by Spell, David
The outboard motors on the RIBs were some of the quietest on the market but sound carries a long distance at night. The plan was for two of the small boats containing Lieutenant Rogers’ platoon to land a mile north of Corona’s compound, the other two with Lieutenant Dye’s team coming in a mile south. Once on the beach, the warriors would make their approach and be prepared to launch their assault at 0400 hours.
McCain sat quietly on the stern of the blacked-out destroyer, taking a few minutes to pray and connect with God as he gazed out over the vast expanse of water. The large gray helicopter sat behind him on the landing pad. Chuck had called Beth just prior to boarding the warship in San Diego. If there were no complications with the mission, he hoped to see her in a few days. He had heard the concern in her voice but couldn’t give her any specifics of their operation.
For the first time in their short marriage, Chuck began to wonder how long he could keep going at such a high level. He loved his job but also was beginning to feel the weight of separation from his wife. Elizabeth wanted to become a mother in the near future and with his daughter on the verge of having her baby, Chuck was about to become a grandfather.
He had been in law enforcement in some capacity for almost twenty-five years and had already retired once. Maybe it was time to hang it up again? But what would he do? He knew that he couldn’t just retire to do nothing. The big man would revisit those feelings later, but for the moment, he needed to suppress them and focus on the task at hand.
Of course, the op in front of him was a high-risk mission in a foreign country with many variables to consider. These types of operations were what the SEALs did best, however, and Chuck was comforted to know that he and his three men were going in with spec ops veterans with a multitude of direct action missions under their belts.
Someone approached, the quiet footsteps coming up behind him. In the ambient light, McCain could just make out the figure of Josh Matthews stepping out of the shadows.
“Hey, Josh, I figured you’d be trying to get some sleep.”
“I laid down but it wasn’t happening. I’m too amped up. What about you? You do this stuff all the time. I figured you’d be sleeping like a baby.”
Chuck chuckled. “Not hardly. We can sleep when we’re done, right?”
Matthews seated himself beside his friend and they sat in an easy silence for several minutes.
“So, what do you think?” McCain asked. “You’ve had quite the first week on the new job. Andy was really pleased at how you handled yourself in that shootout at Fort Belvoir. He’s not one to just give away compliments so if you impressed him, you’ve accomplished something.”
“Man, Chuck, I thought I was good. I mean I’ve been a cop for fifteen years, on SWAT for ten. We train all the time. When Andy took me out on the range, though, I felt like I was starting over. He’s on another level. But, then watching you and Eric shoot over the last couple of days, you guys are just as good. You were always one of the best shots on the team when we were on SWAT, but I feel like that was the minor leagues and up here is the major leagues.”
“That’s a good analogy,” McCain agreed, “but that’s how I feel whenever I’m shooting with the SEALs. They’re just on another level. When I did those two contracts with the Army SF, I went in and kept my mouth shut other than to ask them to teach me and I learned everything I could. We would train and then go run missions so I got a lot of real world experience.
“When I took the job with the CDC, they brought in a retired SEAL to do our firearms training. It was the best and most intensive instruction I’ve ever had. At some point, we’ll hook you up with Roy for some one-on-one. Anyway, you’re doing great. SWAT gave you a great foundation and now you’re going to be building on it.”
Josh nodded slowly, appreciating Chuck’s encouraging words. “What about this op? Is this a normal mission? I mean we’re going into Mexico with the Navy SEALs. Are the Mexican authorities just going to let us waltz in and do this?”
Chuck laughed. “No, this is definitely not normal. Admiral Williams said that El Presidente will be told by our Commander-in-Chief not to interfere and to have his forces stand down. He’ll be pissed but he’s a slimy bastard and the CIA is covertly slipping a chunk of cash into his personal bank account for his trouble. If he ignores our President…well, I have no desire to shoot any Mexican cops or soldiers, but I also don’t intend to get arrested south of the border, either.
