by Spell, David
“I apologize for that. The pain has become much worse.” He lowered his voice and looked down at the table. “I think we can officially say that I’m now circling the drain.”
A slight smile crept onto his face at his own comment. The elderly man cleared his throat and forced himself to sit up straight, looking around the table.
“But before I vacate my office, we do have another matter that needs to be addressed: the Tijuana Cartel. The President had already signed off on us striking the cartel inside of Mexico. They sent close to two hundred gangsters to take over Atlanta at the height of the zombie crisis. Then they sent hit teams after Agents McCain, Fleming, and Smith, seriously wounding Agent Fleming’s wife and son.
“The only thing the President asked was that we deal with the present crisis first, which you have done very successfully. Ms. Dunning, would you continue the briefing while I use the restroom?”
“Of course, sir,” she answered, as Williams stepped out of the room.
She handed a manila folder each to Chuck and Kevin. The first two items were eight by ten color photos of two attractive, college-aged young women. Sandra pointed at the pictures.
“This is what the admiral was talking about. We had a drone over Pepe Corona’s compound in Tijuana and Stephen and the team were monitoring the video feed. He saw these two girls being placed in the back of a van a couple of days ago.”
“Who are they?” Kevin asked.
Dunning nodded at Chan and he spoke up. “Tiffany Mason and Holly Summers, American university students and tourists. They disappeared three months ago from Rosarito, Mexico. They went down for a few days between semesters at USC and just vanished. No contact with their families, no ransom notes, nothing.
“The parents drove down and filed a report with the Mexican police. You can imagine how that went. The owner of the hostel where they were staying said they left one evening, probably to go to a nearby bar, but never returned. The owner had packed up all their belongings and gave them back to the parents.
“The Tijuana Cartel is a major player in sex-trafficking. Interpol has even linked them to selling women overseas. The girls are currently with Corona in Rosarito. They got shoved into a van that was part of a caravan that drove straight to Pepe’s mansion there. He’s got a place right on the beach two miles south of the town.”
“Stephen and the team have been monitoring the drone feed around the clock,” Sandra added. “We’re a hundred percent certain that they are there. Pepe has let them come to the beach with him twice with two bodyguards hovering nearby to make sure they don’t try to escape. The admiral spoke with the President…”
Williams slowly reentered the room, gently settling back into his chair.
“Yes, I did,” Williams picked up the conversation. “The CIA Director and I briefed him yesterday and he wants these two young women rescued ASAP. America hasn’t had much to cheer about over the last couple of years and the Commander-in-Chief wants to return these girls back to their families. He’s decided to send in the SEALs for this operation. The President agrees that direct action is the best course, rather than trying to coordinate with the authorities south of the border.
“Of course, the Mexican Government isn’t going to be happy about us invading their lovely nation and they are our closest southern neighbor. The President will notify the Mexican president just before the operation is launched, letting him know that their military and law enforcement need to stand down or they will be treated as hostiles. The cartel has a large number of soldiers and federales on their payroll so it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
“As an incentive for his cooperation, though, we’ll be making a substantial contribution to El Presidente’s private bank account. Plus, we’ll be doing what the Mexican government should’ve done years ago. Sandra, would you tell your two colleagues what else your team dug up?”
“Yes, sir. Starting Wednesday, the leaders of the next two largest cartels will be joining Corona at his home in Rosarito. We hacked into their emails and their goal is to work out how they can all make the most money by dividing the US into regions. The next three photos in your folders are of Ismael ‘Chico’ Pérez, the leader of the Sinaloa Cartel, Juan Pablo ‘Baby Face’ Fuentes, of the Juarez Cartel, and the latest shot of Pepe Corona. The meetings are supposed to last until midday Friday, punctuated with drugs, drinking, and plenty of Pepe’s prostitutes.”
McCain and Clark stared at the three Mexican men, each of them responsible for so much death and destruction in their own country and abroad. They controlled almost all of the drug and sex trade in the United States. What an opportunity this presented having the three of them together. Hopefully, the SEALs would take a few extra minutes during their rescue op to mete out some justice.
The next photo in the file was of a young, handsome Arab man, smiling at the camera, a red and white ghutra on his head.
“Who’s this?” Chuck asked, holding up the photo.
“That’s Prince Mohammad Rashid.” Dunning answered. “He’s a member of the Saudi royal family but prefers partying to politics. He’s the buyer for the two girls. We hacked his email, too. The asking price was a hundred thousand for both and he didn’t even try to negotiate. He just said that he’d take them.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” McCain shook his head. “Pepe is selling two American girls to a Saudi Prince?”
“I remember this guy!” Kevin exclaimed, tapping the picture. “He was indicted a while back for raping a woman in New York. Money talks and he paid his way out of it.”
“That’s him,” Sandra nodded. “He was also involved in another assault allegation a year later in London. A couple of hundred thousand pounds later, the two women agreed not to press charges.”
“What a piece of…” Chuck grunted.
“Exactly,” Williams agreed. “Colonel, I have a very special mission for you involving the prince. If Chuck can spare Mr. Smith and Mr. Marshall of the CDC can spare agents Estrada and Walker, I think you’ll have the right tools for the job.”
