The Surge - 03 (29 page)

Blind with fury over the losses the traitors had inflicted on his men, he ordered his lead elements to cross the bridge and kill the bastards – every last one of them.

From the Texas side of the river, sirens were sounding throughout Hidalgo and McAllen. Deputy Sheriffs, city cops, and even the local SWAT team rushed to answer the port’s call for help.

Major Hellcat couldn’t believe it when the Mexican Army personnel carriers began crossing the river. After a moment’s hesitation, he ordered his men to fire their remaining ammunition at the approaching forces.

Out in the open and limited by the narrow concrete lanes, the leading Army units began absorbing serious punishment from the Marines. Hellcat still had one functioning .50 caliber M2 machine gun, its heavy, armor piercing rounds knocking out one and then another of the armored pursuers.

For the moment, the bridge was blocked by smoldering wrecks.

Given the reprise, the major turned and ran for the closest building, hoping to find someone in authority.

The Texas border agents inside were still in shock and keeping low, their .40 caliber service pistols seemingly of little value given the intensity of the firefight raging just outside their offices.

“We request political asylum,” Hellcat spouted when he finally found someone in uniform. “We will be killed instantly if we are not allowed to enter Texas.”

Stunned by the appearance of the bloody, desperate man standing in their doorway, none of the agents knew exactly what to do.

At that same moment, the blistering mad Mexican Army commander ordered the burning hulks blocking the bridge pushed aside. Well beyond any understanding of the potential repercussions of his actions, he demanded his forces charge across the river and kill “those fucking Marines.”

Heavy machine gunfire now began raking the handful of survivors on the Texas side, the bridge quickly filling with charging troops and machines of war.

Out of ammunition, exhausted, and unclear where Major Hellcat had gone, the remaining Marines finally broke and ran like hell toward the closed port of entry, the nearby shoreline, and anyplace else that looked like it might provide sanctuary.

Several law enforcement patrol cars squealed up just then, the responding officers having no clue what was going on or why. They could only see men in green uniforms running away from the river while another group was firing volley after volley of lead toward the republic. More than one of the cops thought the retreating Marines were Texas border agents.

More and more police arrived, the on-site shift supervisor ordering his men to take up positions around the inspection lanes and to stop anyone trying to cross that bridge.

A moment later, a Hidalgo city officer was hit by a stray bullet fired from the Mexican forces now directly over the Rio Grande. The police opened fire with everything they had.

Less than four hours after it had started, the Mexican Civil War had boiled over into Texas.

El General sat and watched news footage showing a line of Mexican Army trucks and Humvees rolling out of their base. The announcer’s voice was near panic as he described the mobilization, reciting rumors that the Army was preparing a mission of revenge after the cowardly attacks outside of Monterrey.

“They are preparing to tear each other to shreds,” Vincent grunted to Ghost. “Civil war will rage across Mexico by the end of the week. I think it’s time we retreated to enjoy an extended stay on
The Rose
.” 

La Rosa Roja
(
The Red Rose
) had begun life with the Russian Navy as a 62-meter brown water patrol boat in the 1980s. Budget cuts had left hull number 18 rusting on blocks in the Almaz Shipyards just outside of St. Petersburg at 60% complete.

For the price of scrap, the German naval architecture firm Rienbolt Industries had purchased the military-grade vessel and towed her to their yards in Hamburg. There, the sparse, business-like blueprint was completely redesigned and revamped.

Steel bulkheads were adorned with exotic woods and surfaces. Italian marble was imported for the floors. No luxury or amenity was spared.

Less than 18 months later, she was listed on several yacht brokerages as a 205-foot pleasure vessel available to the world’s wealthy elite.

A Chinese manufacturing mogul purchased the yacht less than two months later, claiming the steel hull would perfectly suit a lingering desire to explore the waters around Antarctica, as well as ply the often-stormy South China Sea.

A delivery crew was hired to pilot the vessel to Cancun, the cross-Atlantic voyage deemed a worthy shakedown of the $300 million dollar yacht.

In reality, the Chinese billionaire had no interest in boating. His investment portfolio had suffered badly as of late, and cash flow had become an issue for his global enterprise.

Supply met demand through a series of backroom interactions. The Gulf Cartel was always struggling to launder its excessive cash. The Asian firm needed hard currency. It was a match made in heaven.

