by J E Higgins
He was sent to the 3 Regiment etranger d’infanterie or 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment after graduation. It wasn’t the 2nd REP he wanted, but it was a combat unit and light infantry. Shipped off to the jungles of French Guiana, he endured an even more grueling training course in the Legion’s Jungle Training Center, Centre d’entrainement a la foretequatoriale CEFE, in Regina. A jungle course that operated close to the Brazilian border and was known for training some of the most elite units in the world. In the thick jungles, he had seen men hospitalized from encounters with vicious wildlife and tropical diseases that he, thankfully, was able to avoid.
It was here that he met a Welshman serving with the 2nd REP as part of the sniper company. The two instantly hit it off. Kusaki served two years at the regiment’s headquarters in Kourou, where he cut his teeth conducting security reconnaissance patrols around the exterior of the Guiana Space Center. He also took part in Operation Harpie, a French military operation designed to combat illegal activities in the jungle.
After two years of seeing action against smugglers and illegal miners, he was finally given a transfer to the 2nd REP. Finishing his initial parachute training at Calvi, he was placed into the regiment’s 1st company specializing in urban operations and warfare. After his training, he was deployed to Iraq where he saw plenty of hard combat in Iraqi streets, cities, and towns.
Despite all the pacifists telling him that combat and war were more exciting in books and television than in real life, he found the action and tempo very much to his liking. He thrilled at the fighting and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He enjoyed matching wits with his hidden enemies, who constantly concocted new tactics to outmaneuver the western soldiers. He found he belonged in the world of combat. His skills did not go unnoticed by his superiors who, in between combat tours, dispatched him to more professional schools that served to enhance his lethal resume. He was even pushing to join the Legion’s elite Para-commando Group.
He would have stayed in the organization that he had come to love if his father hadn’t gotten sick and needed him to come home and take over the family business. Placing family duty over his military world, he was discharged from the Legion once his five-year contract was up and headed home to Japan. It was when he arrived home that he discovered too late that the family business was in a shambles. His father had handed much of the responsibility over to his derelict brother who ran it into the ground. By the time he arrived home, there was nothing left to save.
A harsh discussion ended with his brother going to the hospital and Kusaki disgusted at having needlessly given up his cherished military career. He was unemployed with nothing to look forward to but a plethora of unsatisfying job opportunities. It was after a few weeks of living at his sister’s house contemplating the life of a store clerk that he was quietly contacted by the Welshman he had befriended in Guyana. Devon Crane had a job proposal for him, something suited to his tastes and talents. He was recruiting ex-soldiers to go fight Islamic guerrillas in Africa and wanted to know if Kusaki would be interested.
As a show of sincerity, Devon forwarded Kusaki money for the plane ticket. It took all of a day for him to reach his decision. Packing his bags and fending off pleading cries from his sister and mother not to go, he was off to Africa. From there, it was one campaign after another. It wasn’t the professional service of the Legion. He was a ronin, as the Japanese called it, a mercenary. But he was back in the life he so loved and in the thick of combat once again.
Looking at his watch, Kusaki realized it was time for his meeting. Cutting off his reminiscing, he started marching along the path at a steady pace. The dark jungles brought back their own memories. He could remember when he was stalking through the same vegetation and thickets pursuing guerrillas or traffickers.
A hired car took him to a small drinking establishment that overlooked the coastline. Exiting the vehicle, he made his way toward the bar. The evening had left the roads as unused and quiet as the beach he had just left. Pushing through the door, Kusaki found himself standing in a large room filled mostly with Legionnaires from the garrison enjoying a night out on passes plus a few rough looking drifter types he figured were looking to get the bargain basement world tour.
It was the men in the far corner of the room that interested him. Devon Crane was sitting there enjoying a beer while two other men at the table rambled on in what looked like a heated conversation. As Kusaki slowly approached, Crane noticed him, leaned forward in his seat and waved his hand beckoning his comrade to a table. Kusaki worked his way around the gauntlet of tables and drinkers who had placed themselves in the most obstructive ways possible.
He took a seat at an empty table in the area that looked to be where his friend had directed him. He briefly checked to see if anyone was giving him unnecessary attention and found no interested parties. Everyone was deeply involved in their own affairs ─ drinking heavily, talking it up, and trying to impress the bevy of young women hanging around the bar.
Breaking away from his drinking partners, Crane worked his way over to Kusaki’s table. Sinking into the seat next to his old comrade, the Welshman placed his tall glass of remaining beer on the table.
“Good to see you,” Crane said with a grin as he extended his hand towards Kusaki.
“You look healthy,” Kusaki replied, his face was expressionless as he reached over and gripped the other man’s hand. Neither man was big on making ostentatious displays. “Who are your new friends?”
Crane turned back towards his old table and the two men who were still jabbering away at each other. “Oh, just some ex-soldier types like us hanging around the place looking to find someone to tell old war stories to.”
Kusaki shrugged indifferently. “As long as they don’t come over here.”
