Drone (A Troy Pearce Novel)

by Mike Maden

  “Stellar Wind?” She wasn’t expecting that. The libertarian in her struggled with the idea of using warrantless antiterror search technology on her fellow citizens, even the rotten ones.

  “Dillinger said he robbed banks because that’s where the money was. A lot of the bad guys you’ll be hunting are running around up here.”

  “You’re right. Still . . .”

  “Something else bothering you?” Pearce asked.

  “It’s ‘Big Brother’ technology. I just hate the idea of the government knowing everything there is to know about everybody.”

  “You’ll hate not knowing where your targets are even more.”

  “I’ll tell Mike I’m authorizing Stellar Wind. Thanks again for your help. Your country owes you a great debt.”

  “Yeah, it does. Early still hasn’t cut me a check for the last job. So, how about that favor?”

  Myers was caught between a rock and a hard place. She wanted to help her friend, but the nation came first. “How about a compromise? I can’t redeploy any of our intelligence assets away from our search, but I can give your people full access to everything we generate in the data stream. Will that work for now?”

  “I’ll take what I can get. Thanks.”

  “But it’ll cost you,” Myers said.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I need you to talk to somebody for me.”

  Myers posted Cruzalta’s name and address to Pearce.

  Pearce read it. “In person, I take it?”

  “I’ve found that face-to-face is always more effective.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  She smiled coyly. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

  Pearce remembered his first meeting with Myers with a grin. “Apparently.”

  She turned serious. “Just be sure you realize that without him, we can’t move forward.”

  Pearce’s grin faded. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  “Good. Because we’re totally FUBAR if you drop the ball on this.”

  36

  Boca de Tomatlán, Mexico

  Just a quarter mile north of the sleepy little bay village was an open-air bar called El Pirata Libre. It perched on a collection of steps on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, its various palm-frond roofs jutting up at sharp angles. The place felt more Polynesian than Mexican despite the stone floors and round tiled tables. It was a favorite haunt of Canadian snowbirds and retired Americans who crowded the place every sunset to say good-bye to the great golden disc as it plunged into the sea. Cruzalta liked it because the booze was cheap and strong, and the endless tracks of Jimmy Buffett music were loud enough to drown out the mindless conversations taking place all around him. A perfect place for a middle-aged man to hide in plain sight.

  Cruzalta wore the same gaudy tropical shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops that every other güero in the bar was wearing. It was the natural camouflage for the terrain. The only difference was that Cruzalta wasn’t cramming a beer-barrel gut beneath his Tommy Bahama shirt and his calves were sculpted like diamonds from his daily five-mile run.

  Cruzalta stood at the far rail on the lowest level of the bar nearest the ocean, drink in hand, staring out at the purpling sky, the setting sun half submerged on the far horizon.

  “Colonel Cruzalta, a word, please,” whispered in his ear.

  Cruzalta’s first instinct was to reach for the pistol in his concealed holster, but the voice in his ear was distinctly American and he felt neither the point of a blade nor the blunt edge of a pistol barrel in his back.

  “Why not?” Cruzalta said.

  Cruzalta turned around. He didn’t recognize the fortysomething-year-old man standing in front of him, but he had the poise of a fighter in repose, completely relaxed and yet able to strike at the blink of an eye. There was a fierce, welcoming intelligence behind the man’s clear blue eyes as well.

  “You must be Pearce,” Cruzalta said. “You travel fast. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “My pilot has a lead foot,” Pearce said. He was referring to Judy Hopper, of course. She’d flown Pearce down in the company HondaJet and was getting the plane refueled at that very moment. “What’s good to drink here?”

  Cruzalta held up his whiskey glass. “Anything without an umbrella. Follow me.”

  Cruzalta slipped into the gray-haired crowd, brushing past the wide asses and veiny legs peeking out of too-short shorts. They made their way to the bar at the top level and ordered a couple of Johnnie Walker Blacks.

  “Cheers,” Cruzalta said as he clinked glasses with Pearce. They both tossed back their drinks.

  “Another round,” Cruzalta barked in Spanish to the barkeep. Two more were set up. Two more tossed down.

  “You’re the man who took out our friend Castillo, aren’t you?” Cruzalta asked.

  “Me and my team.”

  “Impressive. You did more in one day against Castillo than I was able to do in twenty years. I just wish you’d done it earlier.” Cruzalta picked up a third whiskey and knocked it back. Pearce didn’t touch his.

  “You tired of feeling sorry for yourself, Colonel?”

  Cruzalta’s face hardened. “How would you feel if it was your soldiers who were burned to death?”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you ran the operation as well as could have been expected, given your orders.”

  “I did what I was told to do. That was my error. A good commander takes initiative. I should have disobeyed my orders. Taken more precautions.”

  “Soldiers are supposed to obey orders. Your reward was to be treated dishonorably. But then again, what else should one expect from a dishonorable man like Barraza?”

  Cruzalta cursed. “Politicians. They’re all the same, no?”

  “I used to think they were. But I’ve recently learned that a few are capable of doing the right thing for the right reasons.”

