Seal team six extra size.., p.49
SEAL Team Six Extra-Sized Holiday Bundle, page 49
He was sure he would never see these men again when they climbed into a van the following morning and drove away for the northern climes of Sinaloa.
Freeman, the CIA man and Agent Grignola stayed behind to monitor the team's progress via the GPS transmitters each wore. The SEALs would remain in contact with them here in the safe house over SAT phone. Freeman was their contact for evac and would move out when he got the call that they'd arrived at the target point. There was nothing for German to do but channel surf the big TV in the family room, smoke and nap. There was no need for him until Oscar or one of his cousins was captured for questioning. Even then he would only be asked to analyze transcripts of the interrogation.
He was a displaced person. He had turned his back on a life of dedication to fighting on the side of the law in Mexico. When this operation was over he could never return. Even his children could never know their home again. It was for them that he finally took this step to defect and the irony was that in doing so he denied them their heritage forever. Even if every narco in all the states and on either side of the border was killed or captured, the policia he betrayed by helping the gabachos would never forgive him. His life was worth nothing if he was discovered.
But what preyed on German Reyes over all was a withering fear for the fate of his wife and children. The DEA and the men from the State department assured him that Tejana and the children were safe. He found it was an effort to believe their promises; to maintain the faith that he was not simply being used only to be thrown to the wolves when his usefulness was ended. He had seen that scenario play out many times at the PF. Informants would be drained of all they knew and tossed aside. The next time anyone saw them was when their head was found in a gutter.
It was not until he met these new men, these SEALs, that his faith became real. These were men of honor and courage who would not betray his trust. He could rest easy knowing that they would protect him and his loved ones from harm at any cost.
Still, he would say a novena for them tonight, something he had not done since he was a little boy.
That evening they shared frozen pizza and beer and informally went over mission details. March Madness was on the big screen with the sound turned down. Kentucky and Baylor.
"What are we looking at on the ground?" Manny said.
"These gangs seriously arm up," Blair Freeman said. "They went paramilitary years ago."
"That means shit, Blair," Heath said. "Paramilitary could mean anything from elite squads to guys who made it through some half-assed boot camp."
"Many of the gunmen are ex-army," German Reyes put in. "But you are right. Very few of these men continue training. There are very expensive commando units that work for the cartels. Atún would probably not pay men like that."
"So, they're a bunch of wannabes," Flame said.
"But don't underestimate them," Reyes said. "They are certainly not as trained as you men but they could be as well armed. The narcos love their guns and can afford the best."
"We treat it like we would any insurgent camp," Manny said. "Even an asshole can get lucky. We all know that firsthand."
The men of the Team thought of Re-Pete, their brother who died on the Surinam mission from a stray shot in a jungle firefight.
"Can you get us any more intel, Blair?" Heath said. "These satellite shots are old. The place could be fenced in and mined by now."
"Not at this point," Blair shrugged. "No more pictures."
"Well, when can we expect more intel support?" Chili said.
"If this fishing expedition yields some human intel gold then I can get another layer of support authorized," Blair said. "The people I answer to want some assurances that we're close to the submarine bomb source before they loosen up their wallet. Then you'll have new photo flyovers, high level drones and recent colonoscopy results if you need them."
"So we gotta show something to get something," Chili said and threw a crescent of crust back on a tray.
"Go over the evac again," Manny said.
"It's simple, Levitz," Blair insisted. "You give me the sign and I'll bring in your evac on my own."
The room went quiet. The team eyed Freeman and he made a ritual of popping the cap off a beer and squeezing a lime wedge into it.
German Reyes wasn't certain what was going on and he exchanged a glance with Agent Grignola who just raised an eyebrow at him. No clue.
The Mexican cop and DEA agent couldn't know the history between the team and the agency man. Freeman was often their handler and intel liaison and they had shared a number of successful operations together. But bad blood remained between the men over a night in Tikrit when Freeman sent the team in on a hunt for former Ba'ath Party members. It turned into a trap. The team lost a man there when they dropped into a meat grinder of armed Sunnis.