“That will only happen if you’re offering to buy the next round,” Crane commented.
“Your message didn’t say much,” Kusaki stated. “I only got a location and a time. You’re usual not-so-cordial-way of dialogue.” He was referring to the message that had been waiting for him when he checked his mail. Like the Europeans, Japanese mercenaries also use certain establishments to receive messages and mail. A massage parlor in the Rupunggi district of Tokyo served well for such purposes. The Madame proprietor was a friend of his and discrete. When he made his occasional visit a few weeks ago, she slipped him a piece of paper that read only that his old friend was looking to have some drinks with him in Kourou. It gave the name of the bar, a date, and time.
“And, here you are,” Crane replied, as he lifted his glass and took a sip of his ale.
“You knew I would be,” the Japanese man exclaimed. “It’s always a fun ride with you.”
“You might want to order a drink for yourself. We’ve got a few more people who have to arrive.” Crane waved his hand to get the attention of a plump barmaid who had just finished delivering rounds to some of the Euro-trash loitering at one of the tables. Spotting the Welshman’s wave, she marched over to the two mercenaries with a grin on her face. Apparently, she was anxious to serve some customers who looked like they had some money and some personal hygiene standards.
“If I remember correctly, there is not one place in this whole fucking country that serves Saki,” Kusaki stated grudgingly.
The barmaid approached with a smile. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?” Her French had a Guyanese flavor to it and was obviously her natural language.
“Guinness, if you have any,” Kusaki said, in a poor attempt not to look disgruntled.
The woman nodded obligingly as she turned and walked away to fill the order.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve been back here,” Kusaki said as he shifted his gaze towards the military types collected at the bar. “And, it hasn’t changed all that much.” His stern expression made it difficult to tell if he was recalling the old days or trying to forget them.
“Small villages seldom do,” Crane replied.
“It is good to see you again, but I
’d now like to know the reason why I’m here?” Kusaki got right to the point. It was his way, he hated useless small talk.
The waitress returned balancing a tall glass of nearly black liquid on a circular tray. Placing it in front of him she smiled politely. Kusaki handed over a large bill in payment and implored her to keep the change. She eagerly accepted the money with a show of gratitude then turned and vanished attending other customers.
Twisting the glass slowly in his fingers, Kusaki examined his drink as if it were an odd scientific discovery. Meanwhile, Crane tended to his own drink while watching his friend. “For fuck sakes, Kusaki, it’s just beer; it’s not like you haven’t had your fair share of it in the past.” The Asian made no secret that he disliked western libations and preferred drinks native to his country. Crane figured it had more to do with ethnic pride than personal taste.
As if being given an order, Kusaki begrudgingly downed the libation in a long single gulp. He placed the glass down on the table and shot Crane a look. The Welshman downed the last swallow of his own drink. “I don’t know if there is a reason just yet. For now, I brought you here as a consultant of sorts.”
“Consultant?” Kusaki cocked his eye questionably.
Crane continued, “An old friend of ours is going to join us. I want to pick his brain a bit about some stuff I’m interested in. I want you to listen and give me your take on the matter. Even if nothing comes of it, I’ll make it worth your while for the trip here.”
Understanding what was going on Kusaki shrugged. It had become apparent that they were doing some initial intelligence collecting to test the feasibility of a job. It was one of the reasons the Asian respected Crane as a soldier. The Welshman was a meticulous and calculating professional who took the time to learn what he was dealing with before jumping into a mission. This was one of those moments.
Several minutes later, the door to the bar swung open and a burly man trudged through it. He was of medium height with a light brown complexion. Despite being dressed in a pair of tan slacks and cream-colored collared shirt, his close-cropped hair denoted him as military. By the way the other military types responded to the man’s entrance, it was clear he carried some serious clout among them.
Spotting the two mercenaries sitting off to the side, the man gave some quick salutations to the men at the bar and a few others scattered around tables throughout the establishment before making his way towards them. Sergeant Chef Avron Pizzaro embraced Crane warmly as the old friends they were. He took Kusaki in a tight handshake, as that was the most physical contact the Asian would allow himself. The Sergeant Chef didn’t bother asking to join them when he grabbed a seat on the opposite side of the table and immediately sank into it. “It’s been a long time. How are you boys doing?”
“It has been a long time,” Crane replied cheerfully. Kusaki said nothing, just nodding.
Avron Pizzaro had been in the Legion going on eighteen years. A Spaniard by birth, he had come to the 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment as his very first posting and aside from a few tours with the 2nd Foreign Infantry Regiment that took him to conflicts all over Central and North Africa, he had been stationed with the 3rd for nearly his entire career.
Avron had found a home in the jungles of South America and gradually honed his skills as a jungle fighter. He had become revered as one of France’s foremost experts on the subjects of jungle fighting and survival. Because of his time working closely with the regional militaries and serving as an instructor at the Legion jungle training center, he was also quite plugged into the happenings in the region with connections virtually everywhere in the Western Hemisphere.
