November 15
11:30AM – CST
Weaver entered the conference room, grabbed a cup of coffee and took a chair near the middle of the table. His usual choice. He was too vain to sit near the end of the table, and too smart to sit close to the head.
General Fischer was there, looking over maps and photos with Ayala, the section chief. Both glanced up as Weaver entered and gave him a smile and a nod of recognition. The smile, especially from the Director, put him even more at ease. He took his chair and sat back, a smile of his own carefully hidden under his hands steepled in front.
“Agent Weaver,” said the General without looking up, “would you please get the door?”
Weaver hesitated. “Aren’t there more people coming?”
General Fischer replied, “Not for this one Phillip. This is eyes only for you and Ayala.”
“Yes, sir,” said a puzzled Weaver as he closed the door.
“Hit the lights, too, please,” said the General.
Weaver flipped the switches and resumed his place at the table.
The front wall of the conference room split down the middle, the two halves moving away from each other revealing a 72” high-definition LG monitor. Weaver was familiar with it. They were going to be watching a live satellite feed, or a Predator, depending on the mission scope. He didn’t know what it would be, having not been briefed.
Ayala took a seat directly opposite of Weaver as the General spun his chair towards them.
“Gentlemen, what we are about to see is not to be discussed. It did not happen as far as the Agency is concerned. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” said Ayala and Weaver in unison.
General Fischer punched the hands-free on the phone in front of him. “Bring it up.”
The screen flickered as an image of a city appeared. From the angle of shot and the clarity, it was obviously a predator to the trained eye.
“We’re looking at Chihuahua,” said the General. “In ten minutes, the independent contractor known as the Chameleon will be leading a joint operation against the Los Zapatos Cartel. The contractor is using his own aircraft and weapons. The Agency is providing intel and logistical support, nothing more.” The General was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Ayala opened it and President Villa and Bernardo Banderas walked into the room together.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said General Fischer. “I wasn’t sure you would be able to make it.”
President Villa smiled. “I didn’t, General Fischer, but thank you for the invitation.”
“Understood, sir,” said the General and motioned the men to chairs beside his.
General Fischer resumed. “As I was saying, the Agency is providing support only, as is the Mexican Government. Neither party will be engaged in hostilities. As I am sure you all know, this is an unusual operation, to say the least. It’s not the first time we’ve used a contractor, of course. This is, however, the first time a contractor approached both the U. S. and Mexican governments requesting permission to carry out a full-scale military assault on one of the drug cartels.”
General Fischer let that sink in. “As for the reason the contractor has requested permission to operate freely, we have both been told, that is the President and I, that it is a personal matter. I honestly don’t understand why he’s so determined to destroy Camacho. I do, however, know he was going to move with or without our assistance. President Villa can confirm.”
The President nodded. “He contacted me directly two days ago asking permission to carry out this mission. It is most unusual, as the General has pointed out. He has already taken many steps to minimize the risk of collateral damage in Chihuahua. His target is one building.
“When he is finished, my troops will move into the city to locate and detain any remaining members of the cartel.” The President looked General Fischer in the eye. “He has excellent intel, though I am not sure how he acquires it.”
General Fischer didn’t take the bait. “I asked him that question, Mr. President. He calmly assured me if he needed to utilize an NSA satellite, he would. I believe him. He gathers his own intelligence through his own channels.”
President Villa nodded.
Bernardo spoke up. “What impresses me, he is doing this because Camacho is responsible for the abduction and injuries to Agency operatives, a so-called Mr. Black in particular.”
It took ever measure of Weaver’s self-control to not react to the mention of Derek by the President’s Aide. “That would explain the retaliation in Key West,” he said calmly.
“What retaliation?” asked Ayala. “What are you talking about, Phillip?”
Weaver didn’t miss a beat, though he knew he had just fucked up. “I saw it on the news. It makes sense that it was this Chameleon, now that I know all the facts.”
General Fischer spoke. “Gentlemen, that is not what happened. The Matamoras Cartel retaliated against Los Zapatos for trying to draw them into the conflict. When Los Zapatos attacked the team, they were wearing Matamoras colors. Understood?”
“Yes, sir, General,” said Weaver, not at all sure he was out of the woods.
General?” asked Ayala. “It’s time.” He nodded towards the screen behind the General.
The camera in the Predator was following an AC-130 gunship as it circled the city. There were no markings on the aircraft. It was painted in a jungle-camo pattern from the Vietnam era.
“Exactly how did he acquire one of those?” asked Bernardo.
“Trust me, Bernardo,” said General Fischer, “If you have resources this Chameleon seems to have, getting an AC-130 would be about as difficult as purchasing a handgun on the street.”
The operator of the Predator tightened the shot as the gunship tightened its circle until it was “flying a pylon” with a large warehouse in the center. The AC-130 circled, counter-clockwise; the weapon systems mounted on the port side. The monitor was almost filled with the image of the Hercules as it banked around the warehouse.
“If you’ve never seen one of these in action, you are in for a goddamn treat,” said General Fischer.
