Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  “Enter.”

  “Sir, we have a radio transmission from Border Patrol in Brownsville, Texas. Apparently, a Mexican Special Forces Sergeant is requesting military support at the border crossing from Matamoras. Something about a Cartel raid on the border.”

  “Poncho Villa has been dead a hundred years, Lieutenant, so I seriously doubt it’s a raid.”

  “His words, sir. Not mine.”

  “Copy. Is he still on the horn?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Let’s see what this is all about.”

  Highway 101 Near Matamoras, Mexico

  Miguel and his crew moved very slowly through the outskirts on Matamoras, weapons ready. They were not the only opportunists exploiting the algae bloom. Just outside town, a pickup roared from a side street blocking their path, and two shotgun wielding banditos tried to get the drop on them. They were severely under armed for the task, and were quickly cut down with automatic weapons the Cartel had obtained from a misguided FBI sting called Operation Fast and Furious. The idea was to smuggle American military grade weapons into Mexico, distribute them to the Cartel so they could be tracked using RFID chips hidden in the stock. What could possibly go wrong with such a brilliant plan? Almost immediately, the weapons disappeared without a trace, that is, until one was used to kill a Federal DEA agent. Ironically, now Miguel and his crew were returning these weapons to America, one bullet at a time.

  It was difficult to use his peripheral vision through the gas mask Miguel wore, so he and each man swiveled their heads back and forth. Wary of more ambushes, the ambulances inched forward through the streets of the small town. The streets were deserted. The border crossing was less than a kilometer straight ahead, and could be seen in the distance.

  “Stop. Jose, remove your mask and test the air.” Miguel had survived numerous shoot outs with Mexican Police and special Army units tasked with stopping the Cartels by being hyper vigilant. “We cannot see with these things on.”

  Jose was less than enthusiastic, but complied with his orders. He removed his mask, took several deep breaths, then waited for any kind of physical reaction to air that may be toxic. There was none, so he nodded curtly to Miguel. “Good, get out and tell the others.”

  The Police were hardly a problem, as almost all their command officers in the National Police were on the Cartel’s payroll. The Police almost always tipped of the Cartel a raid was coming. When that wasn’t possible, the raiders always announced their arrival with sirens and shouting before entering, and always left an unguarded avenue of escape through their perimeter.

  The special Mexican Army units were something entirely different. They policed themselves for corruption. Members of the unit wore no name tags on their uniforms, and ski masks to hide their identity. A raid and shoot out with those hombre’s always turned out one sided, and not in favor of the Cartel. Jose re-entered the lead ambulance, and resumed his drivers position.

  “Turn right. We will observe the crossing from a hidden position before we approach. Get us within 2 blocks. Keep buildings between us and the crossing. Now move. Everyone, keep your eyes open.”

  The ambulances crept forward, as Miguel ran scenarios through his mind. “Hector, where are you hiding?”

  Brownsville, Texas Border Crossing

  Hector had eyes on the ambulances as they approached Matamoras, and exited Highway 101. He had eyes on them now. His radio clicked softly, and he answered quietly. “Report.”

  “Both vehicles stopped one click out, then turned right. They are weaving through side streets and alleys. Closing slowly, but always out of sight of the crossing.”

  “Understood. Keep them in sight. They will stop soon, and look for an observation point in the upper floors of a building. Report when this happens.”

  The Sergeant turned to the American Marine Lieutenant, and translated. Hector had contacted the US Border Patrol on his flight to Matamoras to alert them of his coming, and of Miguel’s daring plan. This information was relayed to Commander Phillips, as border patrol personnel and local law enforcement were dispersed with evacuation assignments, and simply not equipped for a firefight on short notice. Commander Phillips responded by sending a chopper and a fully equipped Marine combat squad led by Lieutenant James Parrott. Combined with Hector’s Special Army unit, the border defenders now numbered 16.

  From a purely tactical perspective, conventional wisdom for ambush was to select a choke point, where streets or geography forced the enemy into a single, narrow place. Bridges, overpasses, narrow valleys, streets, or trails were preferred. None of these were available to the Admiral’s team of Marines, and Mexican Special Forces. The border crossing was six lanes wide. There simply was no cover to hide soldiers along it’s sides. The lanes narrowed, as Route 4 on the US side turned into I-77, that would lead northeast to San Antonio. I-77 was a limited access freeway. There was but one turnoff that could provide escape from the ambush by vehicle. Gorgas Drive T-boned Route 4 a half mile from the crossing, shooting off to the right to meander along the shore of the Fort Brown Reservoir.

  Instead, the Mexican Sergeant and Marine Lieutenant had decided to allow Miguel and his drug laden ambulances to cross into Brownsville, and take them in a classic L shaped ambush, with air support from the choppers. Both sides of the border were deserted, so civilian casualties were not an issue.

  To sell their plan, they had to convince Miguel the border crossing was still guarded, but only lightly. A Marine and an English speaking Mexican Corporal were “volunteered” by their officers to wear border crossing uniforms, and openly man the gates in plain view. Clear communications between the two volunteers and the American and Mexican forces would be critical.

