by Dalton Fury
Just then, the pilot slowed the Black Hawk and began banking to the west. Kolt looked around for some explanation, but in the cabin of the helo, eight sets of goggled eyes and one furry face just looked back at him.
The pilot came over Kolt’s headset seconds later, his Texas drawl pronounced. “Is this the ground force commander?”
“Call me Racer.”
“Chief Bartow in the cockpit. Just got a change of orders. I’ve been told to take you to a location south of Laredo, with further instructions to come. We’re thirty-five minutes out.”
“Roger that, thanks,” Kolt said, as he scribbled the words FRAGO — Laredo on a white wipe board and passed it around to his men. The men nodded, and they all hoped the fragmented order to change the landing zone meant some critical intel had been received that would get them the hit over the border.
THIRTY-FOUR
The two National Guard Black Hawks landed on a soccer field at an abandoned middle school well off the beaten path, a couple miles north of Rio Bravo, Texas. Here, the helos shut down their engines to save fuel. Racer and his men climbed out of the two birds, bringing with them guns and gear bags. They set up a hasty command post near the wobbly bleachers, and Raynor laid the sat phone down delicately. He prayed it would ring soon with Webber sending them a sit rep along with execute authority. They pulled up FalconView on a couple of laptops to familiarize themselves with the area, even though they had no way to pinpoint any targets.
Shit, Kolt thought. He was amped up about getting the SAMs and Doyle in one fell swoop. He needed to check his emotions on this. He told himself that the hit still could end up going to a team of SEAL studs in New Mexico, and he was getting way ahead of himself.
Colonel Jeremy Webber called within minutes. He was still in Eritrea at the Assab airport working some details out with the U.S. ambassador to Yemen, although he’d sent all the operators in the alert squadron back home on the double with a pair of MH-60Js in a C-17.
There was no greeting. “Are you on the ground?” Webber asked. Kolt could hear from his boss’s voice that the SEALs in New Mexico would not be getting the action this morning.
“Yes, sir. We are waiting for the Little Birds to get here. They had a problem cranking the flight lead’s MH and then have some weather on the way down to contend with. Do you know anything about the change of plans that brought us to Rio Bravo?”
“Yes, I pushed you there. ISR sighted a group of vehicles converging just south of Nuevo Laredo, directly to your west. One of the vehicles, a green medium-duty truck, matches a vehicle reported leaving a Zetas stronghold in Coahuila early this afternoon along with several more vehicles. They passed through Monterrey earlier in the evening, and now they are at an electrical substation complex ringed with two-dozen-plus armed security.”
Webber gave Raynor the coordinates, and Kolt found the Coyote Subestatión on his FalconView map. He was only six miles away. Kolt said, “They are right on the border, boss. Is anyone besides me assuming that Doyle and his MANPADs have a plan to make it into Texas?”
“I agree with you. So does the White House. We need to stop him on the Mexico side.”
“Why doesn’t the Air Force just flatten the place?” Kolt asked.
There was a pause on the line. “Shit, Racer. Guess you won’t be working for the State Department when you get too old to kick doors. The United States is not going to fly bombers over the border to bomb Mexico, especially not at a facility that controls the electrical power for over half a million citizens.”
“I know, boss. Stupid question. If we don’t get them before they get into the States, is the Border Patrol or some SWAT team ready to stop them inside the border?”
Webber just said, “They are being warned as we speak, but…”
Kolt got the inference. “Best we stop them before it comes to that.”
“That would be best.” Now the colonel cleared his throat. “The White House has cleared you for action inside Mexico. You have execute authority to destroy the suspected cache of SA-24s and eliminate any resistance you encounter to this objective. The White House is trying to work it out with Mexican authorities so that you don’t have to worry about federal forces as well as the Zetas targeting you.”
“I recommend against that, sir,” Kolt countered. “That would be like telling the Pakistanis that the SEALs are coming for bin Laden. This is already about as hasty as it gets. Let’s not turn this into a flash mob and a high-speed chase across the desert.”