El General had arranged for the straw purchase in order to keep nosey DEA and Mexican officials at bay. After one short voyage, just in case anyone was watching, the Chinese industrialist had found he suffered terribly from seasickness. He had been more than happy to hand Vincent the “keys.”

La Rosa
was the perfect fit for a drug lord. She was fast, strong, and had an operational range of nearly 4,000 nautical miles. Her steel construction was impervious to small arms fire. Her interiors had been designed for the uber-wealthy who wanted to sail in comfort for extended periods, with enough food and water to last for months without entering a port.

No detail was overlooked, and her list of pleasantries was extensive. A helipad allowed visitors to board her while marooned in the middle of the ocean. And her water garage encouraged guests to try a little water fun, offering two jet skis, a 22-foot launch, and state of the art scuba equipment.

Within two months of being handed over to Vincent’s loving care,
La Rosa
had become a world-class headquarters for the multi-billion dollar criminal organization, with state of the art communications, military-grade radar, and even a small arsenal of shoulder-fired, anti-aircraft weapons.

“My beautiful red rose has thorns,” the kingpin once joked to an associate.

She was also mobile, able to constantly motor up and down the Atlantic coast of South America or beyond. A moving target was always the most difficult for any hunter.

Vincent’s caravan arrived in Cancun a short time later, rolling through the city’s extensive section of resorts, seaside hotels, and impressive marina.

They eventually meandered to a pier lined with other such vessels, the private yachts of the world’s rich and famous. There, tied to the concrete pillars, was
The Rose’s
speedboat, complete with two large outboard motors and a man dressed in flawless starch-whites. 

El General greeted the deckhand with a casual familiarity. Soon Ghost, Vincent and his most capable security men were speeding over the protected waterway, making good speed toward the open ocean beyond.

It took nearly an hour to reach
La Rosa
, the vessel’s gleaming, white profile anchored exactly 13 miles offshore, just over the line in international waters. Vincent, seated at the launch’s bow, seemed enthralled by his vessel’s lines and stark contrast to the royal blue waters of the gulf.

After maneuvering the speedboat into the yacht’s “garage,” Vincent and his entourage were met by
La Rosa’s
skipper. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Hola, Captain. Is everything in order?”

“Yes, Señor. We are fully stocked with food, fuel, and the other requirements for an extended voyage,” replied
La Rosa’s
master.

“Good. I wish to make for Tampico. Please dock
The Rose
at the warehouse along the Rio Panuo River.”

“Yes, Jefe,” the captain nodded. “The cruise will take approximately six hours.”

After the skipper had hustled for the bridge, Ghost leaned close and asked, “Are you sure docking within reach of the government is the safest approach?”

For a moment, Vincent thought to reprimand his “employee” for questioning the order but then decided against it. After all, Ghost had proved himself well worth the significant deposits being made into the terrorist’s European bank accounts.

“It is not the most secure mooring, which is obvious. On the other hand, we own the police and the Army in that district. I may need direct communication with our people. I will order the captain to keep
The Rose
ready to depart on a moment’s notice. It is the best compromise available to us.”

Ghost gave no indication of how much of El General’s reasoning he accepted at face value. Besides, there were worse accommodations and far more difficult positions to defend. The Syrian knew – he’d spent most of his adult life in hellish, war-torn countries where sleeping in anything off the desert floor was considered a luxury.

The “consultant” as Vincent often referred to mysterious Ghost, watched his benefactor closely, his age and experience warning the Syrian that El General was beginning to drift toward an egotistical mindset that would ultimately lead to the man’s downfall.

He’d watched the ISIS leadership become intoxicated with its initial success, the same with al-Qaeda in Iraqi and with the Taliban in Afghanistan. “Why is it that success can make a man forget what made him great in the first place?”

Ghost made a mental note to watch Vincent closely. When men like that began to fall, their impact usually crushed those around them.

They called her “Weekend,” because simply looking at the dark-headed beauty put the weekend in a man’s heart.

In heels, she barely nudged 5 feet in height and was tiny though the waist and thighs. With a Korean mother and father born in Puerto Rico, her skin projected a unique golden hue that drew the eye.

She was a petite woman, tiny all around with the exception of oversized breasts and a smile that seemed to dominate her girl-like face. With her dark, curly tresses and eyes the color of emeralds, she was an exotic beauty that kept any admirer guessing her heritage.