“Now, if this was just a straight hostage rescue,” McCain continued, “we’d get out of the way and let the Navy handle it. I’ve got copies of warrants on those three cartel leaders, though, and the SEALs aren’t cops, so that’s where we come in. If the bad guys will surrender, we’ll arrest them.”
“And if they don’t?” Matthews asked.
“Then we’ll kill them.”
“But we don’t have jurisdiction in Mexico, do we?”
McCain shrugged. “These are valid warrants for crimes committed on US soil- the drug trafficking and money laundering, plus the attempted murder of me and Andy’s wife and son. The warrants are also for crimes committed against US citizens- the kidnapping. Of course, Mexico might question the legality of it but our President has a set of brass balls and I don’t think he cares.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
South of the Border
Pepe Corona’s mansion, two miles south of Rosarito, Mexico, Friday, 0345 hours
Pepe had selected the spot for his Rosarito getaway carefully, Chuck mused as they exited the Zodiac. The gangster had bought the lots around his property, ensuring his privacy. The closest homes were a half-mile further down the beach and five hundred feet away, Highway 10 ran in front of the residence. For a rescue and arrest mission, this seclusion ensured that no innocent neighbors would get caught in the crossfire.
When Chuck had been embedded with the Green Berets in Afghanistan, almost every mission that they ran was in a crowded neighborhood or village. Now, as they moved quietly up the beach, the warriors were appreciative that Corona craved his privacy. They scanned their surroundings as the night-vision goggles turned the darkness into a greenish color but allowed them to own the night.
Each of the sixteen-man SEAL platoons was divided into two squads, allowing four smaller teams to make the assault on the compound. McCain and Fleming were with Dye’s squad since he anticipated being the first into the compound. Gray and Matthews were with Rogers’ squad coming in from the other direction. The RIBs had been beached almost a mile down the deserted shore. Chief Norris and his group had split off to the right several hundred yards back, moving stealthily towards the front of the compound.
Lieutenant Dye led his ten men stealthily up the beach. Suddenly, the point man’s fist went up and he slowly sank to the ground, the men behind him following his example. Dye turned and pointed to the second and third men in line, using hand signals to indicate that there were two sentries ahead and motioning the SEALs to deal with them.
The two warriors crawled forward, knives in hand, towards the threats. Five minutes later, a voice spoke softly over Chuck’s earpiece, “Two down.”
Before they could start moving again, another SEAL spoke, this one from Rogers’ platoon further up the beach, “Three tangos down.”
Dye waited five minutes before moving forward again. The four squads would each approach a corner of the compound. They weren’t sure how they were going to get over the walls but had planned for several contingencies. They had grappling hooks, breaching shotguns, explosives, and lock picks. In the end, getting inside was the easiest part of the operation.
A wooden walkway led from the beach to a heavy metal door in the center of the rear wall. Four of the men from Rogers’ squad moved up the walkway to check the door. The rest of the two rear squads positioned themselves where they could provide covering fire if needed.
Footsteps and voices from inside carried across the deck towards the rear door. McCain’s Spanish wasn’t great but he could hear one of the cartel
soldiers calling someone over his walkie-talkie but not getting an answer. It’s tough to answer the radio when you’re lying dead on the beach with your throat slit, the big man thought.
The four SEALs had just reached the metal door as it flew open, revealing three angry gangsters, upset that they were being sent to check on their friends who were probably napping in the lounge chairs Pepe and his guests used when they went to the beach. The Mexicans were holding flashlights, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders, clearly not expecting to see the armed men clad in night camo waiting for them on the other side of the doorway.
The commandos’ suppressed Heckler & Koch 416 rifles spat out 5.56mm death, the cartel members’ bodies jerking with the impact of the bullets and collapsing to the ground. Thankfully, one of the dead men fell in the doorway, blocking it open. Without hesitating, the four warriors rushed inside, two moving left and two going right. They crouched with their weapons pointing towards the house as the rest of their two squads hurried up the walkway to join them.