“Sorry, Raynor. The White House has to be able to say they notified the Mexican government before we took action, and you guys wasting a bunch of Federales would be problematic.”
To Kolt this was all politics, and politics got in the way of his job.
The old Kolt would have bitched about this for a few seconds more. But the new Kolt just said, “Understood.”
“Stand by, Racer.”
As Kolt waited for Webber to get back on the line, he caught himself pacing back and forth in a ten-foot space near the south end soccer goal. He stopped, knowing that he must be looking awfully amped to his men watching from the bleachers.
“Raynor?”
“Go ahead, sir, still here.”
“You will have real-time UAV feed on your laptop within moments. There is fresh movement of vehicles at the substation right now.”
“Understood.”
“Not yet, you don’t. The SECDEF is concerned the missiles might be moving again within minutes. It has been decided that they are too close to the border and too close to the city of Nuevo Laredo, where our ISR will probably lose them, to risk waiting for them to leave their current location. They’re nervous at the highest levels, Raynor. Nobody wants to lose a jumbo jet on U.S. soil.”
“What are you saying, sir?” Kolt asked, confused.
“You have to go.” He paused, then said, “Now.”
Raynor’s eyebrows rose. “Little Birds are thirty-five minutes out, boss. We swimming the Rio Grande?”
“Negative. The two helos on scene will insert you to the target.”
Raynor’s voice rose as he said, “The National Guard air crews, sir? Are you fucking kidding?”
“The J3 is on their net now briefing them up. Make it happen. This is in extremis. The Little Birds can catch up later. No time to wait on them. And no time to infiltrate the area on foot and find a perfect opportunity.”
Kolt Raynor did not back down. “Sir, with all due respect. This is a total soup sandwich.”
“I understand, Major. It’s less than ideal. But the enemy gets a vote, and they just voted to hit the road, so you need to stop them.”
“Sir, where is the intel dump? How many bad guys? How many Mexican guards? What does the guard uniform look like? This is probably the most important mission we’ve had in the last ten years and we are assaulting with a troop minus, flying in on big, slow helos flown by the fucking Texas Air National Guard?”
“Racer, I can confirm you are outnumbered three to one. Kill the foreigners and spare the local guards, unless they engage you. Your country is counting on you guys to get this done.”
“Please, sir, don’t patronize me. You know we’re going in, but for the record, this is suicide.”
“Make your own luck, Kolt!” Webber said. “And for the record, I’d give anything to be hitting that target with you and your Tier One Wild boys tonight.”
Kolt thought, Well, come on down, but he did not say it.
“Racer out.”
* * *
The pilots of Racer’s National Guard Black Hawks had been getting their orders while Kolt was bickering with Colonel Webber, but as soon as they were done they climbed out of their helos and walked over to the scrum of men in goggles and black Nomex. Raynor walked the men away from the Delta assaulters and back over to their helos. Here, the three men shook hands.
Kolt looked the pilots over. In the long shadows from the lights of the helos and under cover of the full helmets on the men’s heads
, it was hard to see much of either pilot, but he could tell one was much older than the other. The younger man’s name tape identified him as Wilkins, and the older was Bartow. Bartow was the pilot of Racer’s aircraft.
Kolt said, “I imagine you guys heard what’s up?”
Both men nodded. The younger man spoke quickly. “Guess this ain’t just another repositioning flight to Waco.”
Kolt shook his head. “Not hardly.”
Bartow had a slow Texas drawl. He asked, “You guys Navy SEALs?”
“Yes,” Kolt lied. He then asked, “Guys. No offense, but do either of you have any experience with hot insertions?”
Wilkins shook his head, but said, “Did a tour in Afghanistan. Took some fire, but I’m not going to claim I’ve ever done anything like this.”
Kolt looked at Bartow. The older chief warrant officer said, “Did four tours in Iraq. Based mostly at Camp Victory. I’m no shit hot Night Stalker, but I put boys like you down in Sadr City at high noon more than once. Didn’t much care for it, but I got them all in and out. Chief Wilkins will follow me, we’ll get you down in one piece, and then we will stand off until recalled. It would be damn handy if you guys could do us the favor of shooting any son of a bitch you see shouldering one of those damn SAMs.”