The SEALs were a fatalistic bunch and understood the risks they took each time they were called out. They could be forgiving when intel turned out to be all wrong. But Manny and the others had a sense that Freeman was running on a thin hunch that night; gambling with their lives that his calculations were right. They knew Freeman was a political career animal but were willing for now to give him the out that it was just an honest fuck-up. Still, they kept a jaundiced eye on him. It would take some effort on his part to win back their total faith in him. Though any concrete proof that he was valuing his future in the agency against their skins and they'd deal with him.
With an effort, Blair met Manny's eyes.
"I said I'll be there and I will," Blair said and tipped back the bottle for a long pull.
Heath got up to take a piss past four in the morning and found Pig and Flame in whispered conversation punctuated with muted laughter at the table in the kitchenette. They each had a laptop open and sat on either side of the table in the azure glow of the monitors.
"You girls know we all have a date tomorrow," Heath said.
"You know we don't need sleep, bro," Pig said.
"Surfin' for porn?" Heath growled. "Jackin' each other off under the table? What the hell?"
"Deciding what car we're gonna buy, Heath," Flame said and turned the laptop for Heath to see a red Dodge Viper with a bikini clad bimbo laying across the hood.
"I'm looking at a fully tricked out H2," Pig said with a broad smile.
"You're gonna waste all that cash tomorrow on a ride you can drive for free now?" Flame scolded.
"And H2 is nothing like a Humvee," Pig said indignantly. "That's like comparing Megan Fox to your mother."
"A shit ride," Flame scoffed. "It's for rich bitches to pick the kids up at daycare."
"Enough of this shit," Heath said and reached across the table to slam each laptop shut. The two SEALs looked up at him in surprise.
"We'll be rested and ready, Heath," Flame said.
"You know sleep's not our thing," Pig said.
"It's not about sleeping," Heath said with heat in his words. "It's about all this pie-in-the-sky. We're rolling out tomorrow and you two are acting like a pair of pussies just got a prom invite."
They blinked at him.
"You got some money. Big fucking deal. Spend it any way you want. Buy your sister a sex change or invest in a chicken ranch. I don't give a flying fuck."
"What's your problem, bro?" Flame pouted.
"My problem is that two fuckers who are supposed to have my back tomorrow will be too busy dreaming about what color cooze wagon they're gonna buy when they should be covering my ass!"
They blinked at him.
"That's not gonna be a problem, Heath," Flame said and pulled the power jack from his laptop.
"We got your back," Pig said and did the same.
"Damned well better," Heath said and went back to bed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TRANSIT SINALOA
The drive to El Valle was hot, dry and dusty. They kept the windows of the van cranked down to let oven hot air in. They were covered in a thin layer of dust within a few miles.
The SEALs were connoisseurs of dust. A debate fired up about the consistency and cling of Mexican dust against all the other brands of dust they'd encountered. A consensus was reached that it was not the greasy, invasive grit of Iraq or the powdery, clay-based sand of Afghanistan. It was closer to the hellish fine particulate off the flood plains of the southern Sudan with a vague aftertaste of lime.
Flame played with the radio dial, the volume turned to the max so as be heard over the whoosh through the open windows and the sewing machine tat-tat-tat of the van's four banger. Every station featured preachers shouting their lungs or endless accordion and guitar bands with a lead singer calling out lyrics in rapid Mexicano. The songs were corridos; modern variations on the folk music of northern Mexico. When they weren't angry condemnations of how the gringos from America were at fault for all of Mexico's problems, they were gangster ballads about the narco life and the famous cartel godfathers and their exploits.
"Some of these songs are cool," Flame said. "I'll have to pick up some CDs when we get back."
"I don't know how you follow them, bro," said Pig from the backseat. "They sing so fast I can't understand any of it."
