Drone

by Mike Maden

  He then crossed over to his desk and picked up a landline. He called his brother.

  “At this hour?” the president asked. “Can’t it wait?”

  “I just had a call from our friend, the Farmer.”

  “What did he want?”

  Hernán described Castillo’s request.

  “That’s all?” the president asked. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “There is one more thing. We need the Federal Police and other drug enforcement agencies to back off of him for a while. He needs ‘room to maneuver.’ His words, not mine.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “Yes. I have a feeling that Castillo’s reach is about to exceed his grasp.” Hernán grinned. “Our friend could stand a dose of humility.”

  The Oval Office, the White House

  Dr. Strasburg was on the couch, perched in his usual spot. He held a cup and saucer in his slightly trembling hands, a symptom of the Parkinson’s that he had recently developed. The cup was brimming with freshly brewed coffee, despite doctor’s orders. They had been discussing Russia’s recent diplomatic offensive in the Caucasus when Myers received the urgent message that a call was coming through. He nodded reassuringly at her to take it.

  President Myers took her seat behind the famous desk. She picked up her phone. “Put him through, Maggie.”

  The receiver clicked as the call was rerouted. Myers pressed another button and put the call on speakerphone so that Strasburg could hear it as well. A familiar voice came on the line.

  “Madame President. Thank you for taking my call.” It was President Barraza on the other end. His tone was icy.

  “I understand it is a matter of some urgency, Mr. President. By the way, Dr. Karl Strasburg is in the room with me. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “No. In fact, I prefer it. Dr. Strasburg is a wise man. I hope he will give us both good counsel.”

  “How may I be of assistance to you today?” Myers asked.

  “It has come to my attention that the United States has engaged in covert military action against one of our sovereign citizens while in Mexican territorial waters. Is this true?”

  Myers blanched. How could Barraza possibly know about Pearce and his operation?

  “To whom are you referring, Mr. President?” Myers stalled for time.

  “Aquiles Castillo, of course. He died of a massive hemorrhage in the brain.”

  “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “One of the sons of César Castillo. I’m sure you’re familiar with his name,” Barraza sniffed.

  “A parent’s worst nightmare. I understand his grief.”

  “We believe that some form of covert action was taken by your government against him that caused the brain hemorrhage.”

  Myers glanced at Strasburg.

  “That’s quite an accusation, Mr. President. It seems a little far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Myers said.

  “Dr. Strasburg?”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Please remind President Myers of America’s long history of ‘far-fetched’ covert operations. For example, the CIA’s attempt to assassinate Castro with exploding poisonous cigars.”

  Strasburg set his coffee down. “We’re all well aware of those attempts, Mr. President, along with Mr. Castro’s long record of torturing and killing his political opponents. We also know that the CIA is currently prohibited by law from assassinating governmental leaders. The fact that Fidel Castro is alive and well suggests that the CIA’s capabilities in that area were never terribly effective anyway, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Madame President, let me ask you directly. Did you authorize a covert mission to kill Aquiles Castillo?”

  “No. And I resent the fact that you would even consider me capable of such action.”

  “Then perhaps the CIA has a rogue operative, or there are other elements at work in your government that you are not aware of. Since you are not able to take responsibility for this crime, then I must. I am informing you that Mexico will take whatever action is necessary to prevent further incursions over our border and to protect Mexican national sovereignty. In addition to mobilizing additional troops, I am placing our military and police units on the border on high alert, and I am authorizing them to fire on any unauthorized persons found on Mexican territory or in territorial waters or airspace. Is that perfectly clear, Madame President?”

  “Frankly, I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that a summit be arranged immediately so that these matters can be discussed further,” Strasburg said. “May we instruct Ambassador Romero to contact your Foreign Office and begin to make arrangements?”

  There was silence on the line for a moment. “You may instruct him to do so, but I have no interest in anything less than a frank and substantive discussion of the matter.”

  “I would expect nothing less from either party,” Myers said. “We’ll see to the arrangements.”

  “Until the summit concludes, the new heightened security measures will remain in place. Good day to you both.” Barraza hung up.

  Myers stared at Strasburg. “What was that all about?”

  “He’s afraid.”

  “Of whom? Us?”

  “More likely Castillo. He must have contacted Barraza.”

  “So they are in collusion,” Myers said.

  “Not necessarily. Castillo is a citizen of Mexico. It is not unreasonable for him to seek out his government’s assistance regarding the death of his son.”

  “How many Mexican citizens can dial 911 and get President Barraza on the line?” Myers asked.

  “Not many, I’ll grant you. But who else could Castillo call to get protection from us?”

  “That’s a good sign. If Castillo’s calling President Barraza for help, that means he thinks he has no way of retaliating against us, right?”

  Strasburg shrugged. “That is my sincere hope, Madame President.”

  19

  Dallas, Texas

  Parkland Memorial was the hospital they rushed JFK to when he was shot and it’s the hospital where they pronounced him dead. As Dallas County’s public hospital, it processed over 140,000 cases through its emergency room every year—many of them indigents—making the Parkland ER one of the busiest in the nation. They handled gunshots, stab wounds, car wrecks, and heart attacks on a daily basis, but the last two weeks had been a real horror show.

