by Dick Couch
“And speaking of neighborhoods,” A.J. offered. “I talked to a couple of them who grew up right here in Mexicali. They say that the border-crossing routes are drug turf, and there’s no way to get to the actual crossing points without being detected. I guess half the kids on the streets have cell phones, and they’ll know we’re coming long before we get there. He says they probably already know we’re here, and they’ll know when we leave.”
Engel digested all this. “What about helicopters, coming in low and fast?”
“They don’t like helos,” A.J. continued. “The bad guys have RPGs {uys
“So Cedros Island was a cakewalk?” Nolan asked.
“We’re up against the varsity here, Chief,” Ray said. “The druggies have good weapons, they’re not afraid to die, and there’s lots of them. So it could be anything but a cakewalk. I don’t know what they pay these GAFE guys, but it’s not enough.”
“So what we’re talking about here,” Engel summarized, “is opposition that’s every bit as dangerous as anything we go up against in Kandahar or al-Anbar.” Both Ray and A.J. nodded.
“And without the support we have over in the sandbox,” Nolan added.
Engel looked over to where Juan, Sergeant Lopez, and the other members of the GAFE were gathered. They were all smoking and laughing. De la Ribandeo seemed to move easily among his men. Then his satellite phone began to vibrate. He stepped away to answer it.
“Engel here.”
“Sir, its Senior Chief Miller. I understand you’re now on border patrol.”
“Border patrol standby, Senior. We have a target but no target location. Any luck on your end?”
“I’m not sure. I again took our friend through his conversations with Shabal, and it seems Shabal purposely kept a lot from him. He did overhear him while he was on a coded cell phone, talking about a milk factory. Something about getting them all to the milk factory. It’s not much, but it may be something. If I get anything more, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Senior. Keep me posted.”
Nolan was at his elbow. “Anything?”
“I doubt it, but we’ll see.”
They made their way over to where De la Ribandeo and his sergeant were talking. The tall GAFE leader took out a gold cigarette case and offered one to Engel, then to Chief Nolan, but both politely declined. It seemed as if all the GAFE smoked, while none of the SEALs did. Lopez gratefully accepted and De la Ribandeo made a show of tapping his cigarette on the case before lighting it.
“Sir, I mean, Juan,” Engel began. “I just received a call from one of our intelligence people. He had little for us except for the mention of a place called ‘the milk factory.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Engel and Nolan watched this register. Lopez, in spite of his dark complexion, seemed to grow a shade lighter. De la Ribandeo drew heavil {o drd Std">Ey and thoughtfully on his cigarette and exhaled slowly.
“It means,” the GAFE commander said easily, “everything. We know the place, and your ‘intelligence people,’ as you call them, could not have given us a more difficult objective. It’s an abandoned milk-processing and packaging complex. And it is indeed a border crossing, the location of a border-cross tunnel complex. Your terrorist friends could not have chosen a better location from their perspective, nor a more difficult one from ours. It’s in an area totally in their control. We seldom go there, and the local police never do. And there’s no way to get there undetected. There are concentric rings of well-armed security retainers around the milk factory. The element of surprise, which I know you are so fond of, is not an option here. We’ll have to fight our way in.”
Engel considered this. Maybe, he thought to himself, and maybe not. He had an idea how they might go about this. Normally, he would have liked to have gone over this with Chief Nolan in private, but there simply wasn’t time.
“Do you have a map of the city?”
Sergeant Lopez pulled a dog-eared, laminated map from his jacket and spread it on the ground. The four of them squatted around it.
“We are here,” De la Ribandeo pointed, “and the milk factory is here, just south of the border. And the whole area underneath it is a warren of tunnels. There’s a good chance that while we are fighting our way to this place, those whom you wish to capture will be filtering out the other side and on their way north.”
“How would you go in?” Engel asked.
“In those,” indicating the battered Explorers. “We do not have up-armored Humvees, and if we did, it would only announce our presence that much sooner.”
“How about if we went in two or three of those,” he said as he pointed toward the dump.