Crane had known Pizzaro for years. He figured he was the best source for getting intelligence on the Black Crow without compromising himself and making his presence known. They were all old friends sitting at the table catching up on old times. And that was what anybody watching would assume.
The men exchanged pleasantries until the waitress had finished with their orders. Once she departed, Pizzaro changed the subject. “So, let’s get down to business. What are you guys here for?”
“The Black Crow drug cartel,” Crane stated bluntly. “I’m interested in your thoughts.”
Pizzaro shrugged. “Nasty group of fellas. Not the kind you want to be on the bad side of. But for a more professional explanation, they’re largely big on the East Coast and operate primarily in Mexico. My understanding is they have firm control of most of the port cities or at least controlling interest. It’s actually a mystery really.”
“How so?” Crane pressed.
“They started out much like the Las Zetas,” Pizzaro continued. “They began as a crew of ex-military, you know Special Forces types brought in to be the enforcement wing of some of the older operations. Ten years ago, it was sort of the thing, if you will. The Gulf Cartel, the largest group at the time started enticing Special Forces soldiers away from the Mexican army to act as their security and enforcement wing.
“Once that happened and the other cartels saw how effective they were compared to the traditional street muscle generally employed, everyone began doing the same ─ hiring ex-police and military to staff their enforcement ranks and sometimes even active police or military. However, like many ambitious people getting into the criminal world, once the enforcers got familiar with things, they decided to go into business for themselves and turned against their old masters. Black Crow is no different.”
“I remember reading how the founder, Alvaro Gutiérrez, did that,” Crane interrupted. “You say he operates largely on the east coast of Mexico. He hasn’t tried to expand and take over more of the business?”
“No,” Pizzaro chuckled. “Though Gutiérrez is perceived as insane, my understanding is that he is quite logical in the way he directs his business. The east coast drug operators haven’t generally been as violent as their brethren operating along the US border or the west coast. Being less accustomed to violence at such a level, they were easier to move on.
“He keeps clear of any business that entangles him too greatly. He maintains crews that generally have all the same resources he has. To the world, he’s a psycho but, in reality, he’s an experienced and competent military officer who thoroughly assesses his enemy and picks his fights carefully.
“He pushes drugs, people, and weapons into the US, but he stays clear of enemy territory and avoids doing anything that would provoke a war with a more dangerous enemy. His interests from what I gather are more about pushing his business ventures overseas to Africa, Southeast Asia, and the Middle-East. He’s continually trying to get in on the emerging economies there.
“He’s good about not biting off more than he can chew. Actually, it has been a mystery around here. The way Black Crow was able to know and target the most intimate areas of their rivals’ businesses so early. People have always wondered how they were able to acquire so much good intelligence when they had no network of their own to feed them information. Lots of people wonder how they came to know so much about so many rivals. That’s something that even established criminal groups would not necessarily be able to find out easily or discretely.”
Crane positioned one of his elbows on the table as he ran his index finger over his bottom lip deep in thought. “You say his organization didn’t have a good intelligence network setup starting out? What would you say it looks like now?”
Pizzaro shrugged. “From my understanding, he keeps a lot of cops on the payroll who make sure he’s well informed on what goes on in his backyard. In addition, he has a personal unit comprised of ex-police who run intelligence of their own on the streets to keep him close to anything happening in the black market. Any hint of a new group operating in one of his cities and they move in fast and hard. And, you already know that his organization is staffed heavily with ex-Special Forces types which he can easily put into action when threatened.
“A few years back a vigilante movement began to sweep through much of Mexico attacking the areas dominated by
the cartels. For the most part, many of these vigilantes were quite successful uprooting the established criminal syndicates where the police and the military had failed. The Black Crow mobilized its intelligence assets, identified the vigilantes emerging in their back yard and quickly deployed their forces into the right towns crushing the resistance before it even gained life.”
Crane continued rubbing his finger over his lips still in deep thought. “That explains Mexico.” He looked intently at his old friend. “How far does this extend? What about outside the country? My understanding is that the cartels operate extensively across the Western Hemisphere. Does that include their intelligence network as well?”
Pizzaro shook his head. He was about to speak when the waitress returned carrying everyone’s drinks. Cheerfully, she set down the libations and was equally happy when she was rewarded with another large bill and told to keep the change. With no more orders from the table, she sashayed off to attend to someone else.
Pizzaro continued. “First, while the cartels have intelligence networks that keep them informed, those have limitations. As I previously said, many of them didn’t notice vigilantes rising in their own territory until it was too late. In regard to their operations abroad and across the border, few cartels have that extensive of an organization and rely heavily on local affiliates to augment their operations and provide intel. Those affiliates have their own independence and agendas but can conveniently reach the host cartel.
“In the case of the Black Crow, the situation is no different. Outside of eastern Mexico, they have limited power as an organization and rely on business associates and contacts in other countries. Their connections abroad are concentrated in countries where they have recruited people and have business there. Colombia and Guatemala are two I can think of right off the bat.”