McCain did not want to be left out of the action but he knew that the Navy SEALs could handle any mission without his help.
“Of course, sir. You’re more than welcome to use Scotty any way you see fit, especially since we won’t be involved in the rescue operation.”
“My apologies for not making myself clear, Chuck,” the admiral said. “You will most certainly be involved in the op. To give us a stronger position in the international court of public appeal, this will be deemed a law enforcement operation. Warrants will be issued for the three cartel leaders for drug trafficking, conspiracy, and money laundering. Corona will have the added charges of aggravated assault, attempted murder of police officers, and kidnapping.
“I will need you, Agents Gray, Fleming, and Matthews to act as law enforcement advisors to the SEALs, similar to what you did with the Green Berets in Afghanistan. It’s very possible that the gangsters will not want to be arrested and deadly force may have to be applied to defend yourselves and the young women you’re rescuing. But at least, we’ll give them the chance to surrender and face justice in an American court.”
“Yes, sir,” McCain smiled. “That sounds like a great idea. When do we go?”
“The SEALs are expecting us in Coronado by 0800 hours tomorrow for our first briefing. I’m not going to tell them how to run the op but the Saudi prince is scheduled to show up early Saturday morning in his private jet to take custody of the girls and the cartel summit ends midday Friday. I’m thinking Thursday night/Friday morning is going to be the best time to execute in Rosarito.
“They’ve already been given a mission alert and know it’ll be a rescue operation. We’ll all spend the night here in LA and fly down early in the morning. Let’s get Mr. Fleming and your newest team member, Mr. Matthews, out here as quickly as we can. I can probably pull a few strings with the Air Force and have them here by tonight. Actually, I’ll have them flown directly to San
Diego.”
This was Admiral Williams at his best, working behind the scenes, making things happen. Chuck felt his excitement growing.
“Sounds good, sir.”
Williams looked back at Kevin. “Now, Colonel Clark, before I head to the hotel for a nap, I’d like to let you know what your mission is so that you can get to work.”
45,000 feet, Monday, 2030 hours
This was Josh Matthew’s first ride in an F-16B Fighting Falcon. The ‘B’ designation was for one of the rare two-seat configurations of the fighter. They were currently zipping along at just below mach two or fourteen hundred miles per hour. Matthews had marveled as the Air Force pilot, Major Swanson, had refueled from a Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker moments earlier.
Swanson had slowed to match the tanker’s speed of five hundred and thirty miles and hour. After filling the fighter’s tanks, the major had carefully separated from the larger aircraft, saluted, and veered off to the right, allowing his wingman to refuel also. The second F-16B had Andy Fleming seated behind the pilot.
When both aircraft had topped off their tanks, the pilots accelerated again, trying to get their passengers to San Diego as soon as possible. Josh marveled at the turn his life had taken because of a single phone call to his friend, Chuck McCain. A week before, Matthews had been a shift sergeant and an entry team leader on the SWAT Team for a Metro-Atlanta police department.
In a single week, he had changed jobs, moved to a different state, been in a shootout, and was currently flying across America at supersonic speeds in a fighter jet. After the terrorist attack at Fort Belvoir, Andy and Josh had been interviewed by military investigators as the FBI’s CSI team processed the shooting scenes. After a few hours sleep, Fleming rousted Matthews and had him back at the range working on some more shooting drills.
Three hours later, they were seated around Eric Gray’s kitchen table, as Andy covered the differences between state and federal laws that they might be enforcing. On Sunday and Monday, Fleming took Josh back into the forest surrounding the base to practice patrolling and tracking techniques. As an urban police officer, these were skills that Matthews had rarely needed.
Both men had been thrilled to hear that the bio-terror attack had been thwarted with minimal casualties in Los Angeles. They looked forward to hearing the complete story and finding out what role their teammates played. Monday afternoon, the call had come from McCain to get to Davison Army Airfield as quickly as they could and that their ride was enroute. Andy stopped by the hospital to spend a few minutes with Amy and Tyler, but they were still at the airstrip within an hour. Chuck hadn’t said much over the phone, but it was clear that something big was brewing.
“What do you think we’re gonna to be doing?” Matthews asked Fleming as they waited for their plane.
“If I had to guess, I’d say that this is something related to the cartel. We were already planning on hitting them before the terror threat in LA.”
“We’re…we’re going to attack the Tijuana Cartel?” Josh asked, incredulously.
“I hope so,” Andy shrugged, non-plussed. “They tried to kill my wife and son. They tried to kill Chuck. They burned down Scotty and Emily’s place.”
“But aren’t they in Mexico?”
“Last I heard,” Fleming chuckled. “How’s your Spanish?”
“Your kidding, right? Would we really launch an operation inside of Mexico?”
“Like I told you,” Andy replied, “we actually work for the Agency and are only on loan to the DHS. With the CIA behind us, we can get away with a little more. But with or without them, we were planning on making these cartel pukes pay. And, who knows? After it’s all said and done, if we do it right, Mexico and America will both be safer.”
Matthews nodded and kept his poker face on. Was this all even legal? he wondered to himself. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. His thoughts were interrupted as two roaring fighter jets landed, one after the other, taxiing towards the passenger terminal.
