by Oliver North
“Sure. There will still be a United States of America—a place blessed with bounty and resources beyond measure. We will still have a Constitution and that Bill of Rights. What we have to hope for are people in government—elected, commissioned, and appointed—who will support and defend our Constitution; people who know the difference between rights and entitlements; people who will abide by the moral and spiritual standards of the brave Americans who drafted those documents. That will only happen if people of faith participate in the political process. Will that happen in the time we have left? I certainly hope so, but I can’t see into the future.”
“Nor can I, Mack. But I sure don’t like leaving a mess for our kids and grandchildren,” said Peter as the senator reached for one of the unregistered PIDs pinging on his desk.
Caperton looked at the screen, pressed the corner of the device, held it up beside his ear, and said, “Hello.” He listened silently for almost thirty seconds, then said, “Thank you.” After pressing the corner again to disconnect, he deposited the PID in the chemical-bath shredder beneath his desk. As the machine quietly ground the device into biodegradable mulch, Caperton looked at Peter and said, “That was Captain Terry Sullivan—an old Navy SEAL and one of our ‘trusted messengers’ in Florida. Looks like we have to put Plan C into effect. Tomorrow the White House is adding my name to their Capture/Kill list.”
FINCA DEL GANADOR
3 MILES EAST OF DZILAM DE BRAVO
YUCATAN STATE, MEXICO
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032
2150 HOURS, LOCAL
When Bruno Macklin heard the faint whine of jet turbines being throttled back seven miles above him, he knew exactly what it was. The old SAS officer checked his watch, said to himself, Twenty minutes late, and gently nudged Felipe awake. He then flicked on his thermal glasses and peered up, looking for the glow of the engine exhaust in the star-speckled sky.
The sound of the jet had already faded by the time he heard the first thwoop—as a parachute opened several thousand feet above. Listening intently, Macklin picked up the sound of six more chutes “popping”—and then silence again. He immediately cracked the four infrared chem-lights he fashioned into the outlines of two ichthys shapes, handed one of the recognition signals to the boy, and said, “Lie flat on the ground, hold this up over your head, and don’t move.”
Two minutes later he heard the swish of riser cords being pulled taut against the nylon skin of a parachute, followed by a thump twenty yards away—almost atop the T pattern. He watched silently through his thermal lenses as a helmeted, dark-clad figure gathered up the chute, shoved it into a kit bag, took a knee, and started scanning around the field with his weapon. But when the red beam stopped on the center of Felipe’s chest, the old commando quietly said, “Winston.”
“Churchill,” came the reply as the red beam went out. The paratrooper arose, walked slowly to Macklin and the boy, and said, “I’m Dan Doan. Who are you?”
“I’m Major Bruno Macklin, formerly of His Majesty’s Special Air Service, and this is Felipe.”
“Good job lighting up the DZ, Major,” said Doan, lowering his weapon and holding out a hand to help them to their feet. “We should have six more of us here in a few minutes. Sorry to drop in on you with so little notice.”
“Think nothing of it, mate. On a beautiful night like this, good company from a former colony’s DEA is always welcome.”
* * * *
It took just ten minutes for the rest of the team to gather one at a time at the assembly point in the tree line just south of the pasture. Doan introduced them to Macklin as they arrived:
Communications Specialist: Steve “Coyote” McNaughton
Sniper: Kenneth “Killer” Connor
Demolition Specialist: Zane “Fingers” Felton
Team Medic: Daniel “Doc” Smith
Weapons Specialist: James “Newboy” Lehnert
Scout/Spotter: Ken “KK” Knapp
Instead of taking time to explain they weren’t really DEA, but in fact contractors from the Centurion Solutions Group Hostage Recovery Unit, Doan focused on the mission. Referring to the overhead imagery the jumpers loaded into their PIDs before launching from DFW, he told Macklin to describe the interior of “Objective Alpha”—Felipe’s house—then proffer a summary of what the boy knew about the four Iranians and Admiral Cohen’s likely location.
