Read Tom Clancy's Act of Valor Online
Authors: Dick Couch,George Galdorisi
Tags: #War & Military, #Historical, #Fiction
He now sat with the one Mexican he could communicate with—but never fully trust. Christo had already transferred a considerable sum of money to the man’s offshore account. The man knew that once Shabal told Christo this part of the mission was complete, and Shabal and his eight martyrs were safely across the U.S. border, another great sum of money would be sent to that same offshore account. The man needed no further motivation. Money, Shabal knew, was all these Mexicans wanted.
“So tell me again why you picked this tunnel system here,” Shabal said as he stabbed his finger at a hand-drawn map.
“Yes, well, you can see, my friend, it is close to this safe house,” the man who called himself Sanchez began. He was a younger man, handsome in a vaguely exotic way, and urbane compared to the thugs who guarded the safe house. “And even more importantly, the entrance to the tunnels is as well guarded as anything in this country.”
“How do you mean?” Shabal asked.
“Look, it is vastly m {t i>
only
business. You looked around this town as the bus brought you here, no?”
“Yes,” Shabal replied. He wanted information, not a lecture, and Sanchez was starting to irritate him.
“Yes, just so. Forget about the drugs for a minute, something that made our friend Christo a wealthy man. Think about people. Think about how many millions of poor Mexicans want to enter the United States. If we just let anyone into these tunnels, they would be clogged with many thousands wanting to go north. No, we control who enters, eh?”
“All right, I see that.”
“I’m not sure you do, or if you realize how lucrative it is for us, and important for us to control this access.”
Sanchez nodded toward one of the big men sitting on a battered sofa.
“See Antonio over there. He has two sons. One is at Duke, the other is at Colgate. Most Americans can’t afford to send their children to private colleges, let alone Ivy League schools. Antonio has three more kids, younger ones, and they’ll all attend university in the United States. So, you see, we control it. We control the access, and so we control the profits.”
“I see,” Shabal replied.
“So, here, here is where we will insert you,” Sanchez said, drawing his finger to a point on the map. “It is our most well-protected location. It is a compound that is as closely guarded as the homes of some of our richest citizens. No residents of this city dare come within a hundred meters of it. You are paying us well, so we will take you to our best and most secure route to the north.”
“How will we get there?”
“Not by the bus that brought you here. That would attract too much attention. No, we move in thirty minutes. This is the time of day when the delivery trucks make their deliveries to the restaurants and cantinas. We can fit all nine of you in the back of one of them. In the compound they know we are coming, and they know what our truck looks like. It is as simple as that, my friend.”
“It is never simple,” Shabal snarled.
* * *
The two MH-60S Knighthawks set down on a hardstand near the small airport’s single strip. The reinforced Bandito squad and their gear were quickly unloaded, and the Knighthawks lifted off. They would await any call to action from a military airfield twenty miles to the south. There was little to be gained by the conspicuous presence of two American military helicopters sitting on a civilian airstrip near Mexicali. After the helos lifted off, the SEALs surveyed their surroundings. Just off the airstrip were a series of heavily locked self-storage units and a few light aircraft tied down nearby. Most were old tail {werings-draggers. The complex was surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence with coils of razor-wire running along the top. Captured plastic shopping bags dotted the rusty chain link. But most noticeable and pervasive was the smell. Nearby and, unfortunately, upwind, a large column of birds circled over a garbage dump. A parade of open dump trucks were making their pilgrimage to the waste site, dumping loads of refuse, and heading back into Mexicali for more.
Parked near the hardstand, well back and off to one side, were four battered Ford Explorers. As the SEALs moved toward the vehicles, a single figure in a tailored black combat uniform stepped out from a group dressed in a variety of shabby, civilian attire. Except for the lone figure in black, they looked like an undercover narcotics squad. Given their area of operations, this was not surprising.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Nolan said quietly.
