Rostami cleared his throat, loudly. Al-Mahajer looked over, his eyes blazing, then turned back to his men. He walked over and stood in front of the young man called Faruq—friend of the recently sacrificed Nabil. Faruq was kitted up like an operator. He wore one of al-Mahajer’s special Hezbollah-constructed bulletproof suicide vests, a Kevlar helmet, and a sidearm, and he clutched an AK-47 in his hands. Rostami watched as al-Mahajer placed a hand on Faruq’s shoulder.
“It is time, my brother. The Americans are coming,” he said softly. “Are you afraid?”
“No,” Faruq said, blood rage in his eyes. “I am afraid of nothing except failing in my service to Allah.”
“It is Allah’s will that you remain behind, so that we may complete our mission and strike the heart of the Great Satan. You will safeguard our passage. You alone must shoulder this burden.”
Faruq nodded. “I will not fail you.”
Al-Mahajer embraced Faruq, then beckoned Rostami. “We are ready for you to lead us into the heart of America.”
With Faruq staying behind, only five would make the crossing. The rest of the group was dressed in American clothes, each different and carefully curated depending on their cover story and which Suren team was picking them up. Al-Mahajer, having shaved his beard entirely, looked neutered, all the ferocity gone from his face.
Rostami checked his watch again. “It’s about fucking time,” he said, turning his back on the Muslim. He led them to the tunnel entrance, a hole in the concrete floor next to a row of tool and equipment cages. The hole was normally covered by a thousand-ton hydraulic press that had taken a forklift to move out of the way. Next to the holes stood Garcia, armed and tapping his foot impatiently.
Rostami extended his hand to the cartel man. “Thank you, for everything.”
Garcia looked at the hand, but did not shift his own from the grip of his machine gun. “Go now, and do not turn back. When the last of you is below, the hole will be sealed. This is a one-way trip.”
Rostami said nothing, slung his machine gun over his shoulder, and eased himself down into the hole until his right foot found the first steel ladder rung. He counted twenty-seven rungs as he descended into the dark tunnel. At the bottom, he switched on his flashlight and wondered how Rafiq al-Mahajer intended to compensate for the loss of Faruq. Would he still try to hit three sites with only five men, or would he try to recruit a replacement? The Suren Circle assets would provide logistical support as well as transportation, but they would not, under any circumstance, participate in the attacks.
When the last of his companions was down, Rostami looked up and watched the eclipse taking place above as the hydraulic press was moved back into position over the hole. All went black, and it was done. No turning back now. Without a word or a glance behind him, he put his right foot in front of his left, and set off into the tunnel at a brisk pace. The tunnel stank of urine, quicklime, and mold, and so he switched from breathing through his nose to his mouth. He wondered how old this tunnel was, and the last time it had been used. How could the Americans, who seemed to possess prescient insight into every foreign clandestine operation in the Middle East, not know about all these cartel tunnels into their country? Unless of course they did know and chose not to shut them down. But why?
“Persian,” Rafiq said, jolting Rostami from his thoughts. “I do not know your assets. I will need you to personally and visually confirm their identities before I split my men.”
“I wish I could,” Rostami said, “but they have been asleep in the US for years, some of them decades. I have never met any of them. We will know them by their vehicle license plates and the challenge-phrase authentication. I assure you that our operation is secure. If the Suren Circle were compromised, we would have known long before today.”
“With Nabil’s sacrifice and Faruq’s assignment, I am one man short for completing the operation.”
Here it comes, Rostami thought. He’s going to ask me to martyr myself.
“You are a man of God,” Rafiq continued. “It would bring great honor to your family and your country if you would join our jihad.”
Rostami stifled the urge to mock the man with laughter. Al-Mahajer was as unpredictable as he was brilliant. To flat out refuse was to risk a knife in the back when he least expected it. Best not to antagonize the man. “It’s a great honor that you would consider me worthy of joining your team. I will contemplate your offer and inform you of my decision after we are safely in America.”