It took a moment, then a broad smile began to crease De la Ribandeo’s handsome features. “And I thought you were only about your expensive equipment and the huge salaries they pay you. I see now that you SEALs are clever as well.”
“Juan, do you understand what a blocking element is?”
De la Ribandeo drew himself up formally, but there was still a twinkle in his eye. “I am a graduate of your Infantry Officer Basic School at Fort Bragg and I have earned my Ranger Tab.”
“That is good to know,” Engel replied. “Now, here is what I propose . . .”
* * *
Deep inside the underground warren beneath the heavily guarded compound above, Shabal and his recruits worked feverishly to complete the last assembly of their vests and make preparations to deploy through the tunnels and into the United States on the fina {s oht="0">l leg of their journey to inflict jihad on the hated Americans.
Shabal alternated between urging his recruits to hurry and make the vests ready for wearing—due to their destructive power, they didn’t dare travel with them fully assembled—and reviewing the map with Sanchez.
The recruits were bent over some old wooden tables Shabal had Sanchez bring down. The tables were positioned under the few fluorescent lights hung from the concrete ceiling. The lights cast a cool, white glow as the recruits used several tables to assemble their vests, treating them with the same care a parachutist might pack his chute. Every time Shabal urged them on they just grew more and more nervous, and it actually slowed their assembly.
On another nearby table, Shabal and Sanchez reviewed the hand-drawn map of the tunnel maze.
“Here, Shabal,” Sanchez said, alternately pointing at the map and to a darkened passageway to their right, “Here is the passageway you must all travel down. It is a little more than 150 meters long.”
“I see,” Shabal replied.
“Then, you must break up into smaller groups. There are three smaller tunnels that go deeper and then actually cross the border, here, here, and here,” he offered, pointing to the primary smuggling routes on his maps.
“Then these are the ones you use most? Are they secure?”
“As I told you at the safe house, this is our business, and we are good at it. No one we have sent through these tunnels has been stopped at the U.S. side of the border—absent some gross stupidity, like hitchhiking on a major highway. But you must decide who goes through which one, though I do advise you to use all three—as a precaution.”
“Yes, I will decide that when I give each of them their final assignment,” Shabal replied, waving a number of envelopes at Sanchez, envelopes that contained the name of an American city and an exact location where each martyr was to detonate his or her vest, as well as ample American currency to travel and fake identification for each one. Each envelope also carried a precise time that they were to make their attacks—the same time in each case. Above all else, Shabal had told them time and again that this must all be done simultaneously.
As the first recruit finished the final vest assembly and donned her deadly vest, Shabal walked over to her and handed her an envelope.
“Open it, please.”
The woman opened the envelope and gasped at the amount of money it contained. Then she pulled out the postcard. It read: WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS!
“You will be there by
tomorrow night, my dear.”
“B {ard be thereut . . . but . . . how will I get there?” she began to protest.
“It’s all in your envelope. A taxicab stop is close to where you will emerge on the U.S. side of the border. Follow the map and the instructions in there. The taxi will take you to a bus terminal. It will be a long bus journey, but you will get there safely. The MGM Grand—the picture of that hotel complex is also in your envelope—is your target. Look at it carefully once you are on the bus. There is a major convention at the hotel. You will be on the convention floor at the time indicated. Now, I must go check the others.”
Shabal checked each of his recruits in turn, wanting to hurry but also knowing that once they passed through that first long tunnel and branched out into separate ones, his ability to give them instructions was over. He had trained them all for almost a year, and now it came down to this . . . hurried instructions just before the last leg of their journey.
“I urge you to hurry,” Sanchez shouted as Shabal was checking one of the last of his recruits. “We can’t linger here too long.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, they were in two dump trucks and charging through the residential districts of Mexicali. De la Ribandeo drove the lead truck, with Ray riding shotgun. Both wore old work coats over their body armor and combat vests. Some thirty yards behind them, the second dump truck followed, with Lopez driving and A.J. riding in the passenger’s seat. The GAFE squad, less three of their number, rode in the dump bucket of the lead truck. With them were Sonny and the two Team One SEALs. The other Banditos and three of the GAFE were in the second truck. The trucks were equipped with canvas roll-top appliances that helped to keep refuse from flying out from a loaded bucket on the way to the dump. It provided concealment while allowing the SEALs and GAFE to peer out from underneath the canvas covering. As they approached the abandoned milk factory, they began to see idle teenagers on the streets, then teens with guns. Finally, there were armed men on rooftops with guns and bandoliers of ammunition.