  * * *

  The ambulance cut its sirens as it swung into the Parkland ER parking lot, screeching to a halt beneath a portico already jammed with three other trucks desperately unloading their dying patients.

  The driver bolted out of his door and dashed for the rear. The EMT inside the vehicle threw the back doors open and leaped out. They grabbed the stretcher on a fast three-count and lifted it out, lowering it to the ground on the spring-loaded undercarriage. The girl on the stretcher, “Hispanic, teenage, female, no name,” convulsed beneath the restraining straps like a demoniac, her tiny fists clenched against the agony raging in her skull.

  A weeping older couple stumbled outside through the sliding glass doors, numb to the world when the EMTs shouted, “Coming through!” as they raced the stretcher through the doors. The ambulance driver’s hip crashed into the elderly man, nearly knocking him over.

  Inside the doors, a triage nurse ran over to them. “Bay three.” She pointed.

  “How long?” the EMT asked. “She’s already coded twice.”

  “She’s number four right now,” the nurse said. She glanced down at the sweat-drenched girl, mewling like a scalded cat. “I’m sorry.”

  The girl on the stretcher coughed, then a geyser of vomit burst out of her cracked lips. Her contracting stomach muscles simultaneously forced an involuntary bowel movement that filled her filthy jeans with blistering diarrhea.

  The driver swung the girl’s head to the side and put two blue-gloved fingers into her mouth to scoop out any obstruction to her
airway. But her breathing had turned into short, spasmodic gasps that sucked back the vomit into her lungs, choking her.

  “She’s coding again!”

  The nurse ran for the portable defibrillator on the wall station, grabbed it, and dashed back to the gurney.

  Too late.

  She was gone.

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  The DEA’s Roy Jackson continued relating the bad news.

  “Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York, of course, but even Omaha, Salt Lake City, Eugene, and Buffalo have seen significant spikes in the numbers of deaths—all due to overdoses of meth. The ERs and neighborhood clinics have been inundated. It has put a real strain on already scarce resources in the impoverished areas. And God only knows how many new addicts there are now.”

  “And all free?” Myers asked.

  “It’s the oldest trick in the book. Every dealer knows to give a free bump to a prospective client. They get a taste for it, then they get hooked,” Madrigal said. The DEA chief had been an effective undercover agent in her early years with the agency.

  “The only difference is, the free bump has turned into a full ride. Two full weeks and still counting, from what our CIs are telling us. This little stunt that Castillo has pulled must have cost him tens of millions of dollars, not counting his loss of profits,” Jackson added.

  “And once Castillo started handing out meth like Pez candies, the other dealers outside of the Castillo network had to do the same. You know, a price war. Only the price was zero. At that price point it’s all about getting new clients or keeping current ones. I hate the son of a bitch for doing it, but you have to admire the sheer genius of it,” Madrigal said.

  Myers picked up the evidence bag again. Fingered its contents through the plastic. A campaign button from last year. She read it. MYERS. FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE. She turned to Jackson, grimacing. “Every bag?”

  “The ones Castillo passed out. Probably knockoffs of the original. His message is as subtle as a heart attack,” Jackson said.

  “Well, that’s what I get for trying to send my own message to a psychopath.” Myers tossed the bag back onto the table.

  “He can’t give free meth away forever. He’ll eventually go bankrupt, or his network will turn against him. The only thing more addictive than meth is money,” Jackson said.

  “I want options for shutting down Castillo’s whole network over here. Maybe all the other networks, too.”

  Madrigal sighed. What did Myers think the law enforcement community had been trying to do for the last thirty years? “More agents in the field,” Madrigal offered. She already knew the answer.

  “Tell Congress to cut some fat somewhere else and you can get them. But I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Myers said.

  Jeffers laughed. “Good thing the vice president didn’t hear you say that.” Greyhill had been dispatched to a base-closing ceremony in Virginia yesterday.

  “Finish the border fence. Now,” Early said.

  “Again, Congress. No money, no will. They’ve been promising to finish it for years.”

  “Why not just strengthen the Mexican military and police forces?” Jeffers asked. “Let them do the heavy lifting.”

  Donovan took that one. “It’s a damn mess down there. Just recently, three Mexican army generals were arrested for drug trafficking, including the second in command at their Defense Ministry, and corrupt Federal Police murdered two of our CIA agents.” Donovan shook his head. “Back in ’97, the head of the INCD—their version of the DEA—was arrested for working with a couple of the cartels.”

  “Are you suggesting that every Mexican official is corrupt?” Jeffers asked.