As if on cue, a 10-foot stream of fire and smoke erupted from the 25mm Gatlin gun. The fire was focused on the north end of the warehouse which quickly began to crumble. They looked for signs of returned fire but didn’t see any muzzle flashes. It wouldn’t have made a difference. The gunship was a thousand feet above the building. Barring a surface to air missile or anti-aircraft batteries, there wasn’t a chance in hell they would hit the aircraft.
The firing continued relentlessly as the gunship circled the warehouse. By the time the hail of 25mm rounds had made its way to the south wall, dozens of men could be seen running out the east side of the building. They didn’t get far. The Chameleon had ground support waiting in the rail yard. The cartel soldiers were mowed down like wheat as they came out the doors. Seconds later, the 25mm Gatlin chewed up the eastern wall.
The firing stopped as quickly as it started. No one spoke. The walls were reduced to rubble, though the building still stood. That was remedied seconds later when the first of ten 105mm howitzer shells exploded near the north end, about 10 feet in from the exterior wall.
From start to finish was less than 10 minutes. Nothing remained of the warehouse but a pile of smoking rubble. The Predator followed the AC-130 as it banked north towards Fort Bliss, leveling off at twenty thousand feet.
The Chihuahua fire department was on the scene within 5 minutes. They rolled up a block from the warehouse and sat there, engines idling as the building burned. The Chief assigned two trucks to water down a building to the southeast which was catching some embers from the blaze. Once that was controlled, a refrigerated box truck pulled up. It was full of beer for the firemen who drank somberly as they waited for the fire to burn itself out.
The screen went dark as the walls closed back up.
“I’d call that a successful mission,” said General Fischer. “I’m willing to bet there was zero colla
teral damage, too. That’s what Hell from Above looks like, gentlemen. I haven’t seen one in action for years. He never used the Bofors gun either.”
“Bofors gun?” asked Bernardo.
“It’s a 40mm gun capable of 120 rounds per minute. It’s a goddamn thing of beauty, too.”
President Villa laughed. “There can be no doubt, General. You are a Marine.”
General Fischer replied, “Semper-Fi!”
“Now,” continued the General, “remember this is eyes-only. We will be confirming whatever information sent by the Mexican Government. You’re dismissed.”
The President stayed behind to chat with the General as Ayala, Weaver and Bernardo headed out.
“That was an impressive show,” said Weaver, shaking his head.
Bernardo smiled. “This Chameleon apparently doesn’t do anything half-way, am I right?”
“That you are, Bernardo,” said Section Chief Ayala. “Let’s grab lunch while the bosses brag to each other.”
Weaver rubbed his stomach. “I could go for some fajitas. Let’s go to Aranda’s, I’ll even buy.”
*****
Camacho was brooding in his office; feet up on the desk, an almost empty bottle of Chivas lying on its side. Weaver was no longer taking his calls. They went straight to voice mail. Camacho had left several messages, each more threatening than the last. He nearly jumped when Castro came through the door unannounced.
Looking up, he said, “What the fuck do you want, Castro?”
Castro didn’t answer. He picked up the remote and turned on the 60” Sony over the fireplace. He punched in a channel number and tossed the control on the desk. “You need to see this.” Without waiting for an answer, Castro walked out, leaving the door open.
It took a moment for the images to penetrate Camacho’s drunken stupor. He put his feet down, slowly leaning towards the television. The screen was filled with an image of a four-engine, military looking aircraft circling Chihuahua. “A C-130?” he asked himself as he rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to shake off the effects of the scotch. He was vaguely aware of the running commentary by one of Telemundo’s top reporters.
He sat up straight as the plane descended towards the railyard. Camacho knew the building was where Los Zapatos conducted their operations in the Northern half of the state of Chihuahua. The C-130 opened fire on the building moments later. Camacho couldn’t turn away. Ten minutes later, the aircraft banked out of sight, leaving nothing but the smoldering remains.
Fifteen minutes later, his phone rang. Camacho picked up it and hit the send button without speaking.
“Hello, Andres,” said twangy voice on the phone he didn’t recognize. “I reckon yer a-wonderin’ who this is right about now, ain’t ya? I would be. The name’s Cooper, Cooper Johnson. Ya see, my daddy was big fan of that movie star Cary Cooper. Loved that damn movie ‘High Noon’, too. That’s why I hit yer place at twelve, bubba. See, ya done gone and pissed my boss off. If ya ain’t figured out who he is by now, yer stupider then I figured. Anyways, I’ll keep it short. The Chameleon sends his condolences on the loss of yer boys in Key West, and the whole danged operation in Miami, not to mention ole what’s-his-name taking one in the head like he did.
“Now, no need to say thanks, amigo. I reckon yer in a bit of a shock over what jest went down in Chihuahua. I bet ya didn’t know the boss had his own fuckin’ gunship did ya there, Andres.”
“Fuck you, whoever you are, and fuck the Chameleon, too,” said Camacho, his voice thick with alcohol. “You don’t fucking scare me.”