Ray, riding with De la Ribandeo in the lead truck, had an old stocking cap pulled over his ears to hide his earphones and partially cover his lip mic. “Boss, you copy?”
“Right here, Ray.”
“We are entering an armed enemy base camp. I’ve never seen so much security, at least not out in the open.”
“I hear you. How much farther?”
There was a pause, then, “The GAFE leader says about three more blocks, unless we get stopped. Get ready.”
“Okay, guys,” it was Nolan coming on the net, “let’s get our game face on and stay sharp. This is probably going to be a dick-dragger.”
The security gunmen gave them puzzled looks as they rolled past, but no more than that. De la Ribandeo, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and {hist="0" an Uzi in his lap, smiled and waved to everyone. This guy, Ray thought, is a gamer. As they approached the main entrance to the milk factory complex, an old stretch Mercedes rolled out to block their path. De la Ribandeo slowed as if he were going to stop, then slipped the transmission into low range and mashed the gas. He hit the Mercedes on the nearside quarter panel and spun it off to one side. Two guards were taken out along with the car. As he drove past, De la Ribandeo killed another with his Uzi. The dump truck was through the gate before Ray could get his M4 up and into action. As they roared past, the guard who dove to the right of the gate to avoid the oncoming truck rose and began shooting at the rear of the fleeing truck. But he only got off a few rounds. A.J., coming in the second truck, saw it all. He leaned from the window and put two rounds in the guard’s back.
The two trucks stopped ten yards from each other and began to disgorge SEALs and GAFE. In the lead truck, Sonny and the Team One sniper rose through a hole they had cut in the canvas shroud and began to look for targets. Per their plan, De la Ribandeo, Sonny with his SAW and a heavy ammo load, and the two Team One SEALs were to hold the entrance to the main building and, if possible, get the sniper and a GAFE rifleman or two up to a perch, where they could command as many building entrances as possible. Their job as the blocking element was containment and isolation. They would shoot any hostiles who came out of the building and shoot any hostiles who approached the building. For now, all was quiet. They had taken out the inner circle of security and the gate guards. But those gunmen on the outer rings of security would soon be collapsing back in on the milk factory, so there would be no shortage of bad guys inbound to their position.
The Team One communicator was to stay with De la Ribandeo and serve as a relay between the GAFE commander and his men outside and the assault team inside. He was also on both his sat and cell phones, letting anyone and everyone know they were in contact, in Mexicali, and within sight of the border. Sonny found a good shooting position, where he could command both the gate and the main entrance to the building.
De la Ribandeo stepped to where Engel and Nolan were preparing to enter the building. “I think Sergeant Lopez and his men can stand with your men here,” he said in a conversational tone. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll join you inside.”
Engel started to protest but knew he hadn’t the time nor, he rightly guessed, the authority to overrule him. Aside from that, the twinkle was no longer there; the slim Castellón was all business. Engel nodded, and the assault team moved to the building.
Sergeant Lopez and three of his men ran to the sandbagged guard shack by the gate and dragged the dead sentries aside. When the first of the cartel gunmen cautiously approached, they casually waved to them. When they got close enough to see that all was not right, Lopez and his men opened fire. From then on it was a gun battle, and the bodies began to collect in the street outside the abandoned milk factory.
Engel, assuming the front door might not be the best entry point, led his team to the loading dock, and a single steel door next to a series of loading-bay doors rolled down. They paused for a moment while Weimy quickly taped a breaching charge to the door. It had a command initiator. After a “Fire in the hole!” the d {ole After aoor was hurled inward by the force of the explosion, and the squad filed in through the smoke. A.J., once more, was the first man in and almost tripped over the body of the cartel gunman who had been guarding the door.