As they lined up in patrol formation, Doan quietly reminded them: “Remember, our primary mission is to rescue Admiral Cohen. If we can, we are to bring back as many Iranians alive as possible. Bruno and KK will take point from here to Alpha. They should be the only ones with ball and AP ammo locked and loaded. Everyone else should have TASER XP 762 rounds chambered in their rifles and the next four rounds in their magazines. Sidearms should have XP 45 rounds in the chambers and the next four rounds in their magazines. Everyone should have suppressors screwed in tight. Check?”
Each man did as ordered, then gave him a thumbs-up sign. Doan continued: “When we get to Objective Alpha, Bruno and KK will cover our right flank and take out any squirters. If we have to E-and-E, the rally point is Bruno’s house—Objective Bravo. I have sat-comms with the aircraft. During movement and at the objective, I’ll be last in column with Felipe in front of or beside me. Any questions?”
There were none.
Twenty-three minutes later the little patrol arrived at the damaged shed behind Felipe’s house. When Doan pointed to the mound of freshly turned earth nearby, the boy said quietly, “That is where my brother is buried.”
Bruno gave him a quick hug and whispered, “I know you miss Jorge. But he is in a far better place now, son.” Then he and Knapp moved out to position themselves along the edge of the tree line to establish a base of fire. McNaughton and Connor headed left to get around to the front of the house while the entry team of Smith, Lehnert, and Felton crept toward the back door. Doan and Felipe stayed put, crouching near the shed to cover their six.
McNaughton was the first to call, whispering into the lip mike of his tac-set radio: “Coyote and Killer are in position but we’re negative for thermals and it looks like the front door is open.”
Doan replied: “Roger, hold your pos. Fingers, you copy Coyote?”
“Roger. No thermals here, either. We’re ready. Shall we rush the back door?”
Doan thought for a split second and then said, “Go for it, but no stun grenades or firing unless you have a target.”
“Roger.”
Five seconds later he and Felipe watched as Felton’s three-man team sprinted the twenty-five meters to the back door of the house and disappeared inside. For fifteen seconds there was silence, then the radio call:
“Rover, Fingers. We’re clear. The place is empty.”
Doan shook his head and said over his helmet mike: “Everybody hold in position until I call our eyes in the sky.”
He grabbed the Australian-built sat-radio handset out of its pocket on his armor vest, keyed the button, and said, “Big Eye, this is Rover.”
There was a slight delay as the signal bounced halfway around the world and back: “Rover, this is Big Eye, go ahead, over.”
“Roger, we have a dry hole at Objective Alpha. Are you picking up any thermals on your FLIR?”
Again a pause, then: “Rover, we’re orbiting over you at forty K, watching on high-res. Be advised, there are five thermals about one klick west of you moving toward Objective Bravo. There is also what looks like an old-fashioned auto rally about eighteen kilometers southwest of Bravo on the road from Dzilam Gonzalez. We count twelve SUV-sized vehicles and at least as many motorcycles, most with their headlights on. They are stationary now, but they were headed toward you until a few minutes ago. You copy?”
Doan’s mouth went dry and he swallowed hard before responding: “Roger, copy. Looks like we’re about to have a lot of company. How much time do you have left on station?”
“At this burn rate, we bingo for Mike Echo X-Ray in ninety minutes; less if we have
to do a lot of fancy flying. We can stay on station longer if they get a runway at Mike India Delta open. How can we help you between now and then?”
“Wait, out.”
Doan switched to his helmet-mounted tac-com radio and said, “Objective Alpha is clear. Rally on me ASAP at the shed.”
In less than a minute, all six shooters, Macklin, and the boy were circled around Doan in the shed. His “Frag-O” was brief: “Big Eye says we have five thermals a klick west of us, headed toward Objective Bravo. Bruno, that’s your house. My guess—five thermals equals four Iranians plus an American admiral. The aircraft also has eyes on twenty-plus SUVs and motorcycles clustered about eighteen klicks southwest of Bravo. I figure that’s the Federation Cartel gaggle en route to take out the admiral. We need to check out the five thermals between here and Bravo. If the admiral is with them, we need to get him to safety before the Federation thugs show up at midnight. We will head out with the same order of march and same comms. Any questions?”
Once again there were none. But as they lined up to move out, Felipe said to Doan, “Señor, I know the fastest way to Señor Macklin’s hacienda.”
Later, those who survived agreed: in the contest between good and evil, timing, technology, and wise words from a child make all the difference in the world.
