by James E Mack
Lopez turned at the foot of the ladder and strode past his team, taking point as he clicked the power on his NVGs. He wouldn’t use them yet as the tunnel was lit enough to see adequately, but he knew that the lights were going to be cut as soon as the Venezuelans were out on the other side and the team would need their NVGs after that point. The plan was simple enough; the Venezuelans would be allowed to exit the tunnel and make it to American territory before the strike went in. Snipers were already positioned in the industrial unit across the border and head shots was the order, taking these animals down in one concerted action. Leaving no possibility that they could get any communication back to their superiors. After the slaughter, the bomb mechanisms would be retrieved, and the technicians would move in and wire the unit with a sizeable device which would be detonated on the departure of the American personnel. The resulting news coverage would be sure to notice the presence of men in HAZMAT suits, a suggestion that whatever had exploded had contained something nasty. The hope was that when this hit the news, the Iranians would assess that there had been a malfunction of the device components resulting in a premature detonation. And there would be nobody who could challenge this narrative as the directive was clear; no survivors from this engagement. Other teams were already deployed to grab the brains behind the audacious attack before he disappeared into the Tijuana night.
For their part, Lopez and his team were the backstops; holding below ground to deal with any squirters; runners who managed to escape the initial assault and ran back into the tunnel. As they made their way along the subterranean thoroughfare, Lopez followed the almost constant commentary in his earpiece. The tunnel cameras had triggered the Venezuelans at the ladder on the American side and the Standby call was given to alert everyone to the imminent arrival of the coyotes and mules and their lethal cargo. Lopez began running, his men following and after less than a minute, saw the base of the ladder ahead of them. He held up his fist to signal the team to stop and spoke softly into his mic.
‘Foxhound in position.’
The brief acknowledgement was immediately followed by the sound of gunfire and muted shouts and screams above them. The tunnel went pitch dark as the lights were cut and Lopez and his men flipped down their NVGs, the fifth-generation devices providing an almost as good as daylight view for the men. A clanging above, a shaft of light as the tunnel entrance was opened and a man tumbled down the ladder, landing in an untidy heap on the ground. He stood, staggered for a few steps as he realized he couldn’t see in front of him then placed the palm of his hand on the wall and began walking forward as fast as he dared. Behind him, another individual dropped down the ladder and ran into the tunnel before he too, realized he couldn’t see. The men began yelling at each other, voices high with fear and alarm, desperate to make progress but unable to see where they were going. Lopez watched as his green laser danced across the leading man’s chest and he fired. The frangible rounds he used were designed specifically for use in caves and close urban fighting where conventional bullets passing through a body could ricochet and kill or wound the good guys. The added benefit of the ceramic rounds was that they literally exploded on impact and Lopez could see his rounds tearing hideous holes in the chest of the lead man. The second man tried to turn but Paulie had put four into his back before the Venezuelan had taken even a step. Lopez walked forward, placed the end of his suppressor just above the forehead of the first man and pulled the trigger. He carried out the same action with the man lying on his front before sending the transmission.
‘Foxhound, all Targets down, I repeat, all Targets down.’
In keeping with the plan, the Foxhound team picked up the bodies and carried them to the foot of the ladder where a couple of ropes with karabiner clips were lowered. Lopez and his men looped the ropes under the armpits of the dead men and the team above hauled the corpses up and out into the light. They would join the rest of their dead compadres in preparation for their second, more public death. When Lopez climbed out of the entrance, he saw that the interior of the warehouse was bustling with activity. Groups of people clustered around in cliques according to role. The snipers loading their weapons into nondescript vans, the specialist technicians removing the bomb mechanisms from the backpacks of the dead Venezuelans, biometric and photography teams documenting the dead. Lopez caught the eye of a man moving amongst the groups and he gave him a nod of recognition and a wry salute.
Vic returned Lopez’ salute with one of his own but had no time to spare to engage with the man further. As lead on the operation he had to oversee every aspect of the strike and the follow-up deception operation. Nothing could be left to chance. But so far, everything had gone according to plan, a fact attributable to the pre-emptive intelligence he’d had from Seven’s files. This had provided the Joint Task Force with the ability to deploy surveillance, technical intercepts and full camera coverage of every key part of the Venezuelans’ operation. No surprises. And he’d been pleased when the survivors of Ned’s squadron were allocated to the Mexico element of the operation. Couldn’t have asked for better guys with purer motivation. He looked up as he heard his name called and saw his FBI counterpart pointing at a group of technicians closing the doors of a van carrying the logo of a fictional plumbing company.
‘Foley, techs are done, biometrics complete and Delta leaving scene. We need to hustle.’
Vic nodded and jogged towards the roller doors, giving a nod to the FBI Agent at the controls to open the doors. Vic jumped in the passenger seat of the plumbing van and the driver moved off immediately with the discreet escort cars in front and behind them, protecting the inert but contaminated devices sealed within the specialized containers in the rear of the van. They passed a couple of pick-up trucks and another van travelling towards the site which Vic knew contained the bomb squad team who would plant the device in the warehouse and, once all friendlies were off site, detonate it. The area had been cleared and controlled hours before the Venezuelans had entered the tunnel, so the entire complex was devoid of civilians.