Before Dye could alert the teams around front that they were in contact in the rear, gunfire exploded from the opposite side of the compound, followed by a piercing scream. Each of the SEALs, as well as McCain’s men, had suppressed rifles and the first burst was clearly from the Mexican defenders. Suppressors do not completely silence weapons but do muffle the sound and, in many cases, also reduce the muzzle flash.
“¡Necesito ayuda!” a voice cried out, clearly in pain.
“Contact, front gate,” Norris transmitted, his voice calm as the rattle of gunshots echoed around the area. “Two down, sector one.”
The four sides of the compound had been designated sectors one, two, three, and four, moving clockwise from the front. Lights began coming on inside the mansion and irate voices were soon heard, as one would expect after being rousted from deep sleep by gunfire. Chuck quickly did the math in his head. Ten down so far, but maybe another forty or fifty left. Good times.
“Alpha One, clear,” Dye acknowledged. “We’ve got contact sector three. Three tangoes down. Alpha One and Bravo One are inside moving towards the residence.”
“Roger. We’re gonna hold here for a few,” the chief said, quietly over the radio. “I can hear activity inside heading this way. They may try and make a run for it.”
Pepe Corona’s mansion, two miles south of Rosarito, Mexico, Friday, 0405 hours
Corona was awake instantly at the first shot. The scream and the cry for help let him know he was under attack, but by whom? He knew it wasn’t the federales or the local cops. He owned too many of them to have not been notified of a raid.
The Americans? Not hardly. They would never dare to attack him inside of Mexico. The gringos were too worried about what the rest of the world thought of them.
No, this has to be a rival cartel. Pepe and Chico had been friends a long time and he didn’t suspect him. Juan Pablo Fuentes, however, had been much too agreeable during their business discussions. Was Baby Face just pretending to cooperate with his two competitors so that he could launch a cowardly attack in the middle of the night? If it was that turd, he will die very slowly, Pepe thought.
Jose pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and quickly crossed the large first-floor bedroom. He fumbled with his keys as he jerked open the closet door. He kept his guns locked up when he had his captives in the bed with him. Corona doubted that either of the women knew how to use a firearm but he didn’t want to take any chances.
Pepe could hear the girls whispering to each other, trying to figure out what was happening. The gangster turned on the light in the closest, his eyes squinting as he opened his gun safe. He pulled out the Kimber .45, slipping it into his waistband and dropped two extra magazines into his pocket. The gangster also selected an Uzi submachine gun from inside the safe, pulling back the charging handle, making it ready to fire. An extra mag of 9mm ammo went into the other cargo pocket on his shorts.
A key turned in the lock of the bedroom door and Corona quickly raised the Uzi and pointed it towards Marcos as he and two other bodyguards rushed inside. His main bodyguard had an H&K MP-5 submachine gun cradled in his arms, his compadres holding M-16s. Jose lowered the sub gun as Marcos quickly closed and locked the door from the inside, the other two gunmen crossing the room to peer out the window.
“What’s happening?” Pepe demanded.
“No se Señor. Several of our men are not answering their radios. There’s a lot of shooting but no one has seen anything. We need to get you out of here.”
Jose considered arguing. His machismo had been challenged by a cowardly attack in the middle of the night. He had no idea what he was facing, however, and knew Marcos was right.
“Get those girls dressed,” he ordered, reaching into the closet and grabbing a shirt.
Suddenly, gunfire erupted from behind the house where the deck and swimming pool were located. The two girls screamed, the loud shots startling them. Marcos rushed over to the side of the bed and slapped the closest girl in the face. Tiffany’s head recoiled from the blow.
“No scream! Get clothes on now!” the bodyguard commanded.
