“Apo, this is Darren.” Chief Davis had walked into the office and was listening in on the call without Apo knowing, not that it would have made a difference. Apo spoke to every level of command pretty much the same way—with total cavalier confidence. “Special Activities Division Director Norman met with the president twenty minutes ago. Your ROE is to stand down. That’s a direct order from SAD, which came from the CIC. The president has been on face-to-face via live feed with the Mexican president for over an hour. We believe the NSA came up with enough solid evidence to convince General Ortega that Colonel Lozano was dirty. We’re anticipating their cooperation and a ferry ride towards Arista. If, however, it doesn’t go down that way, you’re to surrender. The White House will have you back home quickly and quietly if things go south, but you are not to engage the Mexicans, understood?”
Well that sucked. SAD ran SOG, and the Special Operations Group was technically in charge of the team, even though the team didn’t appear on any SOG roster because it was so secret even most of the CIA didn’t know it existed. If SAD met with the president and the president said surrender to an opposing force, then that’s what you did. The only problem with that was the men in this little team hadn’t ever done that in their history, and having them swallow down that bile might be insurmountable.
“Understood. Will advise when the birds arrive. Unless they just strafe the area and massacre all of us. Thanks for watching my six. Out.”
Apo turned off the sat-phone and looked at Moose, who saw Apo’s expression and knew something was wrong.
“News?” asked Moose.
“This comes from the top. ROE is to surrender if the Mexicans come in hot. Nonnegotiable. POTUS promises to have us back home after a brief stay in some shithole Mexican prison where you will be treated to the finest water and tamales. No shit. We’re not to fire a round. They come in and demand our surrender, and we hand over all weapons. Everyone needs to understand that.”
Moose blinked a few times. “So if we’d gotten that news an hour ago, we’d have surrendered to those eight elite warriors with the 1980s equipment and have been wasted by the Zetas. You shittin’ me? We surrender?”
“That is a direct order from the president of the United States of America.”
Even under the remnants of face paint, Moose’s face changed color. “So they land and say ‘surrender’ and we hand over our weapons and go visit a Mexican prison?”
Apo shrugged. “We don’t have to like it, but sometimes even I have to follow orders.”
Eric, ever the eagle eye, called out to Moose. “Birds coming in at three o’clock. Looks like a few of ‘em.”
Moose stood and walked to the center of his team. He took a deep breath and then used his larger-than-life command voice. “Listen up! If the incoming birds ain’t friendly, we have direct orders to surrender to the Mexican authorities. There will be no fight. Weapons on safe and nonthreatening postures. We’ll be standing with our new friends, so I’m not guessing they’re gonna come in and hose us all. But if they step out with weapons up, you raise your hands nice and high and await instructions. Do I make myself clear?”
There was stunned silence.
“Team! Weapons on safe. If threatened, you will surrender. Did I fucking stutter the first time?”
There were a few lackluster aye, ayes.
The SEALs and lone Marine secured their weapons and stood at ease with the Mexican Marines, watching the line of Black Hawks get closer. The field was flat and wide open—a fallow farm field—and the large birds began landing one at a time, making the tall grass ripple like waves in the sea.
When the birds were all on the ground, the rotors slowed and stopped, which was a bit surprising. It meant the incoming taxi service planned on being there for a while. Squad after squad of Mexican commandos began jumping from the helicopters and fanning out. They weren’t aiming their weapons at the team, but they were certainly geared up for business, and had much better equipment than the Marines currently with the team.
One of the last men to jump out wore a shiny dress helmet with four stars across the top. His uniform was crisp and covered with ribbons, with bloused uniform pants tucked into highly polished black jump boots. General Hernando Ortega himself. He was a tall man, and his face looked hard. He didn’t walk toward the Americans, he marched, with six men on each side holding their assault rifles across their chests at a ready but nonthreatening position.
