What do you do? Accuse them and ask for their help? Jorge had thought.
Jorge recalled the response that his retired friend had given him a few days later over the phone. “Take leave for a few weeks. Stay close to home, and stay in touch with the police. Do not let any family member leave the ranch, and, my friend, arm everyone. Keep the guns hidden but nearby.”
Jorge knew as a soldier that something was going down. He carried on as close to normal as he could. He kept his weapons handy and hidden. He secretly made an escape plan for himself and the family.
Then things got weird.
The media reported the discovery of the torsos of local police officers and possible criminals dumped in public places: parking lots, police stations, banks. Some type of cartel turf war was suspected. One morning, the heads of three well-known criminals were tossed through the window of a house belonging to the chief of police’s mistress. The heads had been melted with acid. Jorge’s case was suddenly a priority.
Jorge’s family members were returned. Mario paid for them to be treated in a private hospital in Mexico City while the dust settled in Oaxaca. Jorge watched in amazement over the next few weeks as the newspapers began publishing anonymous articles about police corruption and gang activity. Police chiefs resigned, officers went to jail, and politicians fled the country.
Mario had sent Jorge a very strong message: “No one messes with me. Join me and see how the real world works!”
CHAPTER 15
Operation Crazy Ivan
Six Weeks Later
The Isla de la Juventud, or Island of Youth, is Cuba’s second-largest island. The 850-square-mile island sits south of Cuba and closer to Mexico. Relatively undeveloped, it’s surrounded by beautiful white sandy beaches, emerald-green waters, and brilliant coral reefs. The island’s claim to fame was as a notorious prison.
Evan had seen the prison in person as part of a tour many years ago under a different passport. It reminded Evan of a bird cage. Presidio Modelo once housed Fidel and his brother. Once Castro seized power from the dictator before him, he began stocking the prison with his own enemies, many of whom had financed his revolution.
“What comes around goes around.”
Evan wondered if the morons in the States who were funding its destruction would ever end up in a similar prison. Probably not. Just get a reality show. He frowned and then refocused himself before a tangent over took him.
Evan watched the waves and thought back to the last six weeks at the Zoo. Evan and Roger had dubbed Nathan the Zookeeper because, as Roger so eloquently put it one night over a few beers, “The man can shovel shit like the best of ’em.”
Evan liked Roger from the beginning. He was a stand-up guy, a warrior, and always had an angle to get a great meal. Priorities were in the right place.
Evan had confided in Roger that he had known Nathan from the past and, without getting into specifics, partially blamed him for the death of someone close.
Six weeks at the Zoo had reminded Evan of an all-star team of musicians getting together for the show of their lives. Dark Cloud was made up of some of Mexico’s top intelligence officers, special-operations instructors, shooters, gadget men, and private-sector engineers. Evan participated in the breaking-in period of all day and night ruck marches, obstacle courses, range time, and flying time. Dark Cloud had several aircraft on loan to them from various businessmen around Mexico, including a Black Hawk helicopter. Everyone, no matter what his or her job, had to feel some pain and sweat.
Nathan turned over the training schedule to a Mexican who went by the name of the Shot Glass, presumably because of some sordid story from his past. He was blunt, fair, and had a nasty scar down his face, which Evan admired.
“I know you bastards have already proved yourselves, or you would not be here. We have all been working for the last year but most of us never together. Pain, misery, starvation—that is the glue that will bind us! So today, you are all back in basic training and will be treated like prisoners. The cartels will not be so nice.”
He was ruthless and unforgiving and did his best to get the team to solidify like concrete. It worked.
None of the 150 men and women of Dark Cloud needed to be taught how to do their job; they just needed to be reassured that they could rely on the man or woman next to them if they had to be switched out.
“Each tool in the toolbox needs to be identified. The best tools for each job will get used. Nothing personal. Deal with it!” Shot Glass had said flatly as men panted, sweated, threw up, and cursed.
Evan was just pleased he could keep up with those who were fifteen years younger than he was. He knew he was being watched. He made sure no one was watching when he popped his Motrin and cursed his aches.
Dark Cloud was split up into Green Team One and Green Team Two. The two teams of direct-action operators were each subdivided into three fifteen-man squads called Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Each team was autonomous in the respect that they gathered intelligence, did surveillance, and took part in mission planning and executing based on direction from the Brain, or command group. Evan admired the simplicity and bare-bones essentials of how things would operate. No politics, no red tape, no one creating some worthless job or procedure so he or she could look good on paper or justify a meaningless existence.