When neither girl moved, Marcos grabbed both of them by the arm and dragged them out of bed, throwing them to the floor. The fear was evident in their eyes; gunshots, screams, big men slapping them and shoving them around only added to their terror. Tiffany felt blood trickling out of her left nostril but she grabbed for her clothes, hurriedly dressing herself as her friend did the same.
Dye had motioned for Rogers’ team to circle to the left, while he led his squad to the right, moving around the large swimming pool and heading for the double doors that would lead inside the spacious house. Two figures burst around the right side of the mansion, one raising a shotgun, the other an AK-47. The gangster with the AK managed to get off a burst that went wide. The SEALs cut them both down with well-placed shots.
A woman’s scream came from inside the house. Each of the warriors sensed that it was from the hostages that they were supposed to rescue. Seconds later, the sound of flesh striking flesh and an angry voice commanding in broken English, “No scream! Get clothes on now!”
“Alpha One to Bravo One, let’s make entry. That scream sounded like it came from just inside on the first floor.”
“Bravo One, clear.”
Chuck felt the familiar anger as he heard a woman being abused. There was a momentary flashback to the day that he had rescued Beth from four vicious kidnappers. He had watched one of them punch her in the face as they dragged her out of the vehicle. The sound of that punch had carried up the street into the abandoned house where he was taking refuge from a winter storm. Back to reality, McCain, he told himself.
He quickly scanned the upper level of the mansion through his NVGs. The curtains moved in one of the second floor windows, a shirtless figure stepping out onto the balcony, a pistol in his hand. The man’s dark hair was wild and unkempt, but McCain recognized Baby Face Fuentes from the photos they had studied.
As the gangster swung his weapon towards the armed figures below him, McCain fired three shots into the Juarez Cartel leader’s chest. The pistol clattered to the floor as the criminal collapsed out of sight behind the balcony wall.
“That was Fuentes,” Chuck whispered to his teammates.
Dye nodded, motioning towards the house, the squad stacking against the wall. The gunfight in front of the compound sounded like it was picking up in intensity.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, status check?”
“Alpha Two. Bravo Two’s with us and we’re engaged, but have good cover. At least three more bad guys down. There’s a lot of movement just inside the front gate and we can hear car engines. It sounds like they’re getting ready to make a run for it.”
“Alpha One, clear. Keep them engaged a little longer. We’re about to make entry.”
The lieutenant held up a flashbang grenade for everyone to see. Rogers’ men waited opposite the door, ready to follow them inside. The third man in
Dye’s stick stepped over to the door holding a cutdown Remington 870 shotgun with a pistol grip. He glanced around making sure everyone was in place and fired a special breaching round into the deadbolt and then a second into the space between the doorknob and the bolt.
As the breacher slid out of the way, slinging the twenty-two-inch long shotgun over his shoulder and grabbing his HK rifle which was already slung across his chest, Lieutenant Dye kicked the door open, tossing the flashbang inside. Everyone turned aside as the grenade exploded in the open living area. Without hesitation, the commandos burst into the mansion, their weapons up and ready.
Tiffany and Holly had no idea what was happening. They had been taken to the old man’s room the night before and he had forced himself on them. By this point, they were almost numb to his assaults. Rather than sending them back to their own room, though, he had chosen to keep them with him all night. Lucky us, Tiffany thought, wiping her bloody nose on the bastard’s expensive sheets.
The girls were dressed and were being taken somewhere. They were under attack and the Mexicans were trying to get away. Who was shooting? Tiffany wondered. Maybe their prayers had been answered and it was the police coming to rescue them?
The prick who’d slapped her ordered them up and motioned them towards the bedroom door. He then took his place in front of Corona. A second gunman stood behind the boss while the last soldier shoved the two captives forward.
Marcos opened the bedroom door, glancing around and seeing that the coast was clear for the moment. As they moved out of the bedroom, however, two shots blasted the rear door leading out to the swimming pool. A second later, something clanged on the tile floor near the escaping group and bounced, an explosion rocking the inside of the beautiful home.