As they walked in silence, Rostami calculated their odds of safely crossing the border. He settled on fifty-fifty—a coin flip’s chance that he would escape this tunnel alive and disappear into the American night. The irony of al-Mahajer’s invitation to join the jihad and martyr himself suddenly hit him. By agreeing to serve as the escort, he had already enlisted in the radical Muslim’s jihad, whether he admitted as much or not. Because if the Americans pursued them into this tunnel, he would make his last stand with these five lunatics and have no choice but to martyr himself in the dark.
CHAPTER 26
Military Ramp
Fort Huachuca/Sierra Vista Regional Airport
Sierra Vista, Arizona
October 29, 0255 Local Time
Dempsey ended the call with the DEA support team in California watching the house where the Mexicali tunnel terminated. The report had been exactly what he needed to hear: no activity. When taken together with the latest Agua Prieta satellite imagery showing new vehicles parked at the Cemex complex and armed men walking the fenced perimeter, he had all the information he needed. The next time he saw Rafiq fucking al-Mahajer would be in his gun sight.
The instant the air-stair touched the side of the Boeing, he led his team off the plane. The tarmac was well lit, and he could see the two MH-60 Blackhawks sitting on the skirt in front of a low gray hangar, their blades turning overhead. The whine of their twin General Electric T700-GE-401C engines was as familiar as the feel of his heart beating in his chest. The smell of the jet fuel was an operational aphrodisiac, stirring his emotions in preparation for combat as he jogged across the ramp.
The team assignments were unchanged from Guatemala, with the exception of adding Gyro to his squad. The two SEAL snipers would, once again, provide high-side fire support. Dempsey led his team to the front helicopter, climbed past the starboard-side .50-caliber machine gun, and grabbed a patch of canvas near the front. His teammates piled in behind him, quickly and efficiently. He nodded to the aircrew man on the canvas bench beside him, clad in a flight suit over which he wore a full kit with ammo pouches and an M9 pistol holster on his chest. The man nodded back, and Dempsey tapped his own headset and held up the male adapter that he had pulled from his encrypted radio. The airman nodded, took the cord, and plugged it into the VOX panel beside him.
“Evening, sir,” he said.
“You my door gunner?” Dempsey said.
“Door gunner, aircrew, combat medic, and ass kicker, sir.”
“PJ?” Dempsey asked with a smile.
“Yes, sir. One of three for your op. Quack over there is our ‘buy one get one free’ special today, and we’ve got another guy in bird two.”
The other parajumper, Quack, nodded to Dempsey from his seat on the far side of the helicopter.
“Can I talk to the flight crew?” Dempsey said.
The PJ nodded, flipped a switch on his panel, and then gave Dempsey a thumbs-up.
Dempsey moved forward of the big gun, and then, hanging out the door, tapped on the cockpit-door window. The aviator at the controls looked up from his checklist and slid a large rectangular panel backward. He reached out a gloved hand, which Dempsey shook.
“Thanks for the support, Major,” Dempsey said, noting the gold oak leaf on the pilot’s shoulder.
“Happy to help you spooky motherfuckers,” the man said, his voice arriving in Dempsey’s headset just out of sync with the movement of his lips, which now stretched into an easy smile. “You got me and Colonel Boyd in the oth
er seat. They said you wanted experience and we’re both AFSOC guys.”
“Lucky break,” Dempsey said. “Appreciate it again and sorry for the short fuse. You get the details?”
“Yeah,” the pilot said and then leaned over when Colonel Boyd pointed to something on the panel. The Major cycled a switch and then gave Boyd a thumbs-up. He turned back to Dempsey. “We’ll fly the brief as your guy sent it—helos splitting east and west at the border, crossing at less than a hundred feet and well abeam of your target. We’ll converge on the corners at opposite angles. You still want to drop inside the wall?”
“Yes, if possible.”
“Okay, can do. But we’re not set up for fast roping, so it’ll be a touch-and-go delivery. We’ll cool the LZ with the fifties first. Only reason to not put into the compound would be if it’s too hot. But that won’t happen,” he said and gestured at the .50 caliber behind his door. Dempsey got the sense that, for this AFSOC pilot, there was never really such a thing as “too hot.” He gave the pilot a nod and a tight smile, and then quickly reviewed the tactical channels.