“You think those are our rides?” Josh joked.
“Rookie, please,” Andy shook his head. “We’re going to spend the next seven hours in jump seats on a C-130.”
Fleming had been shocked to find that the F-16s were, indeed, for he and his companion. The pilots gave each warrior a thirty-minute orientation, showed them how to get their flight suits and helmets on, helped them get strapped into the aircraft, and then blasted off the runway. This is the best rollercoaster I’ve ever been on, Matthews smiled inside his oxygen mask.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Evil Unites
Naval Special Warfare Command, Coronado, California, Tuesday, 0745 hours
The Blackhawk gently touched down on the runway and the pilot cut the engines. The crew chief unstrapped himself, slid open the side door and climbed out. He assisted the elderly man and the lady to the tarmac. McCain and the others climbed out and they all approached their welcoming committee.
Andy Fleming and Josh Matthews stood with a handful of figures clad in camo utility uniforms and one wearing dress whites. Chuck recognized Chief Petty Officer Chris Norris standing near the tall man in the formal uniform. The admiral had managed to ‘borrow’ Norris and half a platoon of SEALs for the operation against the Tijuana Cartel in Atlanta months earlier. The eight Navy commandos had fought alongside Marines, National Guard soldiers, federal law enforcement officers, and even four British SAS troops.
The SAS soldiers had been training with the SEALs in California and took it on themselves to offer their services to eliminate the cartel’s presence on US soil. The SEALs had been given the job of being the first to enter the high-rise condominium building that the gang had captured as their headquarters. The spec ops warriors are some of the best in the world at close quarters combat, and successfully fought their way up to where over forty women were being held captive as sex slaves for the cartel. The SEALs had quickly eliminated their guards and stationed four of their team to protect the captives while the rest of the commandos teamed up with the SAS to continue clearing the tall structure.
Chuck made eye contact with Andy and Josh. Fleming gave a slight nod towards the senior Navy officer, clearly trying to convey a message to his boss. McCain nodded at Norris, seeing the look of recognition in the chief’s eyes. The well-dressed officer, a lieutenant commander, Chuck noticed, turned to the chief petty officer and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Which one is the admiral, Norris?” he asked in a stage whisper, irritation in his voice. “You told me you had met him before.”
“Yes, sir. He’s the older gentleman in the middle. Like I told you, sir, he’s retired and now works for the Agency.”
“I expected to see a real admiral, Norris. You didn’t tell me he was retired!” the officer whispered even louder.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Commander,” the admiral said, extending his hand. “I’m Jonathan Williams, the Director of Operations with the CIA but before retiring, I was an admiral with the finest Navy in the world.”
The commander popped to attention, clearly embarrassed that he had been overheard.
“No disappointment, sir,” he said, glaring at the chief petty officer. “Just a misunderstanding. I’m Lieutenant Commander Edward Myers. Welcome to Coronado. We’re looking forward to hearing how we can help the Agency.”
Introductions were made and everyone climbed into waiting SUVs. The other three SEAL officers were the lieutenants overseeing the three platoons assigned to the operation. Fleming and Matthews managed to get into the vehicle with McCain. Andy leaned over and spoke into the big man’s ear.
“Watch out for this Commander Myers. Nobody’s said anything to me but its obvious his men hate him and the feeling is mutual. I can’t believe this clown is a SEAL. He chewed everybody out right before you arrived for wearing their utilities.”
A five-minute drive brought them to the Naval Amphibious Base, where Myers led them inside to a conference room. Williams had sent aerial photos o
f Pepe’s mansion along with the mission alert to Fleming. Andy and Chief Norris had taken it on themselves to have the pictures blown up to poster size, each now sitting on an easel in front of the room for ready reference as they began planning.
After they were seated, the admiral launched into an overview of the rescue mission. Before he could get very far, though, Myers interrupted him. The officer could not believe what this little old man was suggesting.
“Director Williams, I want to make sure that I understand what the CIA is asking us to do. Are you directing United States Naval personnel to launch an attack inside of Mexico? Are we coordinating with the Mexican military on this?”
Chuck suppressed a smile as the CIA Ops Director slowly turned towards the officer, giving him a look that caused the lieutenant commander to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“What is it that wasn’t clear, Commander?”
“Well, sir, this is very unconventional. I believe that we would be better served by working with Mexican law enforcement or military units. You have to understand that in the spec ops community, we have certain protocols when conducting operations in other nations.”
Williams removed his glasses and exhaled slowly, continuing to stare at the officer. The older man removed a handkerchief and used it to wipe a smudge from one of the lenses. The silence became deafening as the admiral said nothing for a full sixty seconds, slipping his spectacles back on.
“Commander,” the elderly man said, softly, “early in my naval career I was a graduate of BUD/S Class 42 and served two tours in Southeast Asia. I was wounded severely enough to remove me from the SEALs but I chose to stay in the Navy and retired as an admiral. I realize that many things have changed since I was a SEAL but I do understand very well how things work. Did you receive orders regarding this operation from your superior that originated with the Secretary of the Navy?”