by Ross Sidor
Colombia and Mexico also shared increasingly close relations based on their historical and cultural similarities. Both countries were former Spanish colonies and have had their societies torn apart by drug violence and internal insurgencies, and trade between Colombia and Mexico increased by almost four hundred percent over the past decade. From Aguilar, Avery also knew that Colombian special ops troops had slipped into Mexico before to wax FARC and cartel targets.
“I’m going after her either way, Matt. And then after I get my shit together, I’m going after Kashani, and I don’t give one fuck about his diplomatic status or where he’s hiding.”
“Alright, alright, just relax.” Culler sighed, relented. He knew that once Avery was determined and committed to something, there was no deterring him. The best thing to do was to set him loose and give him whatever support he required. “I’ll clear it with Slayton. He can get your team into Mexico. Don’t fuck this up. And don’t worry about Kashani right now. Stay on track. You find the Viper and you put her down.”
“Count on it.”
SEVENTEEN
The Gulfstream II was previously owned by a New York-based Forbes 500 company before being bought by one of the surviving Cali cartel drug lords who refurbished the aircraft, fitted it with auxiliary fuel tanks, and especially equipped it to be the ultimate smuggler’s plane, manned by the best crew money could buy.
Technicians installed an electronic countermeasures suite, developed by France’s Sofema weapons company, purchased by the Venezuelan military, capable of spoofing radar and sending back false reflections. The Gulfstream was additionally equipped with tail-mounted rearward radar and a warning receiver capable of scanning military and coast guard radar frequency bands. They’d never be able to sneak into United States airspace, but they didn’t need to, and they could easily slip past and evade Colombian and Central American air defenses.
The pilots were the best the cartel employed. Former Brazilian air force, they’d once interdicted drug smuggling flights, giving them firsthand familiarity with the region’s defense and surveillance measures, and they were well-trained in tactical flying. Running drug smuggling flights in this part of the world was dangerous work, but the cartel paid these mercenary pilots up to $25,000 per flight.
The Gulfstream flew low, nearly hopping the waves off the surface of the South Pacific, far off the western coasts of Guatemala and El Salvador. The crew flew this route to Mexico at least once a month, sometimes transporting up to two or three tons of cocaine at a time. The flight, circumventing Central America rather than flying a straight line from Buenaventura to Tijuana, pushed the jet’s 4,123 mile maximum range. The fuel tanks would be nearly dry by the time they landed in Mexico.
The Gulfstream’s home base was a well concealed landing strip cleared out of a narrow stretch of jungle in western Colombia, south of Panama, run by the cartel, protected by FARC mercenaries, and not to be found on any aeronautical charts.
It was unusual for the Gulfstream’s crew to make the six hour, non-stop flight in daylight, but their passenger insisted upon it. The pilots didn’t object. They were being paid well enough. Plus daylight did present optimal flying conditions. The previous month, a North Valley cartel pilot crashed his jet into the Pacific on a particularly dark night. It was easy to become tired and complacent on long flights, and in the dark it was difficult to visually discern the ocean from the sky.
The Gulfstream cruised four hundred and eighty miles per hour at two thousand foot altitude, below and well outside of the defined air traffic corridors and outside the normal coverage of ground-based coastal radar installations and the American E-3 AWACS planes patrolling the skies on routine surveillance missions. The pilots kept the Gulfstream far enough away from the coast to eliminate the risk of detection by Guatemalan and Salvadoran coast guard patrols.
These countries possessed limited capability to intercept flights in the air, instead relying mostly on SOUTHCOM aerial surveillance to track suspect planes, and then use their own police or army forces to seize the aircraft once it was on the ground. Four countries in the region—Colombia, Bolivia, Brazil, and Venezuela—had policies to shoot down unauthorized flights. Venezuela wasn’t a threat, and the Gulfstream had already cleared Colombian airspace, by far the most dangerous portion of the flight. The Gulfstream was well away from Brazilian and Bolivian territory, so those countries also weren’t a concern.
