Revenge of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  Further examination revealed an advanced ventilation system and numerous battery chargers to keep the trolley rolling, an additional indication that the tunnel was regularly used to move large amounts of contraband into the U.S.. How long it had been in operation was anyone’s guess, but by the looks of some of the debris, it had been years, not months.

  The next day’s newspapers on both sides of the border were quick to herald a victory for the anti-drug forces and skimmed over the casualties as well as the obvious fact that many thousands of tons of cocaine and heroin had been making their way across undetected. Nobody was ever connected to the U.S. warehouse, other than a pair of low-level brothers who claimed they only paid the property taxes and utilities and hadn’t been to the building in years. Their case was remanded into the system and would take over a year to be heard in the overcrowded courts. They would ultimately wind up spending less than six months behind bars, along with credit for time served, having no criminal records other than an unrelated burglary from a decade before.

  Twelve marines and Federal Police were killed during the assault, including the helicopter crew – six more were wounded. A total of fourteen cartel gunmen died during the gun battle, with no survivors. Nobody claimed any of the cartel fighters’ corpses, which were buried in a mass grave with no ceremony.

  One month later, two more tunnels were discovered and shut down. By the best estimates over twenty are in operation at any given time – an inevitable fact of life in an environment where a laborer who works to excavate the tunnel makes five to seven dollars a day, and a kilo of cocaine that costs two thousand dollars in Colombia wholesales for twenty-five to thirty on the U.S. side of the border.

  ~

  One Week Ago, 80 miles west of Ixtapa, Mexico. 11:18 p.m.

  Six-foot swells with frothing white crests surged relentlessly from the northwest, driven by a twenty knot wind. The cloudy night’s crescent moon scarcely illuminated the inky water’s surface, its roiling unbroken except for the battered steel hull of an aged seventy-five-foot shrimp boat lurching against the waves’ pounding.

  El Cabrito had departed Mazatlán two weeks before and had plied her way down the Pacific coast at a dismally slow eight knots, under way twenty-four hours a day until she arrived in the warmer waters off the coast of Zihuatanejo. There, she’d worked the nets, accumulating what she could by way of catch as she waited for her true cargo to arrive.

  Her gray paint was ravaged by sea salt; patches of rust bled through along the waterline, signaling that soon it would be time to haul her out and weld new steel plates where corrosion had taken its toll. The topsides were slick from the windy spray, and the crew was inside below decks, waiting for the signal that they were needed. The captain, Mario, a thirty year veteran of the coastal waters, puffed on a hand-rolled cigarette as he watched the waves moving in a steady procession, the red illumination of his primitive gauges and the ancient radar unit bathing the pilothouse in a warm glow.

  The diesel engine chugged quietly, driving the old single screw with just enough power to make headway against the building seas. They were in position, the handheld GPS unit near the throttle confirmed that the waypoint marking the rendezvous spot had been reached. The instructions were to hold position – for days, if necessary – while they waited. It was usually easy duty, but the squall that was eighty miles southwest of them was beginning to cause problems. Reports of fifteen to twenty foot swells had come in a few minutes earlier over the radio from a cargo ship making its way north. It was just a matter of time until the six footers doubled in size, and then it would get rocky.

  Comfort wasn’t the concern. Rather, it would be impossible to transfer their cargo in huge waves with the boat pitching uncontrollably. Under normal circumstances they’d have been in four to five foot, gently rolling swells, the undulations of the surface easily timed. But with confused conditions and a tropical depression looming further out in the Pacific, all bets were off. If their contact didn’t show up soon, it could be days before a handoff would be practicable again.

  Mario scanned the ocean’s murky form, searching for a beacon, as he had every fifteen minutes since the black of night had fallen. The rolling didn’t make it any easier. Worst case, he had his second radio tuned to a frequency that was rarely used, and he hoped that the captain of the other vessel would avail himself of the channel discreetly. One never knew who could be listening, and in a high-stakes game, there was no such thing as being too careful.

  His first mate, Julio, mounted the stairs from the crew quarters below, two cans of Tecate beer clenched in his left hand as he steadied himself with a series of practiced grips on the handrail. Mario took one gratefully from him, and they toasted.

  “It looks like it’s going to get snotty soon,” Julio remarked, before savoring a mouthful of cold brew.

  Mario peered into the blackness outside. “There’s a big one blowing from the west. I figure we have maybe three more hours before we need to break off and head inland some. If the storm turns towards us, we don’t want to be here in sixty knot winds if we can help it.”

  “How late are they?”

  “A day. Smart money says they’ll be here tonight. Sometimes shit happens en route.”

  Julio nodded.

  They watched in silence as the cresting water rushed to meet the bow of the boat, the steady throb of the diesel engine a reassuring constant.

  The radio crackled to life, and after a few terse exchanges, Julio slid back down to the crew quarters to rouse the men. It was show time. Their rendezvous was on.