The Mexican Marines with the Americans snapped to attention and held salutes as the general approached. He snapped a quick salute in return and the Marines lowered theirs but remained at attention.
“Which one of you is in charge?” he said in English. His accent indicated an educated man.
Moose stepped forward and snapped a salute. “Senior Chief Petty Officer Alfonzo Carlogio, United States Navy.”
The other men’s faces showed their surprise. For as long as they’d known Moose, not one of them knew his full first name was really Alfonzo. Moose was occasionally Al, or maybe even Alfred. But Alfonzo? This was big news.
“And which one of you shot and killed Colonel Lozano?” he asked curtly.
Moose answered immediately before anyone else could reply. “I’m the commanding officer of this team and all responsibility is on me.”
The general sized up Moose, who was a bit shorter, but a body and half wider. “I understand your position, and admire your professionalism and loyalty to your men. Still, I want to know who killed Colonel Lozano.”
“No one answer that,” snapped Moose. Another Mexican standoff.
“You misunderstand me, I believe,” said the general in a softer voice. “Certain information has been brought to the surface. Rafael Lozano was my son-in-law. He was the husband of my only daughter and the father of my grandchildren. And he has disgraced my family. I simply want to know how he died.”
Moose held up a hand for silence before Eric could open his mouth. “Your son-in-law, the colonel, compromised our mission to capture El Gato because he was taking money from him. When the colonel attempted to kill El Gato to prevent him from implicating the colonel, one of my team members shot him once, in the head. I personally shot and killed the lieutenant, and for that, I am truly sorry. If I hadn’t, he would have killed me. It’s that simple. There was a brief firefight and additional casualties. We attempted to stabilize your wounded before escaping with El Gato before his Las Zetas soldiers returned, as well as your Marines. It was a very unfortunate situation, General Ortega, but not one that we wanted or started. I have been instructed by my commander in chief to surrender to you and your men if that is your order. I’d much prefer to continue our mission and find a potential weapon of mass destruction before it leaves Mexico and strikes the United States.”
The general stared at Moose for a moment and then quietly said, “Walk with me, Alfonzo. Please.”
The general began walked, not marching, away from the group, with Moose following. They walked twenty yards or so, where they stood in complete privacy. The general reached into his chest pocket and withdrew a cigarillo. He offered one to Moose.
“Thanks, no. One of life’s bad habits I missed.”
The general lit it with a large silver Zippo and returned the lighter to his pocket. He puffed the thin cigar and tried to find the right words.
“I love my daughter and my grandchildren more than my own life. You have children?”
“No, sir. Lousy job for relationships at my grade.”
“Very true. Real soldiers are never home.” He puffed more blue smoke. “I loved Rafael because he was a good father. An excellent provider. I think I allowed the love of my family to make me blind. I should have known something was wrong. He lived a little too well for a colonel. It wasn’t my place to interfere with how he spent his money, but I always worried he was spending every penny he was making. But it was always on his children. I let that get in the way.”
“I think I understand,” said Moose quietly.
&n
bsp; “I love my country, Senior Chief. I would die for Mexico. And before I was a general with a desk, I carried a gun in the hot sun, just like you. A few of us want our country back, but it’s very, very difficult. The budget for the Mexican military is about twelve billion dollars a year. A little less than your six hundred billion a year, no? The problem is, the cartels are making maybe twenty billion a year. Their armies are legitimate fighting forces, with no rules of engagement. No rules of humanity! They massacre entire villages. They wipe out whole police departments. Everyone is terrified. Mexico is close to becoming a failed state, Senior Chief. There are so few of us left who are willing to risk it all for our country’s future. And it’s hard to blame the local police for looking the other way. They have no tools against these cartels, and can’t trust anyone they work with. My own son-in-law! Do you know what that will do to the country’s morale if that becomes public?”
Moose’s light bulb went off. The general wanted the embarrassment kept quiet.