There was no deadweight or petty pissing matches. Get in, get out, and stay alive to get paid. Both Green Team One and Two had ninety soldiers, most of whom had formed their cliques and habits from prior military service together. Most of them had been operating with Dark Cloud over the last year. The largest group of Dark Cloud personnel were behind-the-scenes people, the get-it-done men and women: logistics, safe-house procurement, getaway cars, transportation, money, weaponsmiths, pilots, computer and surveillance techs. Most of these men and women were technical people who had regular day jobs in law enforcement or intelligence and merely subcontracted in secret to Dark Cloud. These assists were spread out over key geographical areas around Mexico. Only a few of them were at the Zoo.
Nathan had created a small-scale, private-sector assassination squad. Nathan’s intelligence network was quite vast too. He had secret sources in all branches of the military and law enforcement. Every person on the team knew that one betrayal could bring down the whole house of cards. Nathan never shared where the money came from or who the highest accountable person in government was.
Evan was one of the spies, or talent, in Green Team One, which was now going to be commanded by Roger since the previous commander had died in a helicopter crash. Evan had overheard some slight grumblings when Nathan announced Roger as being the commander.
Much of the grumblings had come from Roger himself. “I don’t know the language, politics, or culture as well as these men. One of them should lead.”
The other squad leaders had initially been resentful and had their doubts, but things were worked out. Roger had served a career with the British SAS, which demanded serious street cred.
Roger was also very down-to-earth and did not pull any punches. “Look, men. This is yur show. You run yur squads however ye want. I will handle heat from above and get everything we need to survive and manage. You know this land better than me. It’s yur freakin’ fight. Just don’t play games.”
From that moment forward, Roger was welcomed as one of their brothers. He could also cook better than anyone in all of Dark Cloud. Warriors had to eat. They did what he said, and it all worked out. Alpha Squad was commanded by El Coyote, or Daniel, Bravo Squad was commanded by Joaquin, and Charlie by Luis.
The team’s nickname was the Chupacabras. Green Team One’s area of operations consisted of the gulf regions from Coahuila to Quintara Roo. Evan was impressed to learn that Green Team One had spent several months last year creating a network of small, self-sufficient bands of vigilantes. These vigilantes would rally and protect each other’s farms and properties from cartel members and from the roving bands of men who would kidnap girls as young as nine and sell t
hem into the sex trade.
“Our little monster we created is now growing on its own across Mexico!” El Coyote had explained to Evan and Roger over a case of beer. “We have empowered and armed civilians to form their own cells. They attack cartel convoys and publicly hang bands of men who used to steal their wives and children. It is not without cost, but they are a thorn in the sides of the cartels out where the police refuse to go!”
Green Team Two was led by Oscar, a quiet, unassuming man who was half German. He was proud to admit that it was a German, whom he was related to way far back, who had emigrated to Mexico in the 1800s and started a brewery that now sold one of Mexico’s finest beers.
He was hands down the best sniper out of anyone in Dark Cloud. He had competed in international special-forces competitions and had an impressive number of kills. Green Team Two’s squad leaders were Pablo, Alpha Squad; Juan, Bravo Squad; and Gustavo, Charlie Squad. Gustavo was obsessed with the game Call of Duty.
Green Team Two’s area of operations was predominately the Pacific side. They conducted operations from Sinaloa to Chiapas, which was a region so dangerous that the Mexican army rarely ventured there. Green Team Two had some fairly impressive success with creating vigilante cells as well. Last spring, one of their cells disrupted a train owned by a group that was transporting young immigrant women kidnapped en route from El Salvador. Evan was not shocked to hear that the young girls would work as slaves in the field harvesting crops during the week and then work as prostitutes at bars for the field hands on the weekends. The girls were branded like cattle with a hot poker.
“Evil,” Evan said.
The vigilante cells created by the teams had helped form a generous network of both intelligence-gathering and direct-action assets to conduct clandestine missions in hostile territory. The vigilantes had no clue what Dark Cloud’s greater agenda was nor did they care. They got their money, supplies, and training. Everyone was happy.