"You are one damned poor excuse for a Mexican," Heath said from behind the wheel.
"Maybe they'll write a corrido about us," Flame said.
"I hope not," Heath said. "Most of those assholes they're singing about are dead."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PLAZA DEL COOL
The five man team hiked out of El Valle as soon as it was full dark. They slipped from the rear of the rundown shithouse of a motel where they'd taken rooms. They chose the place because it was at the very edge of town along the highway and backed onto open ground leading up to hills to the north and east.
They left the battered old van at the garage in town. It would take days to fix. Flame and Pig made sure of that. They poured sand in the gas tank. That would keep the mechanic from looking for them too soon, that and the hundred dollar deposit they left with him. The rest of his payment was the van itself. They'd never be back for it and he wouldn't go looking for them.
The team rucked up, checked weapons and swiftly vanished into the brush and cacti at the back of the motel. They were moving at a steady six mile an hour pace over the up-and-down washboard of the hills on a straight line for the rancho that was their target. In the valleys between they double-timed it and made good time, eating up the miles at a near run over the flat ground. They moved single file with the point man at a minimum of one hundred yards front and the drag man bringing up the rear at fifty yards behind.
There was little communication between the men either in the open or on the PRC radios they each carried. And when they did speak they used a vague casual code and spoke Spanish only. There was no telling who might be monitoring the bands. And voices carried an astounding distance over desert ground at night. If they were overheard it would best that they didn't sound like gringos.
Each SEAL carried close to sixty pounds of gear and goods on their backs. The heaviest part of their loads was water and weapons. That was packing light. Often they brought over a hundred pounds per man on a jump mission or wet insert.
Every item they packed was a part of their cover. Their rucksacks were commercially purchased. They carried gallon plastic jugs of water rather than their usual rehydration bags. They were strapped with standard M4 rifles because they were almost as plentiful south of the border as AK 47s. They packed .223 ammo manufactured in China and readily available from importers in Venezuela or suppliers along the border or stolen from the army. Any brass left behind wouldn't arouse suspicion. Their sidearms were standard issue 9mms and .45s and Heath's big ass wheelgun in .44 magnum.
Even their footwear was meant to deceive. They wore their own cross trainer sneakers. Not the best shoe for a hard travelling forced march but the tracks they left wouldn't arouse suspicion to anyone who came across them. They could have used standard-issue Mexican army boots but there was no time to break them in.
There could be some kind of official investigation into their actions. The less evidence left for the PF the better. Especially evidence that might point to anything other than a typical inter-gang strike.
The ground was rocky with loose sand patches. A misstep could break a leg. It was easy misplace a foot where a rattlesnake was nestling between cooling rocks. They trusted to the watery light of a sliver moon to guide them. They packed night vision gear but they were saving it until deeper in the mission. Wearing the cumbersome array was tiring and migraine-inducing over a long hike. It didn't allow for depth perception and required mental agility to mentally correct the scene coming through the lenses. Only the point man wore the gear and they rotated point every half hour to hold down the strain and keep the lead man fresh.
The inclines weren't that steep and the ground was easy to cover for the extraordinarily fit men of the team. They'd reach their target with time to spare barring unforeseen circumstances. If the worst happened and they were too late to meet their objective before dawn they could lay up through the day and wait the clock around. A day late was better than fucking up the mission by shrinking their window.
That was this SEAL team's area of expertise. Manny referred to it as "open ended." Heath called it a "slow jam." Where most teams were quick in-and-out missions, this team specialized in improvised inserts of undetermined length. They stayed till the killing was done no matter how long it took so long as the risks didn't make waiting impossible.
Flame was second man in file and stopped in middle of one of the valleys to hold up a hand. Heath was behind him and drew closer before stopping.
"Escuchar," Flame said and held up a fist for 'stop.'
