to go barreling into a fight. They still wanted to keep any observers from noting who they were or what they were there for. The pickups blended well enough with the rest of the vehicles in Chihuahua that they didn’t stand out.

  The faked license plates helped, too. Hank wondered where they’d gotten those.

  Unfortunately, they lost sight of their quarry at first, as Taylor had to do a U-turn to get on the other side of the palm-tree-studded median. He still maintained a relatively sedate pace as they moved up to the corner.

  Taylor slowed still further as they got closer, easing around the corner to where Hank could see down the street where the boys had gone.

  “Well, now. Reality hits pretty hard, don’t it?” Taylor was usually a bit acerbic, but Hank couldn’t help but agree with him.

  Two trucks sat on the street, about four blocks away. They weren’t the up-armored gun trucks that had become so common; these were both brand-new Ford Raptors, gleaming and expensive. But the men with weapons leaning against them, apparently unconcerned about the public display of force, were all wearing black and red armbands.

  The group of young would-be vigilantes hadn’t gotten far. They’d seen the Soldados and had almost immediately slowed. Hank could see why. There were about half a dozen of the local kids. He counted easily twice that on the street, a few of them looking in their direction.

  “Pull up next to those kids.” This would have to be done quickly and carefully. Otherwise they’d have a bloodbath on their hands.

  Hank rolled his window down as Taylor rolled the truck forward. The boys weren’t watching their six; they were all fixated on the Soldados down the street. The nearest, a gawky-looking kid with a high-and-tight haircut, started as the truck suddenly slowed next to him, and stared at Hank.

  “What are you doing, güey?” Hank kept his tone low
and even, using the familiar term “güey,” which was closer to “mate,” instead of the diminutive “mijo,” or “son.” He didn’t need this kid getting his back up because he’d been condescended to. Especially not when a couple of the SdA gunmen, AR-15s slung in front of them, had shoved away from one of the trucks and walked out into the middle of the street. From their attitude, they had seen the youngsters and knew exactly why they were there. And they weren’t remotely intimidated.

  But that wouldn’t deter a young man all wound up on machismo and righteous vengeance. If anything, it might only egg him on. And Hank didn’t want to see that. Furthermore, he didn’t want to kick things off yet, and he knew that despite the tactical situation, he wasn’t going to be able to just sit back and watch these kids get slaughtered.

  He nodded toward the gunmen down the street. “You think you’re going to scare them? Or even kill more than a couple of them before they scatter your guts all over the street?”

  The kid looked at him for a moment, the pride lighting in his eyes, and Hank started to feel his heart sink. This still might not work. He glanced around at the rest. There was Castaneda, but he wasn’t in the lead; he was hanging toward the back, and he avoided Hank’s eyes.

  “You don’t understand,” the kid said, glancing at the whip-lean young man with longish hair who seemed to be the closest the little group had to a leader.

  “Oh, I think I understand plenty.” He jerked his chin at the Soldados. “Which was it? A sister? A cousin? A niece?”

  Several of the younger Mexicans looked around at each other. None wanted to meet Hank’s eyes. But they weren’t backing down, either.

  “You keep going down this street, and those pendejos are going to turn you into mincemeat.” His voice got hard. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned. I don’t give a fuck how hard you think you are, or what your family honor demands. You ain’t gonna do shit for your family honor when they cut you up for dog treats. So, you can go get yourselves slaughtered, or you can back down, get in the back of this truck, and maybe help me well and truly burn these hijos de la chingadas down.”