  Out of the gloom, a long tubular form rose from the depths, two hundred yards from the bow. Mario throttled the engine up and the boat lurched forward towards the shape. Within a minute they had pulled alongside it, where two deckhands threw lines to the four men who had materialized on the top section of the darkened craft. After a short struggle, they quickly secured the two vessels together until they rose and fell as one. After a few hurried greetings between the crews, plastic-wrapped rectangular packages began making their way from the bowels of the newcomer to the men on El Cabrito’s deck, who passed them into the shrimp hold to be squirreled away under the catch.

  The submarine had been crafted in the jungles of northern Colombia and had taken twelve days to make the journey to Mexican waters. Equipped with two nearly silent diesel engines that charged the battery-driven electric motor, the handmade fiberglass vessel could do fourteen knots and submerge comfortably to a depth of twenty-five feet. Forty yards in length, she was equipped with primitive climate control for the crew, was virtually invisible to radar, and carried twenty-five hundred kilos of pure cocaine, with a street value of seventy-five million dollars, uncut. Once it was adulterated, the precious cargo would bring more like a hundred million. Wholesale cost in Colombia had been a cool six million dollars. The sub had cost seven hundred thousand dollars to fabricate and equip, with the crew costing three million. All told, the trip was a ninety percent profit margin transaction, even after all costs were factored in.

  The loading took four hours of fast movement. By the time the sub was empty, the seas had built to nine footers. The crew of the sub hurriedly placed explosive charges along the fiberglass hull of the craft, and once they were aboard the fishing boat, the captain depressed a transmitter, and the submarine’s waterline ruptured. The men stood on the back of the boat and watched as their conveyance sank beneath the waves, then quickly moved into the pilothouse and down into the ship’s bunk room. After almost two weeks submerged in cramped conditions they were ready for showers and drinking. It was the kind of trip you only made once or twice in a lifetime, and then you were done.

  Mario checked the radar and noted that there were no other ships within twenty miles. With a grunt, he spun the wheel and pointed the struggling bow north, on a course that would get them closer to the less turbid shore within a few hours – if their luck held out. From there they’d be two days to Mazatlán, maybe three, where their cargo woul
d be offloaded to other craft for the trip up the Sea of Cortez.

  Commander Villanuevo watched the blip on his radar screen with interest. It had remained stationary for a full day, and now was moving in their direction at a snail’s pace. By his calculations, they’d be within striking distance in five hours at the current course, assuming that the Durango-class offshore patrol vessel Villanuevo captained stayed immobile.

  That wasn’t the plan. His ship could easily hold twenty knots in any sea conditions, which would put them alongside El Cabrito in a little over three hours. Villanuevo barked a series of terse orders to his second in command and advised him to ready the men. They’d move on the boat at flat-out speed and call in the helicopter when the patrol boat was twenty miles away so the fishing boat didn’t have time to jettison its cargo or prepare in any way.

  A team of ten marines were standing by at the military base outside Manzanillo, ready to board the chopper and move on El Cabrito. It could reach them in a little over two hours, which would work out perfectly. Villanuevo radioed the coordinates of the ship and told the assault team to scramble the helicopter. It would be airborne within half an hour and in a holding pattern over the destroyer by six a.m.. Once they were ready, he’d send the team in, and within a few minutes the little shrimper wouldn’t know what had hit it.

  Villanuevo gave the signal and the patrol boat surged forward, impervious to the chop as it cut through the waves. At two hundred forty feet, with a crew of fifty-five and another twenty marines below decks, there were few vessels that could outrun or outfight the ARM Sonora. By his calculations, they could be boarding their target by seven a.m., with the mission hopefully concluded shortly thereafter.

  They’d received the tip on the drug shipment a week before, with surprisingly detailed information. If it was even close to correct, this would be one of the biggest seizures in his career, and a major blow to the Sinaloa cartel, which was the purported trafficker of this particular load. The new administration wanted to send a message to the Mexican people that it wasn’t going to be business as usual, and this interception would be critical in establishing the tone of the next six years in office. Of course, the information had likely come from a competitive cartel looking to cause maximum discomfort to its competitor, but that wasn’t Villanuevo’s concern. His job was to stop the shipment, and that’s what he’d do. The politicians could fight over who got the credit.

  Villanuevo checked his watch and pushed the button that activated the stopwatch function. If all played as he hoped, it would be a very bad morning indeed for the crew of El Cabrito.

  Mario jolted awake from his brief slumber. His first mate was shaking his shoulder. Julio’s eyes were wide with a look he’d never seen during the sixteen years the man had been his second in command: terror. Mario quickly shook off the sleep stupor and bolted upright, to be faced with an image that was his worst nightmare.

  A Sikorsky helicopter in full battle regalia bearing the colors of the Mexican Navy hovered a hundred yards away, the side panel open and a fifty caliber machine gun trained on the pilothouse. Inside, a group of grim-faced marines in assault gear were grouped behind the weapon.

  Waiting.

  Dawn had broken a few minutes earlier, but even in the dim light of the new day it was glaringly obvious to Mario that this was a full-scale disaster. The massive blades of the chopper churned the water below; its downdraft from the buffeting whipped the sea into an angry froth.

  Mario throttled back to near idle. Keeping his eye on the aircraft, he barked at Julio, “What the…when did they show up?”

  “They came out of nowhere. There was nothing on the radar, and then suddenly, there they were.”

