The Surge - 03 (27 page)

Sam reached for her phone, her fingers trembling as she punched Zach’s number.

“How are you feeling?” he answered.

“I’m fine. I need you to get over here … right away!”

She heard her partner sigh, “Cabin fever striking again?”

“No, Zach, it’s far, far more important than that. I’ve found a picture that I need you to look at. I think I’ve uncovered an old friend of yours, and I know you’ll want to see this.”

“An old friend? Of mine?”

“Yes,” she replied, the adrenaline clear in her voice. “You do remember Ghost, don’t you?”

“I’ll be there in an hour.… Make that 40 minutes.”  

They rose from the ditch as one, 30 shadows moving in a line toward the gate.

Given the cartel’s recent attacks and the outbreak of plague roaring across the country, the number of guards manning the base’s front entrance had been doubled. Despite the early hour and lack of traffic, none of the assigned Mexican Army personnel were sleeping. It didn’t make any difference.

Again, acting as if a single entity, the shadows moved directly in-line with the sentries’ positions, flicked off their weapons’ safeties, and fired.

A maelstrom of 5.56 lead slammed into the semi-fortified booth and guardhouse, a few of the steel-cored bullets managing to penetrate the thick, reinforced walls.

Three of the four guards were fast enough to duck below the blizzard of lead, their bodies reacting purely on instinct as their minds cycled rapidly in an attempt to rationalize why the night had just turned into a nightmare.

The attackers never intended on their initial barrage taking all of the guards out of the fight – that wasn’t the purpose.

With perfect timing, the suppressive fire ceased just as the flanking shooters reached the hardened positions and dispatched the sentries – up close and personal.

Then they were inside the perimeter of the sleepy base, small teams fanning out in every direction.

For nearly 40 minutes, the Region IV Post outside Monterrey was a living hell for the soldiers garrisoned there. Well-coordinated fire teams first destroyed the communications center with explosive charges while another group of intruders sprayed hundreds of rounds into the enlisted barracks. The officers’ quarters, as well as the base commander’s apartment, received multiple volleys of hand grenades.

Eventually, a resistance formed, a few officers managing to rally a handful of shaken troops. They even succeeded in killing one of the attackers but didn’t know it until dawn had broken several hours later.

Just as quickly and silently as they had appeared, the remaining 29 shadows faded back into the night. The base they left behind was in absolute bedlam, soldiers running in every direction, firing wildly at shadows and sometimes each other. It was over two hours later before the surviving leaders figured out that the intruders had left and demanded a cease-fire.

Shortly after daybreak, the remaining leadership found the lone enemy causality. He was wearing the uniform and equipment of the Naval Infantry – a Mexican Marine.

“This can’t be true,” a captain spouted, shaking his head. “Why would our own brothers attack us?”

“Sir! Sir, you might want to see this,” shouted a nearby private. “This might answer your question, sir.”

The officer stepped to the corner where the young soldier stood pointing. The captain’s gaze followed the private’s finger, arriving at the base commander’s still-smoking home. On the side, spray painted in large, white letters was a message. “Army Bitches - Remember Veracruz!”

Four hours later, President Salinas had just sat down, ready to call his staff meeting to order. An aide appeared at his shoulder, bending to whisper a message into the chief executive’s ear.

Salinas blanched white, glancing harshly at the messenger seeking to confirm the news.

Two men now seated at the large conference table then drew Salinas’s attention. Both resplendent in their best uniforms, the president’s eyes fixed on the general in charge of the Army and the admiral who commanded the Mexican Navy.

“Everyone else get out … immediately. I need a private word with my military commanders.”

A wave of mumbling rolled through the gathered secretaries and ministers before they began shuffling out.

Curious why they had been singled out, both of the military men sat staring at their boss until the door finally closed behind the last straggler to leave the room.

“General,” Salinas began, nodding toward the man who controlled the entire Mexican Army and Air Force. “You probably will want to turn on your cell phone and call your office in just a moment. There’s been an incident.”

The president began relaying what he’d just learned. “My aide informed me that there were over 50 casualties at the Region IV facility, including the base commander.”

Fire filled the general’s eyes as his head snapped toward the admiral. “Why? Damnit – tell me why!”

“I assure you, General; my forces had nothing to do with this cowardly attack. We both know that uniforms are easy to counterfeit and that the cartels use the same weapons as both of our forces. It wasn’t our doing.”

Mexico’s two branches of armed services had always been in competition with each other. Throughout recent history, they had bickered and quarreled over everything from budget dollars to which honor guard would present the flag at the national soccer championships.

For years, both commanders considered the checks and balances imposed by the Mexican Constitution a positive for both of their respective services, as well as the country as a whole.