And SOUTHCOM faced gradual force reductions as leftist, anti-American governments in the region kicked the US military out of their countries, and America re-deployed forces to the Middle East and Africa. It wasn’t like the 1990s anymore, when SOUTHCOM heavily patrolled the skies over the South Pacific and the Caribbean as part of the discontinued Operation Coronet Nighthawk, which had intercepted and seized over 30,000 tons of cocaine.
The pilots did not know who their passengers were, but they had a good idea as to what the attractive, fit-looking woman and her subordinates carried in their long, gray steels cases, and it definitely wasn’t cocaine. The pilots assumed they were delivering weapons to the Mexicans, either for use by the cartel or to be delivered to an end user in America, but it didn’t matter to the pilots—a job was simply a job—and they hadn’t made inquiries.
Arianna Moreno sat in one of the cabin’s tan cushioned seats. She hadn’t moved since take-off and hadn’t said a word in the past four hours, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to relax, since she didn’t know what she’d face in Mexico or America.
Seated nearby, Carlo Ibarra and Benito Trujillo retained their guard. They stayed close to the Viper and were protective of her. In addition to the Mexicans, they were equally leery of the Iranian operative’s intentions.
Mirsad Sidran sat apart from the others and did not converse with them. The only time he spoke was when it pertained to operational or logistics details, but his eyes were constantly on Arianna, appraising her, carefully weighing her words and actions. He thought she was formidable, if and when her mind was focused, but she was too easily distracted and governed by her emotions and insecurities.
And that would be her downfall. Mirsad Sidran could see it now, and he understood why Kashani assigned him this mission. He was to keep her centered and focused on her objective, and reign her in, one way or the other, if she slipped too far.
He was satisfied, not quite impressed, with the operation at El Dorado. Most importantly and revealing, Flight 224 had been an impulsive decision on the woman’s part, executed with little preparation, and that would be unacceptable once they pursued targets within the United States.
Mirsad Sidran failed to understand the Viper’s reputation or the fear and respect men in Venezuela and FARC held for her. Perhaps she had been more disciplined and calculating, not governed by impulse and passion, before the death of her brother.
Sidran’s own biases toward women and non-believers prevented him from recognizing it, but he underestimated the Viper, as others have before, and that was to be a fatal mistake.
The VSS rifle was assembled and rested on the seat beside Arianna, and she still had the big Desert Eagle holstered at her side, along with a knife sheathed around the cargo pants on her opposite leg.
Benito Trujillo had worked with the Mexicans before, and he’d warned Arianna that they couldn’t be trusted. They held loyalty to no one, and their word was worth shit. If someone offered a higher price, the Mexicans would happily betray them. Making a deal with the Americans to turn them over to the DEA or FBI immediately upon landing was not outside the realm of plausibility, and the Viper was prepared for all contingencies.
The Gulfstream descended from the sky and landed on a dusty airstrip in the Mexican desert sixty-five miles south of Tijuana on the Baja Peninsula. The crude, makeshift airstrip was one of many created by the cartel after the Mexican government raided and shut down legitimate airfields used to smuggle drugs. The airfield was sparse, consisting of a narrow, unpaved runway and a couple structures; a small hangar, a four-vehicle
garage, and a storage shed. About a mile out from the airfield Los Zetas gunmen ran a checkpoint on the inbound road.
A sedan, truck, and refueling tanker truck were positioned off the side of the unpaved landing strip, waiting for the jet’s arrival. A shimmering heat mirage from the burning afternoon sun hung over the horizon.
As the jet touched down, several men dismounted from the parked truck. Five of them carried rifles or submachine guns. They looked grimy, dirty, and impatient.
Benito Trujillo craned his head to look through the nearest cabin window as the plane rolled toward the gunmen. “It looks like they’re going to pull some shit.” He looked over to Arianna and shook his head. “I told you we shouldn’t trust those fuckers.”