“I’ll talk to the jefe,” Engel replied under his breath. “Why don’t you and the others mingle with their troops and get a feel for them. I’ll want to know what you, A.J., and Ray think of these guys.” Nolan could understand more Spanish than he could speak. A.J. and Ray were fluent. As the other Banditos peeled off to one side, Engel made straight for the tall man in black. He dropped his gear, came to attention, and saluted.
“Good afternoon, or
buenos dias
, sir. I’m Lieutenant Engel, SEAL Team Seven.”
The man was tall and slim with fine Castellón features. He wore only the oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel on his buttoned-down cloth epaulettes and a badge on his left breast that read
Todo por México
—“all for Mexico.” Stopping in front of Engel, he, too, came to rigid attention and rendered a parade-ground salute. He had high cheekbones and a pencil-thin mustache. Yet for all his bearing and formality, Engel thought he detected a twinkle in his eye.
“Welcome to
México, Teniente
. I am
Commandante
Juan de Rio de la Ribandeo. Or,” an easy smile now accompanied the twinkle as he extended a hand, “until we finish this unpleasant business, please call me Juan. And your Christian name is?” His English was precise and impeccable.
“Uh, it’s Roark, sir.”
“Please, Roark, it’s Juan—I insist. And before we get started, let me say it is a privilege to be working with the Navy SEALs. We are honored—all of us.” He paused to regard his men, who were now mingling with the Banditos. “They may not look like much, but they are good boys, and brave. You
Norte Americanos
have your overseas ventures that keep you quite busy. We here in Mexico don’t have to go far to confront evil. Our war is right here. Our enemies are well financed, well armed, and committed to their enterprise. So our operations, like yours in Afghanistan and Iraq, are deadly and ongoing. Like you, I’ve lost some good men, and as with you and your wars, there seems to be no end to it.” He paused a moment, “But then, we are not here today to talk about the burdens we warriors must bear. We have our duty. More to the point, I understand we have a job to do. I look forward to hearing all about it.” And Roark Engel brought him up to speed with what he knew so far.
Dave Nolan spoke just enough Spanish and
Sargent Primero
Lopez just enough English for them to get a feel for not only each other but the capabilities of their special operators. Senior enlisted leaders the world over are very good at getting to the point, and when it comes to the issues that relate to risking their men in battle, brutally honest. Nolan could have this same conversation with an Israeli
Rav Samal Rishon
or a German
Hauptfeldwebe
, and with the same results. There is something about the prospect of mortal combat that causes men who must lead other men into danger to be candid and truthful. Up the chain of command, politics might enter into the equation, but not at the troop level. In the U.S. and other armies, they call it ground truth, and that was what was taking place between Chief Nolan and Sergeant Lopez.
“So what do you think of these guys?” Engel asked after they were off by themselves. He watched as Sergeant Lopez and De la Ribandeo, over by their vehicles, seemed to be having the same conversation.
“They’ve seen a lot of combat and probably have more trigger time than our guys do. Tactically, I doubt they are as good as we are, but they’ve been in a fight, and it seems they know how to fight. I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by integrating our guys with theirs unless we’re dealing with local noncombatants. But if it comes to a fight, I believe they’ll stand tall. How about their jefe?”
“I’m not sure, but I think he’s okay. More to the point, what do his troops think about him?”
“They seem to like him. He’s obviously a dandy and a blue blood, but they call him
El Lobo
, “the wolf.” It seems he’s been known to show up before a raid and jump into the assault element. He’s a fighter. He’s also the number two guy in the GAFE. I guess the commander is a regular-army colonel who no one ever sees. But the operational teams see a lot of this guy.”
While the other SEALs continued to mingle with the GAFE soldiers, Nolan and Engel were joined by A.J. and Ray.
“What’s your take?” Nolan immediately asked them.
“I think they’re all right,” Ray said. “They seem to have both a respect and a hatred for the druggies. For them it’s personal. It’s like if the Taliban or al-Qaeda controlled some of our neighborhoods in San Diego, and we had to fight them here, not over there.”
“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: W
ELCOME TO
L
AS
V
EGAS!
“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.