As if the general read his mind, he blurted out, “It’s not about the shame for my family! That would be terrible enough, but no—I could deal with that. It’s the fact that if the highest-ranking officer in the land’s own son-in-law can’t be trusted, then what chance do we have? What chance? Ever? The people of my country are terrified. They need hope. They need someone to fight for them. They deserve justice, and safety, and rule of law. And so, I now ask you . . .”
Moose raised a hand. “General Ortega, I believe you to be an honorable man. This conversation, between a general and an enlisted man, doesn’t happen but maybe once every hundred years. My team and I were never here. Your son-in-law was killed in the line of duty while taking down El Gato and Las Zetas. No one ever has to know anything else. Let him be a hero to your people. It doesn’t matter to us. But we do need your help, General. The ISIS terrorists have most likely planned a major attack against the US. We need to get to the Sinaloas and find Joaquin Salazar and whatever is in that package from Syria. You have air mobile and what looks to be well-trained men with you. We can do this together, sir.”
The general extended his hand to Moose. “Senior Chief, I appreciate your understanding of the situation, both personally and professionally. You shall have whatever you need.”
The two of them returned to where the others waited, hunkered down in the tall grass. Moose barked out to his men. “On me!”
The team gathered around the general and their skipper and listened to his briefing. “The general has been kind enough to offer us air and reinforcements. Apo, put together a plan and we’ll discuss how this is going to work. You have thirty minutes to eat, shit, and gear up; then we’re heading south to find that package and kick some more ass. Hooyah?”
There was a speedy “Hooyah!” and the team began taking apart combat packs to find MREs, which would be given to McCoy, their amateur chef, to turn into something edible. Once they settled into their routines, Apo got back on the sat-phone to Langley for a sit-rep.
The guys on the team began throwing their MRE packets at McCoy, who made his usual announcement about “Meals Rejected by Ethiopians.” He and Jon Cohen were ripping open MRE packets and combining them into something almost edible to feed the team while they had thirty minutes to kill. Eat when you can, sleep when you can—the life of a warrior.
Jon had been acting as “sous chef,” opening up the packets and handing them to Pete, who was mixing them together and throwing in the small packet of spices he always carried around with him. The other men were taking apart weapons and checking gear. While McCoy mixed and invented some new food product, he randomly asked Jon, “Hey, man, can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“You’re like the only Jewish guy I ever knew in the SEALs. How’d you end up in the navy?”
Jon laughed. “I’m not the only Jewish guy I ever knew in the navy, but I think they probably always sought me out because my last name’s Cohen, and that made me easy to find. There aren’t a lot of Jewish SEALs because there aren’t a lot of SEALs, period. But to answer your question, it’s a long story.”
McCoy kept cooking up his mess. “We got time to kill, bro.”
“Fine. My mother was the all-time biggest pacifist. She hated violence and fighting, and I grew up in a very mellow, middle-class house where no one ever raised their voice or a hand. Everyone just talked to each other. As a little kid, like second grade, I was about the same size as everyone else, but I was a total geek. More into drawing than sports, and definitely not a tough guy.
“There were these four guys that always hung out together and were the typical class bullies. They took great joy in tormenting me—always just pushing me around. Playground, sidewalk, hallway, wherever. I was taught not to fight back, so for like three years, this little group of assholes just picked on me whenever they felt like it, and I never said anything about it. Some days, I just wanted to cry because I felt helpless and scared. Four on one was intimidating when you came from a home where no one even yelled at you.