The Viper caught a glimpse of the armed men as the plane rolled past the welcoming committee. She reached onto the neighboring seat for the VSS. Once the plane braked to a complete halt, she stood up and slung the rifle over her shoulder.
The copilot had already emerged from the cockpit. He unsealed the cockpit door and collapsed the foldable stairs.
“Be prepared to leave in a hurry if there’s trouble,” the Viper warned him.
The copilot raised his eyebrows. “With what fuel? Sure, we’ll get in the air, and then we’ll come right back down. If there’s trouble, your guys better be prepared to deal with it, without putting holes in my aircraft.”
Besides, the pilot thought but did not say aloud, he worked for the cartel, not this arrogant woman. And he was confident the Mexicans wouldn’t touch his crew or his aircraft. That would be bad for business with the North Valley Cartel.
Trujillo sprung onto his feet and readied his own weapon, an Uzi, and the Viper shot him a look and warned him not do anything rash. She knew the small Peruvian was temperamental, easily provoked, and highly paranoid, always eager for a fight. These traits had gotten him into trouble before, including a stay in a Bolivian prison.
“Carlo, with us,” the Viper instructed Ibarra. She turned to Mirsad Sidran, who remained in his seat, his posture and demeanor relaxed. “Would you mind staying with the cargo and covering us?”
Ibarra handed Sidran an AKS-74, the compact version of the AK-47. As he took the selector switch off safety and wracked the bolt, Sidran’s mind worked through his own escape. If anything happened out there, he’d stay aboard the plane and leave with the pilots and the missiles. Kashani’s plot would have failed before it ever really got underway, but that would be okay. As long as they’d never be connected to the Viper, and no one would knew of their involvement.
The Viper descended the stairs with Trujillo and Ibarra close behind. She was halfway down when the Mexican gunmen, spotting the weapons, raised their own guns. Reacting instantly, Trujillo and Ibarra did likewise, undeterred by the fact that they were outnumbered.
One of the Mexicans stepped forward and yelled out in Spanish for them to stop and lower their weapons. Trujillo and Ibarra complied with the first part, stopping on the stairs, keeping a gap between them, but they didn’t stand down from their firing positions and kept their sights trained on the Mexicans.
With the VSS hanging from her side, cautious to keep her hands still at her sides, the Viper continued down the stairs and approached the Mexicans. Dust blew in her face, but she did not blink or look away. She stopped twelve feet away from the cartel men and sized them up. She recognized fellow predators when she saw them, and she assessed these men to be Los Zetas, GAFE special operations troops who turned mercenary and went to work for the cartels.
From the cabin of the Learjet, Mirsad Sidran watched the standoff unfold. He stayed near the open door, feeling the heat blaze penetrate the air conditioning of the cabin. He held the AK-74 in front of him, barrel pointed up, finger indexed along the trigger. He had a clear shot at her from here, and the Mexican gunmen below did not see him. If the Mexicans attempted to detain Moreno, he would kill her and end this ridiculous fiasco.
With the Learjet’s engines powered off, Sidran could hear the voices outside speaking Spanish
“What are you people doing?” the Viper demanded. “Where is Arturo?”
“Tell your men to lower their weapons now.”
The Mexican’s voice sounded measured and controlled. That was good. Cartel shooters weren’t known for their discipline and nerves under pressure.
“Why are you pointing guns at our plane?”
“I don’t know you, and we aren’t in the business of trusting others, are we? My men won’t shoot if you don’t do anything too stupid.”
After several seconds, without taking her eyes off the cartel lieutenant, the Viper finally barked an order to Trujillo and Ibarra to lower their weapons. They reluctantly obeyed, and the Mexican likewise instructed his men to stand down.
“You are not Arturo,” the Viper observed.
“Call me Carlos. Arturo sent me.”
“You will transport my men and our cargo across the border?” the Viper asked.
“That was the original arrangement, yes, and maybe it still will be. Anything is possible now, but it’s between you and Arturo.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a lot has changed over the past several hours. If you don’t like it, you can buy fuel from us now and fly back to where you came from. Otherwise we’ll hold your cargo for you, make sure your plane is secure here, and you’ll need to speak with Arturo to work out the details of the new arrangement.”