Several floors below in the subbasement, Shabal and Sanchez looked at each other when they heard the explosion. They and one of the Filipino recruits were bent over a map of Southern California. On a nearby table, a dozen explosive vests were neatly laid out. The building was concrete, as were the floors, and this was their first warning that they were under attack. Shabal instantly knew it had to be the Americans.
“No,” he seethed. “First Cedros and now here! This cannot be happening!” Christo, he reasoned; it had to be Christo. If I live through this, he vowed, I will find him and his precious family, and I will kill them all.
“How many men do you have down here? How many?” Shabal demanded harshly.
Sanchez hesitated, his eyes wide with fear. “I don’t know, not many,” he admitted. “They are all up on the street.” He was both puzzled and frightened—puzzled that a Mexicali or the federal police force was in the building without his knowing about it. He had paid them all off, and there were dozens of his gunmen for blocks around the abandoned factory. And he was scared not so much from the authorities; they could be reasoned with or bought off. But this Chechen madman was different. He could neither be reasoned with nor bribed.
“We must hurry,” Shabal said as he scooped up an armload of vests, about half of them. “Get whatever men you can find and hold them off.”
“What if we can’t hold them off?”
“You will hold them, or as surely as Allah is Great, I will kill you.” Sanchez knew he meant it. He went off to round up whatever men he could find in the basement. There were but a handful. Sanchez gave them their instructions and hurried after Shabal and the safety of the basement tunnel complex. Just ahead of him, Shabal was rallying his Filipino recruits. There was now shouting
and gunfire coming from the main basement stairwell.
On the street level, the battle raged, but it was a controlled rage. Initially, there was much bravado in the young cartel bucks who charged at the milk factory. Most were veteran gunmen in that they had ambushed rival gangs and preyed on the families of policemen and federales. But they had never been exposed to the disciplined, interlocking fields of fire presented by the SEAL and GAFE defenders. Sonny and the Team One SEALs melded well. They had never before worked together, but they immediately fell into their roles. Sonny with the Mk46 light machine gun suppressed enemy fire and broke the early en masse charges. The SEAL radio man guarded Sonny’s exposed flank and took up the slack when Sonny changed ammo drums on his gun. The Team One sniper and his SR25 7.62 semiautomatic sniper rifle found a ladder to the top of the building and took up a position there. Both Sonny and the other SEAL called out targets, and he took them out. Soon the GAFE riflemen were calling out targets. The spotters were needed, as the SEAL sniper had to move after each shot or risk counter-sniper fire. He popped over the shallow roof abutment, took his {entnd shot, and ducked back behind cover.
Before taking up their defensive positions at the gate and behind the building, the GAFE soldiers had gathered the weapons and ammunition from the security contingent at the gate. For now, they had plenty of ammo. But the Tangos kept coming. And there was a Darwinian component to the battle. As the defenders killed the younger and more inexperienced fighters, smarter and more seasoned ones took their place.
In the basement of the old factory, Engel, Nolan, and the others began the deadly business of clearing the dark recesses of an unknown building. Had they been able to find the power source and extinguish the lights, they could have moved much more quickly and safely. In the shadows, dimly lit hallways, and bright splotches of bare bulbs, they were constantly going from NODs to naked eyes—IR targeting lasers to visible red-dot lasers.
Without direction or commands, the SEALs and the GAFE fell into a rhythm. The SEALs—Weimy, Ray, and A.J.—cleared one room, while the three GAFE soldiers cleared the next. Engel, Nolan, and De la Ribandeo served as security and led the file down the hall to the next room. As the basement level had multiple hallways and corridors, they had to be prepared for threats ahead of them as well as behind. Nolan, with his NOD, picked up one such Tango following them and shot him dead. In one of the rooms, they found a dozen or more cartel hostages. Most were bloody and showed signs of torture. There was a low, collective moan as the GAFE clearing team kicked in the door. After a quick consultation, De la Ribandeo elected to leave two of his men with the hostages, and the others moved quickly on. On occasion, they could hear footsteps receding down the hall.