Against All Enemies

by Tom Clancy

In a somewhat notorious cable leaked by U.S. diplomats, the Mexican Army was described as closed-minded, risk-averse, and much too territorial after agencies like the DEA and CIA attempted to work with them to combat drug runners; in contrast, Mexican Navy officers had been working with their U.S. counterparts for years and had already earned their trust. The level of cooperation between the Navy and the American agencies was unmatched. Understandably, the DEA had always been squeamish about working in conjunction with any Mexican force after the now famous kidnapping of one of their most successful agents, Enrique Camarena, who back in 1985 was abducted by corrupt police, tortured, then brutally murdered.

  Captain Omar Luis Soto was Moore’s contact with the FES, and that was no accident, because they knew each other from Coronado. Soto was in his late thirties by now, with an easy grin, broad shoulders, and a nose that he referred to as “Mayan architecture.” While his stature was less than intimidating, his marksmanship made him the most memorable guy in the Mexican group. When asked how he was able to make so many kill shots with so many different weapons, he only smiled and said, “I want to live.” Moore had later learned that Soto’s passion was target shooting and he’d been honing his skills since childhood.

  Moore thought it would be great to see the man again, though he wished it was under different circumstances. And to be clear, as Slater had put it, the United States had nothing to do with the raid on Jorge Rojas’s mansion. For its part, the FES was being paid very well to keep the entire operation under wraps so that the Mexican government was none the wiser.

  As Slater had learned and Moore had suspected, Soto’s team was trembling with the desire for a raid and were thrilled to be working alongside two Americans with good intelligence.

  Campo Militar 1

  Mexico City

  Moore and Towers landed in Mexico City by mid-afternoon, rented a car, and drove out to a military installation between Conscripto and Zapadores Avenues and the Belt Freeway. It was the only military base Moore had ever seen with pink walls and black wrought-iron fencing. They showed their IDs to the guard at the main gate, who made a call and checked their names off a list, and then they were waved on through. They reached a single-story administration building where they’d been told they would meet up with Soto and the rest of his team. The conference room was being loaned to the Navy by the camp’s administrators, and Soto had apologized in advance for traffic and less-than-stellar accommodations.

  A few seconds after Moore guided them into a parking space, the twin doors opened, and Soto appeared, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He grinned and shook Moore’s hand vigorously. “Good to see you again, Max!”

  “You, too.” Moore introduced Towers, and they quickly followed Soto into the building. They reached a conference room after navigating three hallways that had not seen a janitor’s mop in some time. They stepped inside, where about twelve men all dressed in civilian clothes like Soto had clustered around a long table. Much to Moore’s surprise there was a projection unit at the back of the room where they could plug in their computers and iPads to display images. They had requested the equipment but weren’t sure the FES would come through.

  Soto took his time introducing them to each and every operator, all seasoned Navy personnel turned Special Forces operators. Two of the men were pilots. Once the introductions were finished, Towers switched into briefing mode, cleared his throat, and in Spanish said, “All right, gentlemen, what we’re about to do will make headlines. Jorge Rojas isn’t just one of the richest men in the world. He’s one of the most significant drug cartel leaders in history, and tonight we’re going to take him down and dismantle his cartel.”

  “Señor Towers, our group is used to making history,” said Soto, eyeing his team with a healthy dose of admiration. “So you can count on us.”

  Moore glanced around the room. The men were beaming with anticipation, and seeing that, Moore’s pulse began to race.

  He thought once more of Khodai, Rana, Fitzpatrick, Vega, and Ansara, and how tonight he would ensure that none of them had died in vain.

  Towers raised his voice. “Gentlemen, we have the blueprints to Rojas’s mansion, and we’re going to go over them very carefully, but we have to assume that not everything is on here. After that we’re going to analyze the entire neighborhood and fine-tune our attack plan. Once again, I need to emphasize that this entire operation is highly classified. We cannot, under any circumstances, allow the government to know this operation is taking place.”