* * * *
It really wasn’t a fair fight. Felipe’s shortcut, their thermal NVGs, and updates from the FLIR pod overhead helped Doan and his team arrive, breathing hard, at Bruno’s back door in just under fifteen minutes. The SAS officer showed them where he placed the ten claymore mines and Doan quickly deployed his men:
“KK, you, Major Macklin, and Felipe stay with me. Coyote, Killer, and Newboy, you cover the approach from Alpha. If those five thermals are the Iranians and the admiral, you know what to do. Fingers, you and Doc cover their six. Remember, TASER rounds first. Bring the admiral and any live Iranians here to the house. Bruno, can we get up on the roof to a place where we won’t be seen from the ground?”
“Sure enough, mate. Upstairs is an internal stairway to the roof. The roof is flat and there is an adobe wall about a meter high all around it.”
“Good. That’s where I will be so I have good comms with all of you and sat-comms with the aircraft. Any questions?”
When nobody said anything he said, “Move out.”
As the two teams headed off, Bruno led Doan, Knapp, and Felipe inside and they raced upstairs. On the second floor he opened a hall doorway to a stairwell that exited on the roof beside a chimney. In a low crouch, Doan immediately headed to the north side and peered over the wall looking for thermals from his teammates. He was watching them move silently into their assigned positions a hundred meters in front of the house when his sat-radio emitted a ping.
“Rover, this is Big Eye.”
“This is Rover. Go ahead.”
“Be advised, the five thermals on foot we’ve been tracking from Alpha are about two hundred meters south of Bravo, on the road from Alpha. It looks like three of them are held up and the other two are slowly approaching Bravo. We have two friendlies and two others without IFF on the roof of Bravo. There are five other friendlies in two locations about one hundred meters east of Bravo. We are transmitting our FLIR pod imagery to the bird so you can see it on your sat-pac, channel three.”
“Roger, Big Eye. The two friendlies on the roof of Bravo are KK and me. We’re with the two locals without IFF. They will stay with me. Anyone else out there without IFF isn’t ours. I’ll come up on the sat-pac viewer ASAP.”
With Knapp kneeling beside him scanning the approaches to the house through a thermal scope on his suppressor-equipped NEMO “Omen” Sniper Rifle, Doan sat down behind the wall, pulled another satellite transceiver and a thin, five-by-eight-inch flat-panel wireless viewer from a pocket on his armor vest, and pressed the power button.
As the screen activated, its full-color glow revealed everything being picked up by the FLIR pod overhead. He watched for a few seconds and then came up on his tactical radio: “Coyote, this is Rover. There are two armed bad guys approaching Bravo from south of your pos. Let them pass unless they spot you. We will deal with them here. The other three are holding back on the road. I’m guessing the admiral is one of the other three. If you copy, key twice.”
In his helmet-mounted headset Doan heard a double ping-pshht when McNaughton keyed his tactical radio. On the screen, Doan watched two figures pass Coyote’s position and furtively arrive at Bruno’s front gate. As the two scaled the fence, KK whispered, “I have two assholes carrying what looks like AKs approaching our pos. They are seventy-five meters out. I have subsonics loaded, not TASERs. Do you want me to take them out?”
Doan peered at the screen again and said, “They’re both armed. Kill ’em.”
KK’s rifle spat twice—the action of the bolt opening and closing made more noise than the projectiles leaving the six-inch-long suppressor on the end of his barrel. On the sat-pac there was a slight delay. Doan heard Knapp say quietly, “Two down. Head shots. No movement,” before seeing them drop on the screen.
Just seconds after Knapp fired, McNaughton was on the radio in a whisper: “Rover, Coyote. We have three individuals approaching fifty meters south on the road. Two have visible weapons. The one in the middle appears to have his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck. Do you want us to engage?”
Doan glanced quickly at the screen and said, “Affirmative. TASERs only.”
It was over in an instant. Ebi, walking in front, was hit by three TASER XP 762 rounds and immediately dropped to the ground, completely incapacitated. Ahmad, third in line and holding the end of the rope around the admiral’s throat, had time to shout “Die, Jew!” just before he was felled by five TASER rounds.