“Copy,” the pilot said. “CASEVAC is your call. We got three PJs and then an Army medic in bird two.”
“Check,” Dempsey said. “Davis-Monthan Air Force Base for flesh wounds and the civilian trauma center in Tucson for mortal injuries.”
“Roger that.”
Dempsey shook the pilot’s gloved hand again and then ducked under the .50 and slid back through the long, open hatch. He hooked in with the safety harness attached from his belt to the canvas bench at the rear and sat with his feet dangling out the door. He looked longingly over at the same seat on the port side of the aircraft—his favorite spot for twenty years with the Teams—and sighed. A moment later, the engines whined, the wind picked up, and the Blackhawk lifted off. A heartbeat later, the helo nosed over and accelerated over the ramp. Once they were at altitude, the pilot banked left and punched the throttle. Dempsey estimated they’d be on the ground in less than thirty minutes.
That thirty minutes vaporized while he went over the assault plan one last time with his team. Normally, briefing on the INFIL would be unheard of—everyone should know his role backward and forward. But on the continuum of short-fuse ops, this fell near the “no fuse” end of the spectrum, so he didn’t dare leave anything to chance. After fielding questions, he turned to the sniper sitting on the canvas bench across from him. “You picked your spot?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Unfortunately, we can’t get super high without a second drop. Don’t matter really, cuz there’s nothing tall on this target. You guys will be hitting the north building, so we’ll take position on the big warehouse to the west. I’ll take the northeast corner and Davis will take southeast.”
Dempsey nodded. “Let’s have the pilots put you on the roof after we off-load inside the fence . . . Cool?”
The sniper gave him a thumbs-up and relayed the new plan to his partner in the other bird. Dempsey relayed the plan to the pilot, who replied with a “No problem. We’ll clear the roof with the fifties on the INFIL if needed.”
Satisfied everything had been covered, Dempsey leaned back against the bulkhead. The chatter died down as everyone sought the zone. Both birds were completely lights out, screaming across the desert floor at 150 miles an hour. Dempsey felt a powerful wave of déjà vu as he looked out across the terrain—terrain that could have passed for the western Iraqi desert he’d flown over just days ago. In some ways, he felt like he knew that shithole country better than his own . . . just like he’d known his dead teammates better than the wife and son he’d abandoned.
Not now. Not today, he chastised himself. Only one person matters right now, and that person is Rafiq al-Mahajer.
He forced his mind out of the gutters of regret and back to the present, mentally reviewing the satellite imagery of the Cemex industrial complex—mapping the assault paths, identifying hides for shooters, noting cover locations for his team in the event of RPGs or grenades. He conducted the complete mission in his head, breaching the north building, tracking down al-Mahajer and his men, and then killing them all before they could make their escape.
The helicopter banked sharply left, and he watched the fence that functioned as the US-Mexico border whiz past them just under his dangling feet, the lights that lit the top every fifty yards little red blurs in the dark.
“Two minutes.” The pilot sounded as calm as if he were out for a Sunday drive. “We’ll make two low passes first and soften the field with the fifties.”
The PJs on either side of the cabin unlocked their machine guns and cycled rounds. Dempsey watched the gunner turn on the IR laser designator and sight it on the ground below to make sure he could see the green dot with his NVGs. Dempsey performed the ritual last check of his gear, weapons, and ammo pouches reflexively, as the other fighters did the same.
He was good to go.
They were all good to go.
“First pass,” came the report from the cockpit.
They banked right, and then left, and then dropped down so low Dempsey thought if he stretched a little he could drag a boot in the dirt. Then his guts felt heavy as the helicopter popped up and over the fence surrounding the industrial complex.