Vic’s cellphone buzzed in his pocket and he answered the call, talking freely over the encrypted device with the Agency’s Deputy Director of Operations, the DDO. The deliberately misleading title allocated to the DDO glossed over her official role as head of covert operations for the entire Agency. The call was congratulatory, the senior officer having watched the entire proceedings from the White House Situation Room alongside the top tier of the nation’s government, security and intelligence representatives. Vic hadn’t seen a gathering of that magnitude since the Bin Laden raid. He thanked the senior officer for her call and listened as another transmission came through his earpiece.
This is Aztec One. Visual on Tango, and Breach team moving in…
39
TIJUANA, MEXICO
The four men moved as a close unit, creeping along the dusty sidewalk, hunched over to avoid breaking the line of the wall that concealed them from view. Their weapons, helmets and collapsible ladder marking them as something more serious than the criminal gangs who sometimes targeted the area. The street was darker than usual, a fact attributable to the broken streetlights, shot out with an air-rifle earlier that day by the surveillance team in preparation for tonight’s operation. The men continued with their silent approach, no words or communication necessary, each man having conducted dozens of these operations in different countries around the globe. A short distance behind them a similar team emerged from the shadows, moving in the same manner and following the same route. This team stopped short, placed their ladder against the wall and two men used the apparatus to negotiate the obstacle, covered by their colleagues who followed them into the garden once the pair had taken a position to cover them. Once complete, this team ran in a crouch to the sanctuary of the deep shadows by the side of the house. Again, without a word of command or communication, they snaked along the wall, weapons ready in the shoulder and disappeared around the corner into the rear of the property.
At t
he front of the house, two members of the breach team detached themselves from the group and placed the explosive charges to the four corners of the door by the adhesive backing on each small block. The pair left the doorway and joined their two colleagues, backs against the hard cover of the wall of the house. The Team Leader spoke quietly into his mic.
‘Standby. Standby.’
A second later the quiet neighborhood was rocked by the explosion and several windows shattered in the near vicinity. Dogs barked and people shouted but the Breach Team was oblivious to this, already through the shredded door frame and moving fast into the house. The Team Leader ducked as a spray of automatic fire raked the wall beside him punching large holes into the drywall. A shadow darted between rooms before he could fire, and he cursed as he relayed the information.
‘Fucker’s armed and running. Coming your way.’
The Delta Sergeant watching the rear door nodded and aimed his weapon at the entrance. A split-second later the door flew open and a small man in an open-necked shirt stumbled down the stairs, almost tripping in his haste. The Sergeant smiled and squeezed the trigger, watching in satisfaction as the runner dropped to the ground, the Scorpion machine-pistol spinning away into the darkness of the yard. Before the runner had even stopped moving, two of the team were on him, zip-ties, gag and hood, immobilizing the man while the shock of the shot was fresh. They conducted a quick search of his pockets and dropped the items into small bags attached to their belts. The Delta Sergeant stood and relayed the update back to the Team Leader.
‘That’s JACKPOT, JACKPOT, JACKPOT.’
The Team Leader acknowledged the status and the Sergeant walked over to his men and nodded.
‘Get him to the front. Wheels inbound ten seconds.’
His men lifted the prone body of the Iranian between them, moving fast around the corner of the building. The Delta Sergeant studied the ground for several seconds before he spotted what he was looking for. He stooped and picked the rounded beanbag-like object and dropped it into the open bag attached to his belt. While it wouldn’t really matter if someone had found the object, the fact that a non-lethal projectile was used in a mysterious incident would alert the Mexican authorities that this wasn’t just another beef between cartels or local narcotraficantes. As he made his way to the front yard, he reflected that he was glad they’d got their guy alive. He’d initially questioned the wisdom of taking down an experienced Quds operative with a non-lethal round, but the CIA had been insistent; the Iranian was a major intelligence asset and he needed to be taken alive. The Delta Sergeant grinned as he imagined the pain and shock that the Iranian was currently experiencing but however much that was, it was a hell of a lot less than what he was going to experience in whatever CIA Black Site he was being transported to. The Sergeant had accompanied detainees to a couple of these secret prisons around the globe and had seen first-hand the effects on a prisoner when there were no constraints on their captor’s interrogation methods.
As he entered the front yard, a van pulled up, side door already open. His guys tossed the gagged and bagged Iranian into the vehicle where he was received by waiting hands that secured him to the floor as the van accelerated away and the door was hauled closed. People were coming out into the street now that things had quietened down. A fat man in a stained white vest scratched at his balls with one hand while filming the proceedings on his mobile telephone. This didn’t concern the Delta Sergeant as he knew the techs had already pre-empted this issue and would ensure that no civilian communications would leave the area. Everything jammed until tomorrow morning and all media recordings and transmissions erased as a standard measure. He looked up as two more vehicles sped into the street and he and his team jumped into the first van while the Breach Team took the second. As the vehicles negotiated the tight Tijuana backstreets, the Delta Sergeant looked at his watch. One minute and thirty seconds from crossing the wall to full team exfil. He was satisfied with that. The vans picked up speed as they hit the wider thoroughfares that would get them out of the suburbs and towards the freeways and eventually to the waiting air assets to fly them out of the country.