The Iranians were still twitching when “Newboy Lehnert” raced to the hostage. With a flick of his knife he severed the rope around the man’s neck and hands, helped him to his feet, and said, “Admiral Cohen, I’m James Newman. My father sent us to bring you home.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LIGHTS OUT
FINCA DEL GANADOR
3 MILES EAST OF DZILAM DE BRAVO
YUCATAN STATE, MEXICO
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032
2330 HOURS, LOCAL
McNaughton was immediately up on the tactical radio: “Rover, Coyote. We’ve got the admiral. Newboy is bringing him to you. They’re moving slowly because the admiral is barefoot and his feet are a mess. The two bad boys are still out of it. We have ’em flex-cuffed but one of ’em took a high-voltage dump in his pants. I’m going to wait until he can walk ’cause he stinks and I don’t want to have to carry him.”
Doan, watching it all unfold on the sat-pac screen, smiled and spoke into his helmet mike on the tac-net: “Bravo Zulu everyone. Rally on me as soon as you can. We have more company coming to this party, so replace your TASER ammo with ball and AP rounds.”
Then he spoke into the mike on his voice sat-comm: “Big Eye, Rover. Pass to ‘Tour Guide’: the ‘navy brass’ is safe and sound with us. Now all we have to do is get out of here.”
Turning to Bruno, Doan said, “Sure don’t want to impose, but I’m hoping you have a spare pair of shoes or boots for our admiral and a couple of vehicles we can use for our exfil to link up with Tour Guide in Merida.”
“Tour Guide?”
“Sorry, sir. That’s our code for the person you know as A. J. Jones. We were instructed to never use his real name when it could be picked up by locals, the enemy, or in our communications.”
The old SAS officer nodded and said, “Ah, yes, I know your Tour Guide very well. He’s a very brave man. The boots are not a problem—soft British calfskin. Just the thing for sore feet—particularly for an admiral, if you know what I mean. As for transport, I have a 2030, methanol-powered Range Rover SUV and a 1975 diesel Land Rover lorry in the garage. Both are in excellent condition and fully fueled. But looking at your FLIR device, it appears to me the cartelistos are already this side
of the intersection to Dzilam de Bravo. We would have to drive right through them to get out of here.”
“Well, sir,” Doan replied, “if flight is not an option, we’re going to have to fight it out with these guys right here. Depending on how many there are and how well they are armed, it’s likely to mess up your place a good bit.”
“Don’t let that bother you, mate. Nothing a little paint and stucco won’t heal after the gunfight is over. Besides, I thought I was going to have to do this all on my own until you Yanks showed up.”
Doan shrugged and keyed the sat-comm mike: “Big Eye, Rover. How long before the dirtbags get here?”
“Rover, looks like they are posting roadblocks behind them at every intersection. At the rate they are moving, the lead vic will be at your pos in about fifteen minutes. Some good news. We’re monitoring a Mexican commercial aviation channel and just heard one runway at Merida is now open. That means we can stay on station for about another hour. Remember, we have six nice new Hellfire missiles aboard that we will have to jettison in the Gulf of Mexico if we don’t use them.”
“Well,” replied Doan, “I hate to waste good missiles. Guess we’ll just have to wrap this up before you guys have to break for happy hour.”
As it turned out, they needed every one of them.
* * * *
At five minutes before midnight the first two Federation Cartel vehicles—motorcycles with two riders each—appeared at Bruno’s gate. On the roof, peering into the FLIR monitor, Doan counted eight more motorcycles and nine SUVs at ten-meter intervals on the road behind the scouts. He keyed his tac mike and whispered, “Everybody stay down. Looks to me like these guys have AKs, RPGs, radios, and NVGs. Let’s hope they’re not thermals.”
McNaughton, Connor, and Felton were crouched around the parapet—each of them armed with suppressor-equipped AR-10, 7.62mm automatic rifles and two AT-9 anti-armor rockets apiece. One story down, Doc Smith and Knapp were concealed in the large front bedroom, well back from the now-open windows. Newboy and Admiral Cohen were positioned in a back bedroom covering their six while Major Macklin sat on the floor of the hallway with a wireless, portable monitor display for the six cameras pointed at his ten radio-controlled claymore mines.