  The Marine snorted. “Like your Myers? She’s just another gringa with a gun pointed at our heads.”

  “No, she’s not. In fact, that’s why I’m here. She wants me to ask you a question.”

  Cruzalta blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Ask me a question? What question?”

  “Is there somewhere else we can talk?”

  “My brother’s place, up on the hill.”

  “Does he have a satellite dish?”

  —

  Cruzalta pulled a couple of cold Tecates out of the fridge.

  Pearce was on his cell phone as he flipped through several satellite television channels until he found an unused station.

  Cruzalta set Pearce’s beer on the table and fell onto the couch. He popped open his bottle and took a swig.

  Pearce thanked whoever was on the other end of the call and clicked off. He picked up his beer and opened it.

  “So your president wanted you to come down here to show me movies, Señor Pearce?”

  “Not exactly. Cheers.” He took a sip.

  The TV channel acquired a signal. An empty chair appeared on-screen. A portrait of Winston Churchill hung on a wall behind the chair. A moment later, Myers stepped into the frame and sat down.

  Cruzalta instinctively stood up.

  “Colonel Cruzalta. Thank you so much for meeting with me. Please, have a seat.”

  Cruzalta glanced at Pearce, confused.

  Pearce grinned. “We’re pretty casual north of the border. Relax.”

  Cruzalta sat down. He realized he still had the beer in his hand and set it down on the table.

  “Colonel, let me speak directly. We need your help. We have reason to believe that the Iranians have partnered with one or more of the drug cartels and that this alliance poses a strategic threat to both the United States and Mexico.”

  Cruzalta shook his head. “There have always been such rumors. Where is
the evidence?”

  Pearce clicked a button on a remote. A new image appeared. It had the point of view of a hidden handheld video camera. It was tracking Cruzalta’s doomed convoy heading for the tunnel on the way to pick up the Castillo boys. As the vehicles raced down the highway, the image came in and out of focus as the automatic focus feature engaged.

  The blood drained out of Cruzalta’s face.

  The camera swung up into the air to catch Cruzalta’s helicopter. One of the camera operators chattered in Farsi.

  Pearce translated. “He just said, ‘Keep the camera on the convoy. It’s coming to the tunnel.’”

  “An Iranian?” Cruzalta asked.

  Pearce nodded.

  The camera swung back down shakily just in time to catch the convoy dash into the tunnel. The Iranian voice whispered loudly.

  Pearce translated again. “He’s saying, ‘Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .’”

  BOOM! An explosion in the tunnel. Napalm-fueled fire jetted out of the tunnel entrance.

  The two Iranian camera operators roared with laughter. No translation was needed.

  “Turn it off,” Cruzalta demanded. Pearce did.

  Myers reappeared. “I’m sorry to have upset you, Colonel. But you asked for evidence. We now suspect that the Iranians may be working with the Bravos.”

  “Why? What would the Iranians get from an alliance with Victor Bravo?”

  “The Iranians have weapons and training. The Bravos have smuggling routes and safe houses throughout North America.”

  “Perhaps the Iranians were always working with the Bravos,” Cruzalta suggested.

  “Why would you say that?” Pearce asked.

  “Bravo and Castillo have been trying to wipe each other out for years—a true ‘Mexican standoff.’ Neither could prevail. And yet, one did—arguably the weaker one. How?”

  “We took out the Castillos,” Myers said.

  “Yes, of course. But why?”

  “Because of the cross-border violence,” Myers said. “Including my own son.”

  “But what changed? Why would the Castillos attack El Paso?”

  “Stupidity? Accident? Misjudgment?” Myers offered.

  “Perhaps. But look at the result. Now the Bravos and the Iranians are in control. The attack could have been made by accident or stupidity—”

  “Or by design,” Pearce concluded.

  “That seems more reasonable to me,” Cruzalta said.

  “If true, that means the Iranians have been playing a very sophisticated game,” Myers said. “And playing me like a banjo.”

  “We must inform my government immediately,” Cruzalta said.

  “Unfortunately, there’s more to our story,” Myers said.

  Pearce pulled out a digital recorder and played an intercepted call between Victor Bravo and Hernán Barraza in which Bravo assures Hernán that he had nothing to do with the Houston attack and Hernán, in turn, assures Victor that their alliance is still intact.

  “How did you get this?” Cruzalta asked, incredulous.

  “Once the Bravos were identified in the Houston attack, we turned our attention to Victor Bravo. Exactly how we intercepted the call I’m not at liberty to discuss,” Myers said.

  Cruzalta shook his head in disbelief. “This means the Bravos will be able to create the first true narcostate in the Western Hemisphere in cooperation with the Barrazas.”

  Pearce took another sip of beer. “And the Iranians would have a government friendly to their cause and a base of operations that gives them a two-thousand-mile contiguous border with the Great Satan. What the Soviets could only dream of with communist Cuba, the Iranians would actually have with Hernán Barraza’s Narco-Mexico.”

  “Are the Barrazas working with the Iranians as well? Or just Bravo?”