40
CIA BLACK SITE ‘WOLF LARDER’, DJIBOUTI, HORN OF AFRICA
Vic Foley sucked on the juice of the orange segment, relishing the flood of sweetness in the glare of the hot sun. He looked at his watch. Three hours. It had only been three hours, but his hopes were high. This would be the twentieth interrogation session in three days for their Iranian guest and Vic hoped this would be it. They were close, he could see that from the condition of the detainee. They already had his real name, background and current operations he’d been involved with, but he was still withholding the vital stuff: What’s coming? What is the Quds planning to carry out in the near future? Vic was certain this guy would know. Not everything, but definitely relating to the US. That being, after all, this guy’s turf. Ali Rashid, aka, Aban Dirwan, aka… well, it didn’t really matter. He had around a dozen aliases depending on whether he was operating under diplomatic cover or not. He’d been assigned the codeword VOLTAGE, which Vic acknowledged was ironic considering the means of interrogation that VOLTAGE had been and was, currently experiencing. But it was necessary. VOLTAGE wasn’t just an experienced Quds operator; he was connected by family to the biggest players in the game. And Vic knew that this was why he’d been resisting so hard. But biology would win out in the end. There was only so much pain and torture that the mind would allow the body to endure before the mouth opened and streamed forth with everything the interrogators wanted.
He cut another segment from the fruit and had just taken a bite when the door opened and Sayed stepped out, frowning in the bright sunlight before donning his sunglasses. He took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply before deigning to dignify Vic by noting his presence. He cleared his throat before speaking in his broken English and menacing gruff baritone.
‘Our Iranian friend is talking now. Has remembered his manners and many other things as well. You should speak with him.’
Vic nodded. ‘Thank you, Sayed. I am in debt to you once again my old friend.’
Sayed laughed and pointed his cigarette at the CIA officer.
‘Fuck debt. Pay me money then no debt.’
Vic laughed as he stood and stretched. ‘Don’t worry, I have your money. I will pay you when I finish talking with our guest. Clean him up, give him new clothes and take him to the meeting room.’
Sayed nodded and brushed cigarette ash from his beard before flicking the butt of the cigarette into the sand and heading back into the interrogation room. Vic tossed the remainder of the orange into a decrepit oil drum and made his way to the main complex of ramshackle buildings that housed the more secretive elements of the National Gendarmerie, of whom Sayed and his nasty gang belonged. Vic didn’t like Sayed, but it had to be said, the man got things done. This would be the third time in as many years that Vic had needed the services of Sayed and his crew and he’d never been let down yet. VOLTAGE and men like him were the most effective and prolific killers in the world and while Vic was no fan of torture per se, the rules for terrorists such as VOLTAGE had to be different. This man was probably overseeing a dozen or so major operations worldwide at any given time. Relying on international protocols for detainee interviews and adhering to Human Rights’ clauses just meant more people died while the evildoers like VOLTAGE exploited the legal loopholes open to them.
Black Sites had been officially discontinued some years ago to satisfy the hysterics of the liberal elite and the pressure from the media. Unofficially however, a small portion of the capability had been retained for selective cases. Vic got it; sanctioned torture of an individual by a civilized, democratic nation should shock and disgust people. But the type of person taken to these sites had long ago lost any right to class themselves as a human being. And there was always a clock, a short time in which to get the information before a massacre or atrocity took the lives of innoce
nts somewhere in the world. Vic had worked the Pakistan end of the international plot to bring down two transatlantic aircraft that would have resulted in the deaths of hundreds of Americans. And the lead for that had come from an Al Qaeda go-between the Agency had lifted in Berlin and taken to the CAT’S EYES site in Poland for an ‘enhanced’ interview. And he’d talked. Given up names, phone numbers, communication lines, logistics, the network of sympathizers. The attack was thwarted as a direct result of one scumbag suffering so that hundreds of innocents could live. In Vic’s world, that was a very fair trade-off.
He opened the door to the building and entered a small room where he took bottles of water from a fridge and a tub of nuts and dried fruits. As he walked down the corridor, he relished the chill from the air-conditioning while he made his way to the observation room. Vic held a key for this small room, but he made it his practice to leave nothing in here that could come back and bite him in the ass at a later date. The cameras and cassette recorders were all old school; no threat of the contents being hacked or swiped as there would be with modern digital equipment. And after every session with a detainee, Vic took the tapes and left only the analogue recording equipment behind.
He loaded the devices with new cassettes, checked the power was good then turned on the lights for the meeting room. From the one-way mirror in front of him, the meeting room beyond was now illuminated brightly. Vic turned the devices on to recording mode just as the door to the meeting room opened and two of Sayed’s crew pushed the detainee inside. They pointed to a chair and the detainee obliged, taking a seat but avoiding eye contact with the men, his head bowed and hands shaking as he placed them on the table. Sayed’s men left without a sound and a moment later joined Vic in the observation room. Vic pointed to the camera and recorder.