Kolt knew he had the right man on the stick. “We’ll do our best. Sorry I questioned you, Chief.”
“No biggie. You just go back to worrying about everything else, and let us drive the buses.”
“You got it.”
* * *
Within a minute Raynor, Digger, Slapshot, and two other veteran sergeants in Raynor’s squadron were in the back of one of the Black Hawks, hunched over the laptop, watching real-time feed from a Homeland Security Predator high overhead. Together the men worked on their plan of attack.
The substation was surrounded by wires, which made the helicopter insertion even more difficult. Primary power lines, ground wires, and overhead lines ran all over the property inside the ten-foot-high security fence, and outside the fence, primary and secondary power lines ran north to Nuevo Laredo and west to the highway.
To the south the land was mostly flat and covered with trees and brush, and to the east it was much the same, with the only differing feature being the Arroyo del Coyote, Coyote Creek, a small, shallow, wooded, and winding creek that ran from the northwest all the way to the Rio Grande, two miles east of the substation.
Inside the security fence Kolt and his men counted twelve men armed with AKs, shotguns, and AR-15s in static sentry positions outside, and several more moving around a small complex of buildings in the back of the property.
At least a dozen vehicles were visible from the air, several of which looked like they belonged to the electric company. Of the others, Raynor saw no large trucks, although there was a van near the largest building on the property, and there were several SUVs.
Slapshot said, “Looks like a minimum of twenty-five crows. It’s going to be tough on the helo crews due to the high-tension wires.”
Rocket, the senior recce team leader and one of Racer’s snipers, added, “Look, who are we kidding? These National Guard guys don’t do wires at night. And it’s kinda dumb to be in these things when we know they have SAMs.”
Kolt said, “Rocket is exactly right. This is a cluster fuck in the making. But we need ideas, guys.”
“Are the Black Hawks fast-rope capable?” Slapshot asked.
“No.”
It was quiet for a second, then Digger asked, “What if one of the helos took us a few miles up the highway, and we commandeered a couple of vehicles? Just drove up to the gate. The other helo can come in low to mask sound and insert at the back of the compound.”
Kolt thought that sounded like a decent plan, but just then, on the UAV feed from over the border, the thermal images of three of the civilian SUVs at the substation began moving, heading toward the exit.
“Are those the target vehicles moving?” Slapshot asked quickly.
“Shit,” said Raynor. “Let’s load up. We can talk it over with the helo crews in the air.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Doyle had managed thirty minutes of sleep, but now Henrico had him up and walking down the stairs of the control building, and heading back out into the night.
The Mexican said, “We will reposition inside the city. There is a truck there with a trailer that is cleared for NAFTA crossing. They might X-ray it, but the truck is lined with goods that will not allow the X-ray to pass through. Your cargo will go down the middle of the trailer, and the truck will be in line as one of the first to pass through when the crossing opens in the morning.”
“Excellent,” said Doyle. “When do we leave?”
“Immediately. We need to load the cargo under cover of darkness, and it will be dawn in a half hour. I have some of my men leaving now. They will position themselves along the route into the city to make sure there are no roadblocks by the police.”
Doyle cocked his head. “And if there are roadblocks by the police?”
Henrico shrugged. “Then we kill a few police. The rest will leave.”
“Very good,” said David, and he headed outside with Henrico to move the trucks out of the garage.
He called the four men with the SAMs back from their positions so they could recrate the systems and get them back in the trucks, and then they fired up the vehicles.
A few minutes later, just as Doyle climbed inside the red Econoline, he heard one of Henrico’s men shout, “Helicóptero!” into the radio. A second later he heard, “Dos helicópteros!”
He heard rotor noise just after this, and he wasted no time shouting orders of his own. Miguel, Jerry, and Tim were with him in the van. He said, “Jerry and Tim! Each of you get an Igla out of the back and fire on the helicopters!”