Arturo Silva was Sean Nolan’s contact in the Tijuana cartel. He was also one of the most wanted targets of the Mexican Federal Police and of the FBI and the Chicago and Los Angeles police departments in the US.
“The price will need to be re-negotiated.”
The Viper anticipated the reaction of her men behind her. She knew Trujillo would be getting an anxious trigger finger. She raised her hand in a gesture telling him to hold it together. She thought she heard Trujillo scoff and mutter something to Carlo Ibarra.
“What has changed?”
“Haven’t you heard? Nolan was arrested this morning. The gringos shot up half of Buenaventura to get him. Our sources in Colombia tell us it all has something to do with that plane that was shot down four days ago in Bogotá. Then you show up here, wanting us to get you over the border. Rumor is you plan on doing more planes in America. It’s a big risk for Arturo to get involved in some terrorism bullshit against the norteamericanos.” Carlos paused to let his words sink in. “I don’t know who you are or what’s so special about you, but the price for a one-way trip to United States has just gone way up.”
The Viper was seething. She struggled to contain her anger. She calculated her options, ranging from trying to take out the Mexicans right here and now, to biding her time in hopes of developing a tactical advantage, to swallowing her pride and haggling with the cartel. She reminded herself of why she was here, kept the end goal in sight.
“My cargo is going nowhere. It stays here aboard my plane, with me, and I will send one of my men to meet with Arturo. When a price and terms are negotiated and agreed, I will give you the money here, and we will then proceed directly to the border. You can stay out here with your guns pointed at the plane if you find it necessary. I won’t try to sneak away.”
Carlos kept his eyes on her, clearly taking offense to terms being dictated to him by this woman. For the disrespect she showed to the cartel, he thought his men deserved having a go at her, to put her in her place and remind her where she was. But he had his orders. The woman wasn’t to be touched unless she made threatening moves.
Finally, Carlos stepped out of earshot and made a call on his cell phone, while his men and the Viper’s resumed the staring contest.
The call lasted ninety seconds, and then Carlos returned to Arianna.
“He wasn’t easily convinced, but Arturo agrees to these conditions.”
“When can we speak with him?” the Viper asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Arturo prefers to meet with you personally.”
“It’s not going to happen.” The Viper was not about to turn herself over, alone, to the cartel. “I’m going to send one of my people. He will speak for me.”
“Very well then,” Carlos said. “We will drive your representative to the city to see Arturo, and I will stay here with my crew. Your plane doesn’t refuel until after our business is through here, whatever arrangement, if any, you and Arturo reach.”
“Do as you please, but if anyone approaches this plane unannounced or uninvited, they’re dead.”
The Viper turned around. Ibarra and Trujillo remained where they were until she’d climbed the stairs. Then they followed her into the cabin.
Standing with his back against the wall, off the side of the cabin door, Mirsad Sidran lowered his rifle.
As she strode past him, the Viper said, “We’re going to-”
“I heard everything. Send one of the others to deal with the Mexicans. I’m staying here, with you and the missiles.”
The Viper smirked. “You want to keep an eye on me, too? At least you’re straightforward about your intentions.”
“To protect my country’s investment,” Sidran corrected her. “The Mexicans know what you’re transporting. A cartel armed with SA-24 would be the most powerful in the country. Or the weapons could fetch a high price on the black market. The Mexicans are going to ask for significantly more money than you originally agreed upon. They hold the advantage, and you have nothing to bargain with. You need Arturo now more than he wants your money. After all, whatever you pay is pittance compared to the cartel’s daily earnings. We’ll never enter the US without their help, if they don’t stab you in the back.”
Before they’d left Buenaventura, Trujillo had offered to kill Sidran. The Viper had instructed Trujillo to leave him alone, assuming that Sidran sent a regular coded message to his Iranian controller, letting him know he was alive and the mission was on track.