  “Not at all. The problem is, you can never be sure which one is—or soon will be. And it’s not just Mexico. Back during the Clinton years, we tried to clean up the corruption in Guatemala. Over the years, they’ve had several generals and former intelligence chiefs arrested for drug trafficking. So somebody got the bright idea to build our own incorruptible version of a Guatemalan DEA—an outfit called DOAN. We spent millions on it. We handpicked the recruits, paid them good salaries, armed them, trained them—the whole nine yards. Wasn’t long before we caught those guys torturing and killing the competition in order to get a leg up on their own drug trafficking operations. That’s why we just shipped two hundred of our own U.S. Marines down to Guatemala to do the fighting. The bottom line is that when we arm and train anybody south of the border for antidrug operations, there’s a good chance they’ll eventually use that training against us. Unless you change the culture of corruption, the institutions will continue to become corrupted.”

  Myers frowned. “As I recall, that was a line I used in my campaign against Washington politics.”

  Donovan nodded back. “I know. I was there when you delivered it at the convention.”

  “What if we just stay out of the mess altogether? Let the cartels keep fighting it out among themselves down there. Eventually they’ll bleed themselves to death, won’t they?” Early asked.

  “Perhaps, but they may well bring down the entire Mexican government in the process,” Strasburg said. He’d been carefully listening to the whole conversation.

  “How?” Early asked.

  “The primary function of the state is to provide for common security. Cartel violence, once it escalates beyond a critical point, will cause individuals to abandon the state and resort to their own private means to find their own security. Anarchy will be the result.”

  “Civil war and mass migration wouldn’t be far behind,” Donovan speculated.

  “Our primary interest in Mexico is stability. The ongoing drug wars within Mexico are destroying any hope of maintaining that stability, and the United States cannot afford to share two thousand miles of border with a failed state. Beyond the fact that Mexico is a significant trading partner, a failed Mexico would become a haven for our worst enemies, much the same way as Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Yemen have harbored al-Qaeda.”

  Strasburg took a sip of water. “At the risk of seeming too pedantic, I would remind those present of the history of the Peloponnesian War. Athens and Sparta were the two dominant powers in Greece, with all other lesser city-states allied with one or the other. This is analogous to the present-day situation in Mexico. The two most powerful cartels are the Castillo Syndicate and the Bravo Alliance. All of the lesser cartels have aligned themselves with one of these two organizations. Is that an accurate analysis, Mr. Jackson?”

  Jackson nodded. “Quite accurate, and an appropriate analogy.”

  “As I recall, the end result of the Peloponnesian War was utter economic devastation and the end to the Golden Age of Greece,” Myers added.

  “That is correct,” Strasburg said. “And exactly the scenario we’re looking at if present trends continue.”

  “Almost all of the violence associated with the drug war, particularly the slaughter in Mexico, but to a lesser extent, also in this country, is an attempt to gain monopolistic control of the drug trade, including manufacturing in Mexico and distribution in the U.S. Bribes and corruption are part of the same pattern,” Madrigal added.

  “Then the best thing we can do is to pick sides, it seems to me,” Myers concluded. “Pick one side and end the war. At least that would stop the violence and bring some form of stability.”

  The room went silent, processing the implications of that statement.

  “Objections?”

  “How would you accomplish that?” Donovan asked.

  Myers and Early shared a look. They kept their secret weapon—Pearce—to themselves.

  “Decapitate the Castillo cartel.” Myers spat it out like the answer to an algebra problem. No emotion. Just fact.

  “That’s quite an escalation, if you don’t mind my saying,” Donovan said.

  “It’s what we did to take out the al-Qaeda leadership. It’s even how we battled the Mafia in this country. If you take out the Castillo leadership, you don’t have a Castillo organizat
ion,” Myers countered.

  “With the added bonus that the Bravos will know we took out Castillo, will know we put them in power, and will know that we can take them out, too, if they cross us,” Early said.

  “Just for argument’s sake, under what authority would you carry this out?” Donovan asked.

  “According to the Constitution, the presidency possesses sole and supreme authority to wage war against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” Myers said.

  “But Castillo is a criminal, not a terrorist,” Donovan countered.

  “What’s the difference between a criminal and a terrorist? Legally?” Jeffers asked.

  “All terrorists are criminals in the eyes of the law, but not all criminals are terrorists,” Lancet answered. “And criminals have rights that terrorists don’t.”

  “So what is a terrorist?” Early asked.

  “That’s another interesting question. International law has no set definition of terrorism, which makes sense, considering the fact that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. The U.S. Criminal Code, on the other hand, sets out a number of acts that fall under the rubric of either international or domestic terrorism, including acts that are ‘dangerous to human life that are a violation of the criminal laws of the United States’ and that appear to be intended ‘to affect the conduct of a government by mass destruction.’”

  “The ‘free meth’ attack perfectly fits that description in my mind,” Myers said. “Who decides if ‘free meth’ is an act of terrorism or if these men really are terrorists?”

  “You,” Lancet said.

  “That’s convenient,” Jeffers said.

  Lancet continued. “You can thank the previous administration for that. The Holder DOJ issued a white paper that said, in effect, it’s lawful for the United States to conduct a lethal operation outside of the United States so long as ‘an informed, high-level government official’ of the U.S. government has determined that the targeted individual poses an imminent threat of violent attack against the United States. ‘Imminent,’ of course, being broadly redefined to mean ‘not necessarily in the near future,’ believe it or not.”