  Soto nodded. “We understand, Señor Towers. All the arrangements have been made …”

  THE FIRE IN THEIR HANDS

  Los Angeles International Airport (LAX)

  Cell-Phone Waiting Lot

  9011 Airport Boulevard

  IN TIMES OF WAR, preparations must be made.

  Men must be sacrificed.

  And Allah’s wisdom must not be questioned.

  When Samad was a boy growing up in Sangsar, a small village on the outskirts of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan, he’d stare up at the snow-covered peaks and watch as planes cut across them. He would imagine the pilots making sharp turns and landing their aircraft directly on top of the peaks so that passengers could come outside and take pictures. Samad and his friends would meet them up there and sell them souvenir postcards and jewelry to commemorate their extraordinary trip. Samad had never figured out exactly how he and his friends were supposed to climb the mountains, but that wasn’t important. Sometimes he imagined himself flying aboard one of those planes to some place where they had candy—chocolate, to be more precise. He dreamed of chocolate …every day …for years. White, milk, sweet, semisweet, and dark were all his favorites. He’d come to learn a few names of the manufacturers, too: Hershey’s, Cadbury, Godiva, and he had even watched a black-market videotape copy of the movie Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on TV in the back of a rug salesman’s booth at his local bazaar.

  As he sat there in the idling van, with Niazi in the passenger’s seat and Talwar shouldering the missile launcher in the back of the van, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the picture of his father, wearing that broken-toothed grin, his beard like steel wool, his face blurred by the yellowed plastic. He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a Hershey’s Kiss—he’d bought a package at the Dollar Tree. He unwrapped the candy and placed it in his mouth, letting the chocolate melt across his tongue.

  I’m not an evil man, he’d told his father. The infidels have brought this upon themselves, and I am Allah’s instrument. You have to believe that, Father. You can’t doubt it for one second. Please …

  He checked his watch, pocketed the photo, then told Talwar and Niazi to wait as he stepped out of the van.

  The text messages from their team inside the airport had already been pouring in:

  From 8185557865: The flight is pulling away now.

  From 8185556599: Taxiing to the runway.

  From 8185554590: Lifting off.

  Each three-man team outside the airport was supported by another three-man team inside; these inside teams were from sleeper cells planted in the country years prior. They worked as custodians or baggage handlers or at any of the dozens of businesses located inside the terminals. They were simply spotters with good intel that supported the flight data Samad could view on his computer. Their job was to watch, report, and, above all, not be identified or captured.

  He stood near the van’s hood and tapped on his iPhone to bring up the Airline Identifier application that he’d downloaded from iTunes for $4.99. He pointed it at the plane flying just overhead, one that had taken off before their target, and the application correctly identified the airline, the flight number, the speed, the destination, the distance from Samad, and more. While the software wasn’t always accurate, and while Samad felt certain that the next flight coming would be theirs, he’d instructed all the other teams to be doubly sure that they had the correct flight. Rahmani had been very specific about that, because at the designated time, a slee
per agent aboard each plane—a man who was going to martyr himself—would read a statement to the passengers. These men didn’t need to hide explosive liquids inside travel-sized containers while trying to comply with the 3-1-1 rule for liquids. They could board the plane completely naked and still deliver their message. The Department of Homeland Security’s Transportation Security Administration (TSA) was powerless to stop them while they had Allah’s will on their side. Moreover, the sleepers would instruct passengers to turn their camera-equipped cell phones back on and record what happened. That video would be released to the American public, either through e-mail, streamed directly to the Web, or after being recovered from the wreckage.

  Samad squinted into the distance, heard the deep baritone of approaching jet engines, then rapped twice on the van’s hood. The back doors opened and Talwar came out, although the missile launcher was still inside. Talwar held up his cell phone, as though talking, but he was, in truth, getting into his firing position. The plane’s flashing lights appeared in the distance, and then finally the fuselage came into view and streaked past them as Talwar pivoted toward it.