The two men slid open the side door and pulled crates out onto the parking lot. Frantically, they began unpacking and assembling the big weapons.
* * *
“Texas two-one is over the border and one minute out,” Chief Warrant Officer Bartow announced as he gorilla-gripped the cyclic and fat-footed the peddles of his UH-60 Black Hawk. Behind him, Chief Warrant Officer Wilkins flew forty meters behind at his five o’clock. The crew chiefs of both helos manned.30 caliber miniguns on the starboard side of their aircraft.
Kolt replied in his headset. “Roger, one minute. Just stay as low as possible and put us on the biggest roof you see. And watch those wires.”
Kolt then reached down and found his radio knob, turned it three clicks to the right to switch from helo common to his assault net, and he keyed the mic near his left shoulder. He communicated with Rocket in the other aircraft, Texas two-two. “Rocket, you’ve got the squirters. Your helo will head to the road to the highway and land there so that no missiles escape.”
“What if they split up?” Rocket asked.
“Then go after any truck that looks like it could be hauling missiles.” Kolt was surprised he answered that quickly. He wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass, but it may have come out like that.
Rocket responded, “Sounds like a plan, boss. We’ll load back in the helo and follow the trucks that can shoot us down before we can tell what color they are.” Rocket made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.
Moments later, with both doors open and a door gunner in the port-side window, Texas two-one crossed the outer chain-link fence, passed a massive silver-and-rust-colored water tower on the right, and headed straight for the long two-story building bookended by large transformer power lines.
The operators unhooked their safety belts and slid on their rear ends to the edge of both doors, letting their boots and calves hang over the end and catch the powerful wind blast. At thirty seconds out, Kolt removed his headset and moved into a kneeling position to exit quickly behind his men.
“Shit! That’s them!” Kolt yelled as he saw three big International TerraStar trucks hauling ass for the front gate. Three SUVs led the trucks by fifty meters. Raynor felt certain he
was looking at the AQAP cell with the missiles, all heading toward the blocking position being set up by Texas two-two and eight operators.
Kolt neither wanted nor needed to stay on the roof engaging Zetas if his targets were heading out the front gate.
But Chief Bartow was lowering Texas two-one’s three rubber wheels down to the roof, concentrating on missing the high-tension wires all around, just like Racer had instructed him to do.
Kolt grabbed his wipe board and frantically scribbled, Stay on helo! He tried to pass it around, but everyone was focused on the hard landing to come.
They slammed down hard and the assaulters unassed the bird in two seconds, going prone on the roof. Kolt fought with the headset, trying to get it back on to tell Bartow not to take off just yet. He wanted to reload the helo to chase the fleeing convoy.
On the roof Slapshot fired his HK416 in short bursts at a group of men near an open garage. He dropped two, but a third spun around the corner of the building and aimed an RPG at the helo above him. The master sergeant screamed, “RPG!” as the weapon fired.
But his scream was lost in the thunderous engine noise from the Black Hawk.
The smoke trail raced just over Slaphshot’s head, and he turned to look behind him just as the finned grenade sailed straight through one open door of the helo and exited through the other open door, missing Major Raynor by a foot and a half.
A perfect shot and a perfect miss.
As he knelt in Texas two-one, Kolt’s eyes widened like softballs as the grenade passed. He dove out of the chopper, onto the roof, as Chief Bartow lifted back up into the dark sky, clipping two high-tension wires that snapped and sparked.
The Black Hawk raced off to the south.
“Somebody find the stairs!” Kolt yelled. He wanted his men off the roof and out of the line of fire before recalling Texas two-one.
* * *
Chief Warrant Officer Wilkins brought Texas two-two to a hover above the road halfway between the substation and Highway 85. Utility poles holding power lines ran along the south side of the road, so he brought his craft a touch to the north before landing just off the blacktop. Rocket and Digger and six other men leapt out of the helo and found cover in the greenery on either side of the road, as the headlights of the lead Los Zetas SUV closed on them from the east.