All of that had begun to change with the onset of the drug war. The larger branch of the Army had been far more vulnerable to infiltration and corruption than the smaller ranks of the Marines. While the senior officers in both services had done their best to keep the rank and file “clean,” the cartels had still managed to buy, bribe, or influence key Army personnel. When dozens of Special Forces troopers had deserted to join Los Zetas, the government’s faith and confidence in the Army had waned.

This had resulted in the Marines being used to hunt down and kill dozens of cartel leaders. Whenever the whereabouts of a wanted drug lord had been discovered, it was the naval branch that received the call. The situation was at best an embarrassment for the larger service, an insult at worst.

All of that frustration came to the surface when the general learned of the attack at Monterrey. Losing his barely-controlled temper, the senior army officer blasted away at his naval counterpart, “You son of a bitch. For the last five years, I’ve sat here and listened to you boast about your accomplishments and achievements. I’ve suffered in silence, listening as you’ve taken credit for the sun rising in the east and the rain falling from the sky. Wasn’t that enough? Weren’t all of the headlines and heroics enough? I’m beginning to think the cartels are right. I think you want to run the government for yourself and are too impatient to wait for an election.”

The admiral wasn’t a man to take such abuse calmly. “If you could control your own forces, our oversight wouldn’t be necessary. I can’t help it if your entire command structure is on the cartel’s payroll. It’s not my officers who warn those criminals when there is a raid on the way. It’s not my men who sell their weapons and ammo to the cartel soldiers. You cooked up this septic stew, so stop whining like a schoolgirl about how the hot broth burns your mouth.”

The general didn’t rise to the insult, nor did he let his temper continue to run rampid.  Instead, his intellect kicked in, overriding emotion with cool, logical, analytical thinking. Tilting his head in thought, his voice sounded with a cold monotone. “You think we had something to do with unleashing the plague at Veracruz, don’t you? You sent those murderers to Monterrey for vengeance, didn’t you?”

“We have no proof of any Army involvement at Veracruz,” the admiral replied smugly. “If I did, I would approach the president with such facts, not launch some middle of the night raid on one of your bases.”

“You are a coward and a traitor!” the general growled.

While the admiral and president sat stunned by the accusation, the general pushed back his chair with an angry motion and stood ramrod straight. “You won’t get away with this coup. Not while I still walk this earth. I am loyal to the president and the republic, and I will fight you every step of the way.”

“Gentlemen … please….” Salinas pleaded as the senior commander pivoted for the door.

It was too little, too late, as the Army’s head honcho stormed out without another glance or word.

The convoy left Mexico City at dawn, rolling out of the base’s gates with double the number of escort and security personnel. A platoon of military police, two companies of infantry, and a contingent of paratroopers were accompanying the column, assigned to protect the much-needed cargo from any threat.

Behind the lead element of Humvees was a string of 18-wheel, over-the-road semis, each filled to the brim with food, ammunition, and the spare parts required to resupply an army in the field.

The shipment was a regular event, Mexico’s logistical supply line ruled by a doctrine that kept the vast warehouses of materials close to the capital, so the precious cargo didn’t end up on the black market. 

The destination of this morning’s column was Reynosa, a city of over 700,000 residents, and the colonel commanding the resupply effort was on edge.

Residing just across the border from McAllen, Texas, the Mexican community had suffered over a decade of extreme violence as the government and various cartels had battled for control.

Since the millennium, the town had changed hands no less than four times as the Gulf Cartel and Los Zetas had fought each other in the streets. Whichever side managed to gain the upper hand would then have to deal with the Army and eventually a large contingency of Marines.

The entire community had breathed a sigh of relief when Z-44 and El General had called a truce. Seemingly overnight, the routine sound of automatic weapons and hand grenades had been silenced. Some of the more optimistic citizens held out hope that days of mass killings was behind them.

The plague hadn’t reached this part of northern Mexico, and with the Marines in town, many of the border town’s residents began returning to a peaceful lifestyle they hadn’t experienced in years.

Not all was well, however. Since the attacks at Monterrey and Veracruz, the Army and Marine contingencies had been eyeing each other through the fog of suspicion. Rather than cooperate on patrols, checkpoints, and schedules, as before, the two branches of the Mexican military had been operating independently. Still, both sides had reached an unspoken agreement, mostly avoiding each other until the confusion in Mexico City and elsewhere died down.

The convoy would have to visit both contingents today.

They arrived at the Army’s base of operations first, dozens of soldiers rushing to offload the trucks while clerks with clipboards shouted orders and kept counts. It was always a hectic exercise, sorting beans from bullets, separating medical supplies from laundry detergent.

During the controlled riot that was the unloading, no one noticed one of the base’s civilian workers attaching a stainless steel canister to the underneath of a semi-trailer, nor did anyone catch the same man applying a second pressurized tank to a truck down the line.

After receiving an inch-high stack of signed inventory sheets and bills of lading, the convoy was rolling out of the gates, making its way to the Marine contingency stationed on the opposite side of town.