Reo was Nathan’s right-hand man and man servant, as Evan called him. He reminded Evan of a termite with glasses and legs. At five feet one, he had an air about him that left you feeling as if you were shorter than he was.
“I have never been looked down upon by such a lil’ fella,” Roger had grumbled after their first meeting.
Reo was extremely smart, well connected with the Mexican establishment, and reminded Evan of the sniveling little snarky lawyers that he had always wanted to choke to death when he was standing in line at Trader Joe’s in Virginia.
Then there was Tanya.
Evan had met Tanya just prior to her going back on board Mario’s yacht. His impression of her was mixed. She was strikingly inelegant yet beautiful. She had the hard body of a CrossFitter with the attitude of a female parolee. She regarded Evan as a caveman and was visibly angry that he was acting as her former boyfriend’s replacement.
Evan was introduced to her under his cover name of Ivan the Cuban-born half-Russian citizen. He was to work with her undercover to seal the submarine deal dubbed Operation Crazy Ivan. Tanya had successfully planted a computer virus within Mario’s computers and had a position as his lead IT person. She explained that Mario’s organization was mixed about buying the submarine.
“His sons, who are all named Mario by the way, and Jorge, his head of security, are dead against it. They say it will draw attention,” Tanya had said flatly.
She was a mix of Japanese and Brazilian, which afforded her a luxurious blend of features. She was hard when engaged with people and looked vulnerable and aloof when no one was watching.
“Mario will have his screeners meet you a minimum of three times before you are allowed to meet him. He has perhaps fifteen or so doubles that he uses as surrogates at times. I will tell you how to spot the real Mario.”
“How do you know that you are dealing with the real one?”
“That’s my job,” she had said flatly.
“So you don’t know?” Evan had pressed. He refused to walk on eggshells around her like everyone else did. “There has not been a picture of Mario since he strolled out of a maximum-security prison ten years ago,” Evan finished.
“Play the game,” she had countered coldly. “I will be given your picture and fingerprints and will be assigned to look you up. It’s SOP.” Tanya handed Evan a thumb drive on a black nylon necklace. “Don’t lose it.”
“What is it?”
“Everything you need to know about the sub—specs, history.”
“Basically it’s an ad?”
Tanya looked past him as if she were talking to a wall. Evan started to wonder if she were on some kind of medication; her eyes did not look right.
“Yes. You can look at it, but do not download it. That will activate what’s hidden inside. Encourage the bad guys to download it onto their own computers. Get it?”
Evan took the thumb drive and put it around his neck. He regarded Tanya and Reo. Where the hell did you find these two, Nathan? he mused to himself.
“Your last screening will be on the yacht, with Jorge. That’s a problem. He is a mystery, even to me.”
Evan recalled the details of the rest of their conversation. Tanya may have been a cold fish, but she was excellent at recalling and relaying details. She filled in information about Mario’s superyacht, his staff, the key players among the Scorpions, and where the ship’s heavy weapons were. Sources had indicated that the Happy Mermaid had antiaircraft capabilities. Part of his job was to confirm the ship’s defenses. Tanya knew nothing about guns, so she was little help. Evan thought back to the conversation several days earlier and put the pieces together in his mind. He spoke quietly to the waves and wondered what was beneath the surface in Mario’s world.
“If the Happy Mermaid has the firepower, they say an assault on the open sea will be nearly impossible and suicidal. Then there is the politics of the deal; Mario’s sons do not want to buy the sub, yet their father does. Is there resentment? Is there division? If she can figure it out, more is beneath the surface. The sons are heir to the throne. Why not take father out and have the empire for themselves?”
Evan saw the lights from another boat off in the distance. He continued speaking out loud to himself.
“Then there is Jorge Valdez, the ever-paranoid security chief and head of the paramilitary army for Mario’s cartel. Mario would rely on him to sniff out any fissures, unless he himself is more like a shark and smells blood in the water. He may just kill them all and take over himself…How loyal is he?”
Evan knew from intelligence reports that Jorge Valdez was ruthless, ambitious, and formally educated on military doctrine. He was no doubt smarter than Mario and his sons. Would Jorge Valdez ever turn against Mario? “I have to figure all this out,” Evan said to the wind and waves. The last several weeks had been a blur, and now here he was, alone, talking to the sea.