Weekend had been Vincent’s favorite female companion for many months, the crime lord returning with the young lady on his arm after a business trip to Texas.

No one knew how El General had met the stunning girl, nor had the jefe explained how he managed to woo her into his fold.

Some of the crime boss’s inner circle speculated that El General had kidnapped the woman, given her sultry attitude and uncooperative demeanor. Others thought Vincent had purchased her from some exotic locale where slavery was still in vogue.

Such gossip and speculation had reached a peak when Vincent had informed his security detail that Weekend wasn’t allowed off the ship or to communicate with the outside world in any way, shape or form. “I don’t trust her,” he justified. “She might be a DEA agent, or worse.”

She spent her days reading, sunbathing on
Rose
’s deck, and enjoying the expensive wine and culinary delights offered by the megayacht's galley and chef. Whenever El General was aboard, she seemed to grow even more withdrawn, often seen leaving his private stateroom in the mornings with red, watering eyes.

“She doesn’t like it rough like the jefe,” one of the bodyguards speculated, a knowing gleam in his eye. “He’s using her well.”

Still, Weekend hadn’t tried to escape or run away. On the few occasions when she was allowed to go ashore, she had replenished her personal items and expanded her wardrobe without protest or issue.

In reality, Weekend was one of the missing girls who had made the mistake of borrowing money from Trustline National Bank, another victim of one Mr. Carson. She had agreed to become the plaything for the banker’s wealthy client in exchange for the forgiveness of her debt. Her life at home sucked anyway, the combination of an alcoholic father and a mother who wouldn’t stand up to the abusive bastard. Then there was the dead-end job and a never-ending string of men who treated her like a piece of meat. It all made the banker’s offer much more palatable. Who knew – it might even be an exciting adventure.

Vincent and Weekend were taking in the sun on the pilot deck when one of the bodyguards interrupted the jefe’s acute study of the young lady’s perfectly shaped, bikini-clad bottom.

“El General, Señor Ghost believes there’s something in the media room that you’ll want to see,” the burly man said.

Sighing, Vincent rose from the plush lounge chair and sipped his wine. Slapping Weekend playfully on the ass as he passed, the crime boss led the way down two flights of stairs and then entered
Rose
’s well-appointed theater room.

It wasn’t a large space, one wall consumed by a massive Sony 4K television that was perfectly curved to allow excellent viewing angles from the two rows of cushy, leather recliners. Ghost was seated in the front row, the Syrian’s gaze transfixed on the display.

On the screen was the face of a well-known Mexico City news anchor, the bright red banner at the bottom reading, “Special Report – Region in Crisis.”

After watching less than a minute of the broadcast, El General handed his man the half-full wine glass and said, “Bring me coffee, please. Things are moving faster than anticipated. I need to clear my head.”

The newscast switched to an image of a young man who was reporting live from Ciudad Juarez, just across the river from El Paso, Texas.

“There have been sporadic clashes here for the last two hours,” the excited reporter blurted. “Gunfire can be heard throughout the downtown area as the Juarez Police appear to have sided with the Naval Infantry against the Army.”

The reporter’s eyes suddenly shot skyward, the shaky cameraman following the newsman’s line of sight.

It took a few seconds for the video to focus on a small dot in the bright, blue sky. Another moment passed as the camera zoomed and then focused.

There was a helicopter in the distance, its dark green paint, along with the Mexican flag painted on the tail section, indicating it was a military bird. Any doubt regarding the aircraft’s ownership was eliminated when the red exhaust of rockets began streaming from the two pods mounted below the fuselage.

Explosions rumbled in the distance, pillars of smoke and dust rising into the air as the cameraman struggled to keep up with fast moving projectiles.

“You can see how close the fighting is to the center of Juarez!” shouted the hyped-up correspondent.

The picture returned to the copter as it engaged in a slow, banking turn. Without warning, a throbbing white streak rose from the ground, the red plume of missile exhaust clearly visible across the airwaves.

The pilot evidently saw it, too, as the helicopter banked hard to change direction and pointed its nose in a dive toward the earth.

The avoidance maneuver was only partially successful, a small, dark cloud of smoke and shrapnel exploding near the aircraft’s tail section.

“It looks like some sort of shoulder-fired missile has been used against that helicopter,” the reporter's voice sounded in the background.