“Well, shit, son, that’s good to know,” laughed Lazarus. “Tell him yer damn-self when he gits there in the mornin’. Now, getcha some shut-eye – ya got one hell of a busy day comin’ tomorrow. Sleep tight, Senor Camacho, and don’t let them bed-bugs bite.” Lazarus laughed until Camacho ended the call.
November 15
6:30PM - EST
Angelique, Rebecca and Katsumi were sitting on the deck. Night was falling on the Florida Keys. Angelique and Rebecca held a glass of wine, Katsumi – a bottle of Avion spring water. Not a word had been spoken since the evening news ended.
The raid on Chihuahua had been picked up by the AP and a CBS affiliate in Matamoras. The station manager had been tuned to Telemundo when the video went public. It was now on You Tube and closing in on 500,000 hits. First was the AP and now, all the networks had announced the attack was carried out by an international assassin, known only as The Chameleon. The pamphlets with his Logo were proof enough.
The Mexican Government was not cooperating with the networks. The President refused to comment. Bernardo Banderas, his aide, addressed the press briefly.
“The attack in Chihuahua was a precision operation by the man you call the Chameleon. His target was the operational headquarter of one of Mexico’s Drug Cartels; Los Zapatos del la Muerte, the Shoes of Death to those who don’t speak Spanish. All we can tell you at this time is there were no civilian casualties and no property damage other than the warehouse seen in the video. That’s all I have to say at this time.”
****
Banderas shoved his way through the throng of reporters and caught up with the President in the hall. “That went better than expected,” said President Villa. “I was watching the live feed from here.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Bernardo. “My concern is what happens tomorrow. It will appear we are either in league with this criminal or are turning a blind eye his way.”
“It will,” said President Villa. “Probably a little of both. Come, Bernardo, I’m hungry and you need a drink. Tomorrow will come no matter what we say. We will wait and see if this Chameleon is successful before I make any definitive statement.”
*****
Andres Camacho was surrounded by his top men as they discussed plans for the coming day.
“We need more men,” said Castro. “If not men, then weapons to take down his airplane.”
Camacho nodded and punched up a number on his phone. The conversation was short and to the point. His weapons supplier had seen the video. Stephanie Salerno tried to always stay on top of current events, especially when weapons were involved. This time, however, she was in no mood to do business with Camacho. Her family was backing the Chameleon. There was no way she would go against the family. The fact she liked Cooper was just a small part of the equation.
“With all due respect, Senor Camacho,” said Stephanie, “after what we saw today, my family has decided to refrain from involvement. This is catching international attention. The kind of attention we will not be a part of. Good luck,” said Stephanie as she ended the call.
Camacho swore. “Fuck that Italian bitch. I know the Iranian will have no qualms about this.”
His conversation with the Iranian went smoothly. Camacho listed the items and the Iranian gave him the price.
“As soon as the funds are wired to my account in in Pakistan, I will release the order. You will have it by 5:00 tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, my friend,” said Andres. “I will see to it immediately.”
Camacho pulled a memory stick from his desk drawer and slipped it into a USB port on his desktop computer. It contained the locations, account numbers and passwords of all Los Zapatos funds, world-wide.
He typed in his password to access the memory stick and immediately logged into a bank in Japan. His men became nervous as their boss sat and stared at the screen, not typing. He quickly logged in and out of 10 more accounts before he stood up, flung his chair into the wall and stormed out.
Ricardo, who had been standing by the door, quietly as always, walked over to the desk. Several men stared at him. “Ricardo,” cautioned Castro, “you don’t want to do this.”
For the first time in decades, Castro flinched when Ricardo looked his way. He hoped no-one else noticed. He tried to act as though nothing had happened. Ricardo knew better, so did Castro. To save face, Castro said, “It’s your funeral, Ricardo. You better hope El Hefe doesn’t come back in.
”
Ricardo smiled at Castro. “We both know that isn’t going to happen. Why don’t you and your boys run along and see if you can find ‘El Hefe’. First things first though.”
Ricardo turned the screen about 90 degrees until it was facing the general direction of him and Castro, both. They both leaned forward, their hands on the desk top.
“Madre de Dios,” muttered Castro.
“What is it?” asked another of the men around the desk.
Castro spun the screen around and walked out. The men, none of which were what you would call computer savvy, had no trouble interpreting the data.
There was a list of eleven accounts. The total balance in each; five American dollars. The Chameleon had taken all their money. They looked at each other with a mixture of fear and anxiety.
“What do we do?” asked a man known as Oso.
“I don’t know about you, Oso,” said his friend Rueben, “but I don’t have any desire to die tomorrow, especially now that it seems we are working for free.” He shrugged and headed out. Oso looked around at the three other men still in the office, and repeated Rueben’s shrug.
“I am not going to die for nothing,” he said as he followed Rueben out.
The exodus began two hours later as word spread through the compound. Camacho was as good as penniless, and the Chameleon was coming with his own air force. It didn’t take a lot of convincing for most of the men.
November 15
11:39 PM - EST
It was nearing midnight in Chicago. By then, the news about the raid in Mexico by the Chameleon had made the rounds. Chinatown was no exception. One man paid close attention to the details.
Family Matters Page 19