Evan spat over the side of the rusty 133-foot Mexican salvage vessel and sipped a cup of burnt black coffee. The boat moved up and down, gently spraying white foam into the wind. The ship had a diesel-and-oil smell that reminded Evan of a gas station. The time was 0312, and Evan knew they would soon be at their lonely grid coordinate in the middle of the dark gulf. The distance from the port at Cancun to their GPS point was 220 miles. This watery marker was still twenty miles off the coast of the Island of Youth and was well outside the interest of the US Navy, Cubans, and US Coast Guard. Evan had been assured that their cover story as a salvage vessel would hold water, so to speak, from any prying eyes. Evan shivered from the wind and spray of the gulf and thought about the irony of what he was doing. He finished his coffee, packed another dip inside his lip, and leaned over the rail again. He wished he had brought a fishing rod.
“Why do things seem to move in cycles? History, mistakes, and bad dreams?”
“Talkin’ to yourself, lad?”
“Hey!” Evan jumped. “Wow! You snuck up on me.”
Roger leaned against the rail next to him and stared out at the gulf. The constantly shifting waters were i
lluminated by a half-moon, which was tracking across a cloudless sky.
“Have you slept at all since we left, lad?”
“No. Too much on my mind,” Evan said.
“Sorry to hear that,” Roger replied.
Evan chuckled. “My mind is too active to sleep—like these waves, always churning. Just feeling nostalgic, I guess, or maybe a bit moody. We are all going to die doing this job.”
“Well, lad, you’re a bit of an optimist, aren’t you?”
Evan shrugged and did not answer.
“Why you here, Evan?”
Evan deflected and spoke to the waves. “You know, in October 1962 during the whole Cuban-missile-crisis thing, there was a Soviet submarine, a Foxtrot class B-59. The subs were escorting shipments of supplies to Cuba when they were intercepted by the US Navy.”
“And?”
“Well, two of the commanders on that sub wanted to launch a nuke at the United States, thinking that the war had started…One disagreed and averted a nuclear war.”
“Thanks for the history lesson. Why a sub?” Roger asked.
Evan smiled, shrugged again, and then carefully answered. “He wants a bigger toy. Economic standpoint. You’re right—it’s stupid. The sub makes one voyage and probably gets impounded. On the other hand, he can deliver ten times the product in one shipment as a disposable sub and make up the cost of buying it twice in one load. Only problem is, the US Navy and the US Coast Guard will spot that thing first time it gets anywhere close to the coast. He should know this. The Gulf of Mexico is the most monitored body of water anywhere.”
“Disposable sub? What are ye talkin’ about?” Roger asked.
Evan rubbed his jaw and stared off into the distance as if he were reading something in the waves. “Bear with me. The sub Mario is buying is a vastly upgraded version of a Foxtrot-class submarine, it was registered as a B-36 and in 1993 was supposedly sold for scrap. Well, it wasn’t. The Soviets frequently sold off their old inventory and created a paper trail to cover it up. This made American snoopers feel better. The now-dead Ivan worked with me to bribe politicians and government types to let us take it off their hands. That’s all I can get into. I got a history with the late Ivan. Trust me—he’s better off now than if I were to get ahold of him…But I digress. This old hunk officially can reach about sixteen knots on the surface and fifteen below. With the upgrades and modernization, it can reach about twenty-two knots with your fingers crossed. We could get from Cancun to Florida, which is roughly four hundred miles, in less than twenty-four hours. Of course, logistically you would have to unload your supplies at sea into some speedboats and pray you could do it before the US Coast Guard blasts you. This sub is huge, Roger, two hundred ninety-four feet long—almost as big as Mario’s yacht. It’s great bait for an egomaniac. Now the disposable narco subs that have been growing in popularity over the past decade or so are made of wood and fiberglass, are about ninety feet long, and can’t dive like a real sub. They hang just under the surface, which makes them hard to spot…Only problem is, the navy is making their detection devices more sensitive, which does not help the Foxtrot. It may do OK diving deep, but when that thing surfaces”—Evan laughed and spat—“you will see the coast guard and navy freak. Now, the advantage of a narco sub is that you use it, off-load near your target, and then sink it. They are cheap to build and carry four to twelve metric tons of cocaine. Of course, the big drawback is that same four hundred miles takes sixty-six hours. The upgraded Foxtrot could off-load about three times that.”
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 15