They both stood in the moonlight and cocked an ear. From far away came the yip and howl of coyotes.
"Muy chulo," Flame turned to Heath with a grin. Very cool.
Heath slapped Flame across the back of his head knocking his cloth cap down over his eyes.
"Movimiento," Heath growled and they picked up their steady trotting pace once more.
It was, for all intents and purposes, enemy country with all its own dangers. But it wasn't a real war zone with the whole armed population on the lookout for invaders or occupiers. Most of the hits down here were messy hit and run drive-by deals or lightning strike commando style raids. No one was looking for the kind of long-range infantry approach the SEALs were engaged in.
For all that, they'd be in a world of shit if they engaged in an extended firefight in this place. They could expect no back-up and everyone from the US ambassador to Mexico to the US attorney general would plead total ignorance. Their cover, if captured, was that they were a mercenary unit on hire to the Cartel Jaguar, a Sinaloan drug gang. Their cover identities would back that up as would false criminal records that could be corroborated through phony FBI files. The Sinaloans would deny knowledge but that fit the narrative too.
There was a better than even chance the Jaguars would even take credit depending on how successful the team was. Who turns down one in their own win column?
If it all went sideways they had no real options. They could hope that, if it were Mexican law enforcement that took them, a deal could be worked out to extradite them back to the States. But it was more likely they'd face the same fate as they would if taken by criminals; torture followed by execution and burial in unknown graves. There was no real difference in operational ethics on either side of the law below the Rio Grande. No one down here liked gringos much and they could expect no mercy.
There's an old saying that says that Mexico is cursed by being too far from God and to close to the United States.
They vowed to one another that the possibility of capture was not in their future. If everything was fucked and there was no way out they'd fight to the death in their own private Alamo.
The SEALs moved on under the moonlight toward the lonely rancho and whatever lay ahead.
"Dogs," Heath said under his breath.
"Goddamn dogs," Manny echoed.
Both men lay prone on a shelf of rock and scanned the compound below with 30x binoculars. Plainly visible in the green-tinged brilliance of the night vision lenses was a collection of low, tile-roofed buildings. A multi-car garage, stable, two guest homes and a sprawling hacienda with walled courtyard and pool. There was a collection of vehicles all about the place. SUVs, dirt bikes and ATVs. Lots of big boy toys; the kind of crap someone with crazy money and childish wants would buy. All sat still and quiet in the darkest part of the night in the hours before dawn.
They switched to thermal vision. It plainly showed a dozen or more free-ranging reddish orange blobs moving in random patterns all around the compound. Some of the blobs gathered unmoving against the largest building. Others moved at a lazy pace on unknown errands about the property.
"I count at least ten," Heath said.
"I make thirteen," Manny said. "Some are sleeping bunched there along the wall of the big house. We count on a few more being out of sight and even more inside."
"They're big ones," Heath said in irritation. "Mastiffs and pit bulls."
The bigger dogs' presence was actually a lucky break. The team, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons, had little to fear from a dog attack. It was the racket the dogs would raise once they sensed the team's approach that threw a kink in the equation. The bad guys might ignore a little barking in the night but they'd be up and ready if all the hounds took up the chorus at once. For that, high-strung little dogs were more of a danger. They'd raise hell sooner that the big dogs who were slower to react to a new scent. Big dogs were more likely to go investigate before raising their voice. Little mutts could start up yipping if the wind changed.
But all the dogs would still need to be eliminated if a stealth approach was going to work. Or at least as many as they could compromise.
"Hate dogs," Heath hissed. This was no idle phobia on his part. Heath grew up in Detroit in the government projects. The drug dealers there all had attack dogs and there were wild packs of ownerless mongrels that roamed the grounds at will. Heath felt like he spent half his short childhood running from dogs like the ones roaming down below. In a hood, where you were ten times more likely to get hit by a stray bullet from a drive-by than you were to be injured in any other way, it was the damned dogs he feared the most.