  “Three, two, one, fire,” Samad whispered.

  “And three, two, one, reload,” Talwar answered.

  Niazi shifted beside his friend and nodded. “Reloading in three, two, one. Ready to fire.”

  “Ready to fire. Three, two, one, fire,” said Talwar.

  Samad counted another five seconds to himself, then said, “Let’s go.” He took one last look at the plane and then consulted the iPhone app, which correctly IDed it as Delta flight 2965. He climbed into the van, then glanced around at the other drivers around him. Not a single person had looked up from his or her cell phone. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Talwar had been wrong? Perhaps these Americans were so hypnotized by their technology that not even a shoulder-fired missile launch right beside them would be enough to pry them away from their apps and games and YouTube videos and social-networking sites. After all, they strolled through shopping malls like zombies, staring blankly into the tiny screens clutched in their hands, never looking up, never considering that the fire that would burn their souls forever was already in their hands.

  “I don’t see any problems,” said Talwar, reinspecting the Anza launcher from the back of the van. “The battery is still fully charged.”

  Samad nodded. “Allahu Akbar.”

  The men echoed. And as they drove away, Samad remembered a question that Talwar had asked him. “What will we do when it’s all over? Where will we go? Back home?”

  Samad had shaken his head. “We can never go home.”

  Rojas Mansion

  Cuernavaca, Mexico

  56 Miles South of Mexico City

  The clock read 1:21 a.m., and Jorge Rojas grunted, threw an arm over his forehead, and closed his eyes. Again. Alexsi lay beside him, sleeping quietly. Somewhere in the distance, Rojas thought he heard the sound of a helicopter—another police chase, to be sure. He cleared his mind and let himself drift further into the darkness.

  Misión del Sol

  Resort and Spa

  Cuernavaca, Mexico

  Miguel rolled over and discovered that Sonia was gone, but a thin wedge of light came from the door leading into the bathroom of the posh villa they had reserved for the night. He reached for his phone to check the time, but it wasn’t on the nightstand where he thought he’d left it. Hmmm. Probably still in his pants pocket, then. The bathroom light flickered, shadows shifted. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well. They’d had a pretty good day together, although he was still depressed and she seemed distant. Neither had been in the mood for sex, so they’d just talked for a little while about the restaurant and the waterfall, and then they had returned to the hotel, toured the magnificent gardens that were alive with the fragrance of tropical flowers, then went inside for their massages and a quiet dessert. He’d called his father to let him know where they were, pretending that he hadn’t noticed his father’s two bodyguards tailing them.

  The bathroom light went off. He heard her padding toward the bed and pretended he was asleep. She slid in next to him and pushed herself up close against his back.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Just a little stomachache. Let’s go back to sleep …”

  Rojas Mansion

  Cuernavaca, Mexico

  56 Miles South of Mexico City

  Fernando Castillo always kept three things on his nightstand: his phone, his eye patch, and the Beretta his father had given him when he’d turned twenty-one. Set into the Beretta’s grip was a golden cowboy that resembled his father, a rancher, and Castillo had only fired the weapon once or twice per year to be sure it was in good working order.

  He wasn’t sure which had woken him up first: the thumping of the helicopter, the vibrating of his phone, or the faint hissing from somewhere outside. With a chill, he bolted upright, answered the phone, a call from his guard monitoring the cameras in the basement.

  Even as he listened to the report, he went to his closet, where in the back stood a large gun safe, large enough for dozens of rifles or weapons even more powerful.