  Mario grimaced. “Shit. They must have been flying at a high altitude, which is why it didn’t pick them up.”

  He was interrupted by an amplified voice from the copter.

  “Put the engine in neutral and stop. Prepare to be boarded. Get your crew on deck where they can be seen,” the voice boomed across the water as the chopper closed the distance, now no more than sixty yards from the boat.

  Julio glanced around wildly. “You think this is some kind of a drill or random inspection?” he asked, obviously panicked.

  Mario shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Look at them. They’re geared up for a small war. No, I’d say we’ve been sold out.”

  “Dammit,” Julio spat. “What do we do?”

  “Look at the radar. See there?” His grubby finger jabbed at the screen. “That’s a huge ship, and it’s moving very fast.”

  Mario had to make a quick decision. They had several automatic assault rifles on board, but they would be no match against the entire Mexican navy. His mind raced over alternatives, and then he shook his head again.

  “We’re finished. Get the men on deck and tell them to keep their mouths shut. The last thing we want is a gunfight with the marines on the open sea,” Mario said.

  “So we’re going to just give up?”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Mario seethed. “We’ve got a ship bearing down on us, and that chopper has enough firepower to blow us to Japan. Do you really feel like dying today? I don’t. We can always let our lawyers deal with the fallout from this.” He shook his head and sighed. “It’s better than the alternative…”

  Julio took a deep breath and wordlessly descended the stairwell to where the crew was asleep after a mini-fiesta following the loading.

  A few minutes later, the men filed onto the deck with their hands in the air or behind their heads, and watched as the distinctive outline of the warship moved towards them. The chopper held its position, fixing the boat with its full attention as it waited for the Sonora to get within range.

  Mario caught movement in the pilothouse as he squinted at the horizon from the deck; upon seeing the source, he dropped his arms and began gesturing wildly with his hands. The crazy Colombian submarine captain had stayed below, and now peered through the doorway with an AK-47 pointed at the helicopter.

  “Noooo–” Mario screamed, but it was too late.

  The captain emptied the weapon at the chopper. Julio and Mario watched in horror as the slugs tore into the side of the aircraft, cutting down several of the armed marines. The fire was answered by the staccato high-speed chatter of the big fifty caliber gun as it issued forth a broadside of rounds that riddled the old pilothouse, annihilating the foolhardy submariner in a rain of lethal fury.

  The last thing Mario saw before his world went black for good was the stream of tracers from the chopper shredding the deck around him, mangling his crew in a hail of death as the spooked marines opened up with everything they had. A few of his men tried to find cover from the slaughter, but there was nowhere to hide. It was finished in a matter of a few seconds, and when the shooting stopped, nothing remained but corpses.

  When Villanuevo arrived on the Sonora twenty minutes later, the drifting boat was awash in blood, the slug-torn bodies of the hapless crew scattered across the deck. The marines rappelled from the helicopter and moved cautiously over the boat before descending to the lower compartments, wary of another attack. After a few minutes, the leader emerged from the pilothouse and shook his head.

  “There’s nobody left alive.”

  An hour later, Villanuevo radioed in one of the largest drug busts on the high seas in Mexican history – a triumph owed entirely to an anonymous tip from parties unknown.

  In the end, El Cabrito was only one of many shipments that made its way from Colombia every month, and even though it was a large seizure, there were infinite amounts of both criminals and drugs from where it had originated. Submarines continued to be fabricated in the hidden depths of the guerrilla-controlled jungle, and men desperate to make one big score that would set them up for life remained eager to pilot them north to the largest drug market in the world. As it had been for decades, and as it would remain for generations to come.

  ~

  Yesterday, Los Mochis, Mexico. 6:04 a.m.


  The yard of the paint supply company’s storage facility was particularly well fortified, with gleaming new barbed wire and hurricane fencing to keep trespassers at bay. Several ill-tempered Rottweilers prowled the grounds, further dissuading potential thieves from picking it as a target. Four armed sentries sat positioned at the corners, where they remained every night until they were relieved at eight a.m., an hour before the yard opened for business.

  It was still dark out, but the first orange rays of dawn were beginning to seep over the hills to the east of town, providing scant illumination of the road that led to the facility. At the far end of it, three military Humvees swung onto the pavement and raced towards the gates, followed by two trucks loaded with soldiers. The security men, alerted by the roar of the engines, hurriedly discussed their alternatives. They were there to protect the building – not take on the Mexican army. The head of the sentry detail told his men to stash their weapons where they wouldn’t be found, and one of the four ran to the far end of the yard where an old pickup truck sat on blocks, its engine long-ago dismantled for parts. He pushed the Kalashnikovs under the seat and was just moving back to the group when the vehicles pulled to a stop in front of the gate.

  A Federal police officer wearing a bulletproof vest eyed the men dubiously from the safety of the lead truck’s cab, and satisfied that there was no imminent danger, he swung his door open and stepped onto the hard-packed dirt. He approached the obvious leader of the security guards and held out a piece of paper.

  “Open the gates. I have a court order to search this bodega,” he announced perfunctorily.

  The leader read the document, taking his time, and then nodded.