  “All we know for sure is that Hernán and Victor Bravo have been talking. It would be smart for Bravo to keep his relationship with the Iranians hidden from the Barrazas. Otherwise, it might appear to be a threat to them, especially if we found out about it,” Pearce said.

  “And now we have,” Myers said.

  Cruzalta stood back up and began pacing, trying to process the massive data dump.

  “Why have you told me all of these things? I’m a retired soldier. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Myers smiled. “I have told you all of these things because I know that you are a patriot and love your country as much as I love mine. You have fought bravely against your nation’s enemies, and your reputation is beyond reproach.” Myers let that sink in for a moment then added, “That’s why I want you to be the next president of Mexico.”

  Cruzalta laughed.

  “And how would you accomplish that? An invasion? A CIA coup? No, thank you. The last thing Latin America needs is another government installed by the U.S. security services.”

  “It’s not possible to change a country from the outside. Mexico itself must change. It needs new leadership that will create a real democracy.”

  “Do you think this is your original idea? There are many of us in Mexico who have dreamed of such a thing. But the ruling parties have a stranglehold on power.”

  “And that power has been based on the narcotraficantes for the last twenty years. If I help you eliminate them, then legitimate power can rule again. Under your leadership.”

  “No. I am not the man. But I know the one who is. And a dozen governors who would back him if they knew that a Bravo sicario wouldn’t blow their heads off the next day.”

  “The fact that you don’t want to be president makes you the perfect candidate, Colonel Cruzalta,” Myers lamented. “But you know yourself better than anyone else does. And we need your guidance on this matter. I have no desire to do any nation building or remake Mexico in our image. I just want a free, prosperous, and democratic Mexico that no longer poses a strategic threat to my country.”

  “Then you would find many willing hands to help you, I assure you,” Cruzalta said.

  “We’ve already begun preparation for an operation to eliminate the Bravos. How long before you can contact your candidate and work out some sort of a schedule?” Pearce asked.

  Cruzalta shook his head, incredulous. “You are presuming I am agreeing with this madness. As attractive as it sounds, I hope you will both understand that I have a hard time believing any of it is true. Americans always do what is best for Americans. ‘¡Pobre México! ¡Tan lejos de Dios y tan cerca de los Estados Unidos!’”

  “I cannot undo the past. Our countries have a shared history and not all of it is good. But together we can create a new future. But I also understand that trust must be earned, so let me propose this: we have located the Castillo killers responsible for the deaths of your men in the tunnel. They are currently residing in California. You are free to choose a team of your best men and take them down.”

  “Arrest them? Or kill them?”

  “Whichever you prefer. Mr. Pearce?”

  Pearce pulled a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Cruzalta.

  Myers continued. “That is my executive order declaring the Castillo killers listed as enemy combatants and terrorists. I have the legal authority to name them as such. They are on American soil. I am now deputizing you to carry out the order to eliminate them as a threat. Mr. Pearce is a witness.”

  Cruzalta stared at the paper. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “If I were to release this to the newspapers, it would destroy your presidency.”

  “Yes, it would. My fate is in your hands. But so is the fate of Mexico. So here is my proposal. Coordinate your efforts with Mr. Pearce. Any equipment you might need, transportation, whatever it takes, he will make available to you. After you have had your vengeance, then decide if my offer is real. If you think it is, we can move ahead with our plans.”

  “And if I still refuse?”

&
nbsp; “I would understand completely. If I were in your shoes, I would be skeptical, too. I will do everything in my power to see Mexico become the prosperous and democratic nation I think it could be. But make no mistake. I will protect my country at whatever cost, with or without Mexico’s help.”

  Cruzalta folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He looked at Pearce. “When can we leave?”

  AUGUST

  37

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Another meeting. Myers felt better about this one, though. At least it was a smaller circle of trusted advisors.

  FBI Director Jackie West reported the bad news first: still no leads on the Bravo commandos who blew up the oil storage facility and sunk the Estrella in its moorings.

  “Bill, is there any chance the Bravos made it back across the border to Mexico?” Myers asked.

  The secretary of homeland security hesitated. “Since we don’t know where they are, then technically we can’t be certain. But my best guess is that they’re holed up somewhere in the U.S., waiting to strike again.”

  Myers sighed with frustration. After her meeting with Diele, she backed off of her idea to seal the borders. He was the worst kind of politician, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. The country was still euphoric after the “Drill, baby, drill!” speech and the surging stock markets. Her favorability rating peaked to its highest level ever. Jeffers had counseled her to hold off on the border decision because it would kick up a storm that would rob her of the momentum she now enjoyed, and she was going to need every ounce of political capital she had to weather the coming weeks. She had agreed, reluctantly. Now she was beginning to regret that decision.

  “Any chance that more Bravos have crossed over to our side?” Myers asked.

  “Again, no telling. They shouldn’t have been able to the first time. But with the heightened alert, I’m confident we’re probably okay,” Donovan said.

  “Probably okay? That’s hardly reassuring.”

  “I told you I’d always shoot straight with you. I never promised I’d always hit the target.”