  The plan was to allow the ambulances to crash the gates, and enter US territory, then ambush them a half mile further down the road where Route 4 merged with the four lane I-77. They would use the open spaces with steep berm sides, and limited highway access with fencing 20 yards from the highway edge. There would be no barricades, and no abandoned cars suspiciously blocking exit ramps.

  Marines and Mexican Special Forces were deployed on one side of the highway, prone on the ground in knee high grass and scrub. The blocking force would utilize the Mexican Army helicopter to strike from the sky and block the ambulances once they entered the kill zone, and a garbage truck to close the back door. Marines and Mexican Special Forces armed with SAW automatic weapons, and old fashioned M72 LAW rockets would man the front and sides, Mexican Specials Forces would set the Garbage truck to close the exit. The chopper overhead sealed the deal. Simple, and deadly. Now, they waited.

  Miguel’s instincts were silently screaming. He could almost feel the air move. Like the whisper of the machete just before your head gets lopped off.

  “Stop here.” Both ambulances halted, the occupants exited, their weapons ready, as they assembled around Miguel. They numbered six experienced killers, armed with military grade automatic weapons, including an RPG. This was Miguel’s ace in the hole. An RPG could fire a rocket propelled grenade capable of taking out a truck or Humvee, and even a helicopter in a lucky shot. The grenade was a dumb weapon, with no target tracking intelligence. There was no chance against a moving helicopter. Hovering or stationary, was another matter.

  “Angel and Luis, get to the roof of two buildings, one on the left, and one on the right. Observe for movement, or anything that looks out of the ordinary. Take your radios, but do not use them unless we are attacked or about to be.”

  “What do you mean, out of the ordinary, boss? This place is a ghost town, no people anywhere. Is this ordinary?” Luis was Miguel’s deadliest killer, but most prone to question orders. Once soon after Miguel had become a boss, he and Luis had sold 3 kilos to a rival gang for distribution, and were leaving with the money in a gym bag. Five members of the gang decided they would like to keep the money as well as the drugs.

  When the rival gang opened up on them in the street, Miguel dove for cover behind a parked sedan. Brok
en glass showered Miguel as bullets thudded into the car, the buildings, and civilians unlucky enough to be on the street at the wrong time. Luis was unfazed. He simply turned, drew two 9mm pistols from under each armpit, and advanced on the attackers firing from each hand. Bent at the waist, butt out and shoulders forward with both hands extended, elbows locked, he quick walked forward, moving from side to side erratically to throw off the attackers aim.

  Action always beats reaction. Luis took the fight to their attackers, who quickly found themselves exposed in the street with no cover. The average person can fire five shots in one second, virtually none of them aimed. An experienced gunman is less concerned with how fast he can fire shots, and fires only fast enough to put the rounds on the target while he moves.

  In just 6 seconds, five assailants were down, each with two to the chest, and one to the head for insurance. Most had fired all 15 rounds, and their pistols were locked open with empty magazines. Luis’s pistol magazines were each still half full. He was without a scratch.

  Had anyone but Luis question his orders, Miguel would have killed them on the spot. Luis was special.

  “Luis, I believe that Sergeant from the National Policia is here waiting for us with his men. The one they call The Snake. I believe he saw us in Ciudad Madero as we passed through. I do not know where he is or how he will strike, but he is here. We will be attacked as we approach the crossing, or at the crossing itself. The Norte Americanos are gone, unless a few were left behind to guard the crossing. I need to know what we will face. You and Angel will watch the crossing for an hour, then come and tell me what you have seen. The radios are to warn us of immediate attack. Do not use them for any other reason. They will be listening.”

  “Si, boss. I understand.” Jerking his chin towards Angel, they turned for the buildings. Luis would take the left. The left had to cross a wide boulevard that approached the crossing. They were within 100 yards of the gates. Whoever crossed to the left would do so in open sight of anyone watching. Angel could simply kick in the door of any building on the right, and climb to the roof.

  “Angel, you must not be seen from the roof. You cannot just walk out from the stairs. You must crawl carefully to a corner, then inch your eyes above the wall. Stay low, and move slowly. Quick movements attract the eye. Do you understand.”

  “Si, I understand.” Angel knew Miguel’s wrath meant instant death with a bullet. Luis’ wrath he had seen just once. It was Medieval. He would take hours, and hours to end your life, and always carried a canvass roll that contained dental tools, assorted knives, a hammer, pliers, and a handheld butane torch. Angel still had nightmares over what he had witnessed. He turned to his assigned building, and immediately kicked in the door.

  Luis shook his head, turned and walked to the corner. Next time, try the door handle first before you kick it in, he mused. With his back to the building, he exposed his head just enough to look towards the crossing gates. Two Norte Americano border guards stood in the open, talking and smoking cigarettes a hundred yards away. Side arms only, no rifles. They made no attempt to conceal themselves. He drew back his head, and thought. “I can retreat several blocks south and try to cross keeping low, perhaps belly crawl, but there is no cover. No cars or people in the street. Any glance in that direction will reveal me trying to low crawl across unseen.”