An instant later, scattered muzzle flashes punctuated the darkness as shooters on the ground began to engage. He had flipped up his NVGs an instant before the gunners lit the .50s and tongues of white fire licked the night beside him. He watched the tracers tear across the ground and along the fence line. Something exploded to his left, a pickup truck most likely, lit up by the other helicopter. Dempsey grabbed the edge of the door and braced himself a split second before the pilot initiated an evasive maneuver. One of the DEA shooters wasn’t so lucky and slipped off the canvas bench, his harness keeping him from falling out of the helo. Adamo helped pull the scrambling operator up and back into his seat.
“Holy shit, this is nuts,” someone said on the command channel.
“We’re okay,” came the relaxed voice of the pilot. “Pass two starting now.”
They crossed this time from north to south and the door gunners engaged more effectively. Dempsey watched shooters below flee toward the warehouse, only to be cut down midstride. One poor soul pitched forward and slid all the way to the door, while both of his legs and half of his torso remained five yards behind in the dirt.
The engines whined, and they were pitching up again and banking in the opposite direction.
“This is it, guys. Get ready to drop,” the pilot called.
Dempsey unhooked his harness from the bench and leaned out the door of the helicopter, one hand on the rail at the edge of the door and the other gripping his rifle and bringing it up to bear. The helo flared, and before the skids touched down Dempsey was out. He moved right and toward the rear of the Blackhawk, taking a knee and scanning over his holographic sight, watching his green IR target designator dance as he searched for targets. In less than three seconds, the bird was lifting off, the rotorwash beating the hell out of him. The Blackhawk screamed toward the large warehouse to the west, barely pausing long enough for the sniper to leap out. Just to the north, the mirror image was happening as the other Blackhawk dropped the Team Two sniper. Then, the birds were up and gone.
“Spooky One, Thor One and Two are in slow orbit, standing by for support or EXFIL.”
“Spooky One, roger,” Dempsey answered.
“God is up,” came the whispered voice of the sniper duo in his ear.
“Copy, God,” he said.
He stood and circled a fist over his head, then led the team at a crouched combat jog across the compound. Mendez fell in beside him, while the group of four DEA assaulters and two SEALs fanned out in an inverted V behind.
“Spooky Two is approaching the west warehouse,” Chunk said in his ear. The SEAL had moved his team fast to the large warehouse where aerial imagery had shown a contingent of enemy personnel. After clearing the warehouse, Chunk’s team would set up a defensive perim
eter at the target building.
Sporadic gunfire erupted to the west, followed by shouting in Spanish, confirming Dempsey’s concern that the cartel was providing cover fire for their terrorist clients. Chunk’s team answered with controlled, measured response fire.
Dempsey vectored his team toward the target building to the east.
“Shooter on the roof,” came a call. He heard a shot echo from the roof of the warehouse as one of the snipers engaged the target. “Target down.”
A body tumbled off the roof of the target building and hit the ground with a thud.
“Spooky One, this is God. Be careful on your approach. You have a few more tangos on the roof of the target building. Give us a second to clear.”
“Roger, that,” Dempsey said. “Cap ’em fast.”
There were a few more flashes and then the sniper called back. “Target roof is clear. Couple more came up but they changed their minds and went below. Be ready for shooters inside.”
Dempsey double-clicked and moved further east. He had expected heavy resistance as they approached the target building, but so far it had been quiet. Too quiet. He heard continuing gunfire from the large warehouse, where Team Two was engaged in a hot gunfight.
“Spooky Two is clearing, but we have a lot of shitheads over here. You guys okay?”
“Check—we’re good,” Dempsey said. “Do you need us?”
“Negative,” came Chunk’s cool reply. “We’re fully engaged, but expect to secure in two or three mikes.”
Dempsey surveyed the target building’s west facade. The roll-up doors, elevated concrete apron with ramp, and loading bays confirmed this end functioned as the freight dock for the building. The team scurried up onto the concrete landing and took positions along the wall. Dempsey crouched next to a metal entry door at the end of the row of bay doors. The team split and formed up on either side of the door, two DEA agents taking a knee and facing outward to cover their six during the breach. Mendez crouched opposite the door from him and nodded. Dempsey reached up, grabbed the door handle, and pulled down. The handle dipped, the latch disengaged, and the door drifted open an inch.
War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2) Page 20