“Then one day, maybe fifth grade, I was at this girl’s house that I had my first crush on. And I’m standing there talking to this beautiful little girl and the main asshole shows up. We’re outside her house, just talking, playing, whatever it is fifth graders do, I don’t know, and this asshole picks up a wet newspaper—it had just rained that morning—and whips it at me for no reason. It hit me and exploded with vile wet newspaper shit all over me, which he thought was hilarious. On any other day, I probably would have run home. But on that day, Tracy was there watching, and I was humiliated. Something inside the little brain clicked, and my four fingers made a little ball with my thumb covering them up real tight, and I ran to that little prick and punched him square in the nose and knocked him on his ass. I’m not sure which of us was more shocked, really. When he got up, his nose was bleeding all over the place. I remember I was shaking like a leaf, the way we do after combat, you know? And he just got up, started crying, and hopped on his bike and took off. It was maybe one of the finest moments of my entire life. I’d taken a lot of shit from that asshole for years.”
“Nice,” said McCoy, quietly.
“Yeah, well, next day at school, the four of them catch me alone in the hallway and say, ‘Meet us at the park after school.’ And now I know I’m going to get my ass kicked. I tell my best friend, who comes with me to the park around the corner. He was tougher than me and gave me a pep talk the whole way walking over to my certain death. When we get there, asshole number two of the group says something like I sucker-punched his friend and he’s gonna kick my ass. So I asked if it was going to just be me and him, or all four of them against me, and he said he didn’t need his friends. So he steps forward and takes this giant right hook at me—like a totally wild, ‘close your eyes and hope to hit a home run’ swing. And I ducked. And then I stepped forward and did exactly the same thing as I’d done the day before, right in his nose. Knocked him on his ass, too.
“He stand up and screams ‘You got a rock in your hand!’ as he’s bleeding all over the place. Like he was trying to justify it to his friends, who were all equally shocked. I opened both hands to show they were empty and said something like, ‘There’s nothing in my hands, but if you ever touch me again, I’m going to keep punching you until your face explodes.’ Some version of that. Anyway, the four of them just left. And that was it. They never said another word to me after that day. Not one of them. We even ended up at the same high school and eventually acknowledged each other’s existence, although we were never friends. They all ended up losers.
“The experience taught me a few things. First, that my mom had been wrong for years. This whole ‘turn the other cheek’ thing was bullshit. You have to stand up for yourself. And second, that if you have the courage and balls to stand up to anyone, anywhere, at any time, no one will ever give you shit. I took karate after that and by the time I got to high school, had very quietly become a lethal weapon. I didn’t talk
about it, didn’t look for fights—nothing like that. But anytime any asshole ever made a comment about me being Jewish, I took great joy in taking that muthafucker apart.”
“People gave you shit about being Jewish, huh?” asked McCoy.
“Does my nose look big to you?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Exactly. Except that Jews are supposedly all big-nosed or something. And some asshole in high school tries to be funny at the big lunch table and says, really loud so everyone can hear him, ‘Why do all Jews have big noses? Because air is free!’ Because we’re all cheap, too, apparently. And I wrist-locked him, swept him off his seat, and took him to the floor in about two seconds. Still had his wrist in one hand and his long hair in the other and I whispered into his ear, ‘How about I bounce your face against the floor so many times you never breathe through your nose again?’ And then I got back up and quietly ate my lunch. No one said a word for the rest of lunch. Just silence. I felt like fucking Superman.
“Somewhere around that time, I decided that there would always be assholes around the world that needed to be dealt with, and the world needed some folks to stand up and take them on. I know it sounds corny, but it’s the truth. My mom shit when I told her I was joining the navy and wanted to become a SEAL. But once I focused on it, it’s all I worked for every day. And now here I am ten years later, kickin’ ass with my bros all over the world, and loving every minute of it.”
McCoy nodded and gave an approving smile. “You’re one hundred percent bad-ass, Frogman. Most guys are like ninety-five, ninety-six percent, tops. You’re one hundred percent.”
Jon laughed. “Every man on this team is one hundred percent. Even that little dude Apo. Maybe especially him.”
McCoy laughed. “Yeah, no shit. Little dude’s got big brass ones. I like him. You see him standing there in the road when the Mexis rolled up on him? He was cool as a cucumber, man. I’ll share a foxhole with him. And with you, too, bro. Any day.”
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