  He peered around the corner again, and watched for a long while. The border guards shuffled around, talking like two bored school children waiting to catch a bus. Like the children, they had to wait, and tried to occupy themselves with idle conversation. Suddenly, they both turned away, facing north. Luis bolted from his position, and sprinted across the street as fast as his legs would carry him. He entered an alley at a full run, stopping himself against a dumpster, spun and rushed back to the corner. He peered around the corner to see if his mad rush had been discovered. The guards still faced away. This was good.

  Luis moved further down the alley, passing three buildings before selecting the fourth. He quickly found the rear entrance into the building, and tried the door. Unlocked. Angel was too dull witted to try the door lock first before kicking it in. No finesse. Luis took pride in his work, and his skills. His kills were clean and quick, unless he wanted them slow and messy. Each sent a message in their own way.

  He entered the building, located the stairs, and climbed. When he came to the third floor, he determined this was enough elevation to observe the crossing, and the area behind some of the buildings on the northern side. He entered an apartment, and approached an open window. The curtains billowed in the November air. Good. The movement of the curtains would mask his movement. He dragged a chair to the side of the window, where he could peer out unnoticed. He sat and began his vigil. He knew Miguel wanted their report within the hour, so he could dash across the border. Miguel would have to wait. Luis took pride in his work.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tampa, Florida

  Kate and Jimmy stepped off the stairs to the tarmac at Tampa International. Their short hop from Galveston had taken just two hours, as Commander Phillips arranged a Coast Guard C-130 H Hercules on a moment’s notice. I guess Jimmy did have the Commander’s confidence, Kate mused. They were immediately greeted by a man and a woman in civilian clothes standing next to a black SUV. Their clothes may be civilian, but their bearing screamed military.

  “Dr. O’Neal, Mr. Falcone?”

  “Yes.” Kate replied.

  “I’m Chris Roma, and this is Beth Sheridan. Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Are you ready to go?”

  “We are. Where to?” Jimmy answered.

  “We have a lead on Bobby Lee Swagart.” Chris opened the rear door of the SUV for the new passengers. Jimmy motioned Kate to enter first, he followed. Beth rounded the vehicle to the front passenger side.

  “I thought NCIS was a TV show. Apparently you guys are for real. Why is NCIS involved instead of local law enforcement?” Kate asked. As she slid onto the seat to make room for Jimmy, she bumped into Thuy Piseth, already in the SUV.

  “Thuy! What are you doing here?” Kate was pleasantly surprised.

  “My work in Galveston not needed. Left last night to here. Hunt now for Swaggart with NCIS.”

  Chris, the senior officer answered her question that was directed to him.

  “Local law enforcement is also working on tracking Swagart. NCIS is involved because we have seventy dead pilots, fourteen of which were Navy personnel. And we have resources available that locals do not, like that C-130 you just stepped off. We also have the FBI tracking money transfers over the wire, and large cash withdrawals made by Swagart the past two days. Just so happens, the bean counters at the CDC report they are missing about $25 million from the CDC Foundation coffers, and Sherrod Simpson is nowhere to be found. We don’t believe this is a coincidence.”

  “I’ve been hunting Simpson for three years. That guy’s dirtier than a coal miner’s knees. A class A felon, now wanted for murder.” Jimmy spoke up.

  “Mr. Falcone has been instrumental in our investigation. Seems he has compiled a wealth of information on Sherrod Simpson. We have a very good start doing the same on Swagart, with a little help from Mr. Piseth.” The NCIS officer finished.

  The SUV moved towards the exit gate, and onto a maintenance road next to the airstrip and hangars. Armed TSA agents maned the gate.

  “Kate turned to Jimmy Falcone, and asked, “OK, who are you, and what have you done with Jimmy Falcone?” Jimmy just smiled. Turning back to the NCIS agent, she asked, “Where to now?”

  “Downtown, Tampa Police headquarters. We have a man who walked in an hour ago and claims to know the general whereabouts of Swagart and his destination.”

  “Who is he?” Jimmy asked.

  “Some swamp rat named Leroy Budrow. Walked into the station with a story for sale. Wants a reward for cooperating before he will talk.” Chris replied.

  Leroy sat alone at the table in the interrogation room, dying for a cigarette. His pack of Lucky Strikes w
as in front of him, but his lighter had been confiscated two hours ago. His knee bounced in a rapid cadence, as he bit his filthy fingernails and fidgeted. He did not like police stations, having spent a considerable amount of time over the years cuffed to a table just like this one. He was not currently cuffed, which was good. He hoped.

  No one would ever say Leroy was a smart man. Sly and opportunistic were better terms. He knew the second he stepped into that seedy motel room, and recognized the guy in the rich man’s suit. He knew exactly who he was, why he was with Swagart, and what was likely in the suitcase. His first instinct was to slit their throats with the knife in his boot, grab the suitcase and split. He had no more loyalty to Bobby Lee than a junk yard dog has for the man who barely fed him and kept him chained up. That and the fact Bobby Lee knew all about the boot knife Leroy carried. Back in the day, Bobby Lee carried one, too. Nowadays, Bobby Lee was probably carrying a pistol, and would have shot Leroy dead before his knife cleared its sheath.