  Mexican Navy UH-60 Black Hawk

  En Route to Rojas Mansion

  0131 Hours Local Time

  Given the assumption that Rojas had the most complex series of redundant security measures found anywhere in the world, and given the fact that cordoning off the house and its environs was a top priority and would be completed before they initiated the raid, the decision had been made to go in as a team and go in hot, without cutting power to the entire neighborhood, which they’d originally considered. Attempting to bypass each security measure so an agent could slip inside and locate Rojas would be too time-consuming and pit one man against an unknown number of combatants inside. They needed to minimize the risk, maximize the chances of getting Rojas, and create an opportunity to capture or kill any of his other people—lieutenants, sicarios—who might also be inside. This was not the time or place for single-handed heroics or the time to cause anything that the home’s occupants might view as out of the ordinary, such as a power failure.

  Moore, a man who had once believed only in himself but had been taught teamwork by Frank Carmichael and the Navy SEALs, wholeheartedly agreed with that assessment.

  Yes, they would strike in the wee hours as a team, and they would do it now, while, Sonia had assured them, the man would be home. Every time she called her father in Spain, that call was rerouted to Langley, and her two most recent reports indicated that Rojas was on edge and might be planning to travel soon.

  Neutralizing the twenty-two guards that Rojas had posted around the home, throughout the two-acre gardens, and along the brick walls that encompassed the grounds was already in progress.

  A Ford F-250 series “minicommando” truck had pulled up across the street from Rojas’s main gate, a ten-foot affair of iron with ornate leaf patterns, attached to a pair of stone columns standing at least fifteen feet high. The truck was manned by three of Soto’s men, who immediately got to work before Rojas’s security teams could react. Mounted on a railing fixed to the truck’s flatbed was a CIS (Chartered Industries of Singapore) 40-millimeter automatic grenade launcher capable of dispensing 350 to 500 rounds per minute, with a muzzle velocity of 242 meters per second. The launcher came equipped with a folding leaf sight, and its feed system was a linked belt of 40x53-millimeter grenades that were not fragmentary but instead carried a modified and less-than-lethal version of Kolokol-1, an opiate-derived incapacitating agent developed in a military research facility near Leningrad during the 1970s. The drug would take effect within only a few seconds, leaving Rojas’s exterior security force unconscious for two to six hours. According to intelligence sources, Spetsnaz troops had employed a more unstable version of the gas during the Moscow theater crisis in October 2002, resulting in the deaths of at least 129 hostages. While Moore, Towers, and the rest of the FES forces were not particularly concerned if one of Rojas’s security men accident
ally succumbed, the thought was to limit the number of fatalities to Rojas’s staff (maids, cooks, etc.), which the Mexicans agreed would earn them even more glory.

  Thus, as one of Soto’s men began launching the cylindrical gas grenades onto Rojas’s property, the hissing ordnance arcing over the gate and landing in strategically placed locations as close to the guards as possible (and within the weapon’s 2,200-meter range), another operator armed with an M240 machine gun stood on the flatbed and guarded him from any attacks outside the gate. A driver sat at the wheel, waiting to bolt as soon as they came under heavier fire.

  Meanwhile, following Soto’s plan, a much larger force of nearly one hundred operators were cordoning off every street leading up to the neighborhood. For this job they employed more commando pickup trucks and several Russian-made BTR-60s and -70s, eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers whose presence would immediately strike fear into the hearts of the local residents, if not any of Rojas’s forces who spotted them.

  Moore sat beside Towers inside the UH-60 Black Hawk with the word MARINA painted across the helo’s fuselage and underside between the landing gear. The Mexican pilot, the copilot, and two crew chief/gunners manning the 7.62-millimeter miniguns with Gatling-style rotating barrels were waiting for the good-to-go signal from Soto’s lieutenant on the ground.

  Soto, who sat beside Moore, was in close contact with his ground team. Mission time was 0134 hours. They reported that some of the guards were fleeing back toward the house before they succumbed to the gas. That was not unexpected, and the assault team would keep them busy once the first-floor entrances were breached. The team planned to gain access through a kitchen door, a door leading into the master bedroom, the living room’s sliding glass doors, the garage doors, and the main entrance doors. Explosives and battering rams would take care of those obstacles.