An Eye For An Eye (9 page)

The president read the directive again then paused, his pen poised over the paper. He looked up at his guests. “We’re prepared for the fallout?”

Jessica Williams, the Deputy National Security Advisor, and Burt Phillips, sitting across from the president, nodded.

“The heads of Homeland Security, the FBI, NSA, and Customs and Border Protection have been notified.” Williams elaborated. “This is obviously classified, so they’ve been briefed only on what they need to know: that we have reason to believe that the cartels are preparing for an attack against Mexican or U.S. infrastructure or political figures, possibly all of the above.”

Kendall nodded. He made a note to call Pat Monahan later and provide the missing details.

“They’ll begin putting extra focus on the obvious areas, the borders, critical infrastructure, top officials,” Williams continued. “Homeland Security is also reviewing the watch list. NSA will be listening for chatter.”

The president nodded then glanced down at the National Security Directive, the document authorizing Operation Night Stalker, lying on the table before him. He wished Richter were here. He glanced at his watch, remembering that Richter had promised to give him an answer today. That would have to wait, he thought as he looked back up at Williams and Phillips. He already knew Richter’s position on the operation; like Williams and Phillips, Richter believed that the cartels were likely to strike back. But he also believed that they didn’t have a choice.

The president and Phillips exchanged a glance then Phillips nodded.

As he signed his name, he knew that this simple act would trigger a series of events and, because of it, innocent people would likely die. He only prayed that when all was said and done, it was the right decision.

As Patty looked up at him, her eyes moist, Richter felt a flood of emotions, none of them good.

“Is this a permanent move?” she asked.

He sighed. “I don’t know yet.”

Patty was silent; she averted her eyes, staring down into her coffee.

“Look, I have to face the fact,” he said, holding up his injured arm, “that my job on the SWAT team is gone.”

“Isn’t there something else you could do here? A different job?”

He shook his head. “Patty, I’m sorry, but there are only so many times I can tell him no.” He took a deep breath. He had been dreading this conversation not only because he knew Patty would be hurt, but because it hurt him as well. He could see that she was holding back her emotions, fighting the urge to cry. For some reason, that only made him feel worse. He struggled, trying to find the words that would make everything okay, that would make her smile again. He couldn’t find any.

He put his hand over hers. “Washington’s less than four hours away. I’m trying to arrange it so I can spend the weekends here.”

“What about Thanksgiving?”

Only a week away and he knew that he owed her an answer. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go—he had been expecting Kendall’s call and he knew all too well that for those in the White House, weekends and holidays meant nothing. Hell, there was barely a distinction between daytime and nighttime, with many staffers routinely burning the midnight oil then, jittery from too much caffeine, watching the sunrise through bloodshot eyes as they headed to a restroom with a clean set of clothes kept in their offices for such occasions. He would have to find a way to spend Thanksgiving with Patty.

“I’ll be there,” he said, smiling, hoping to ease the tension. “I’m looking forward to meeting your sister.”

Patty stared at him silently for a moment, then wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve never been the neurotic, needy type, but this is…I don’t know…so unexpected. I thought…” She hesitated and turned her head.

He felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He understood, or at least he thought he did. Ever since he had been discharged from the hospital, except for work, they had spent more time together than apart, sharing meals, long discussions—about anything, it didn’t matter—trips to the store, a Saturday excursion to Philadelphia, and most nights together at either her place or his. It had happened so quickly that, before he realized it, he had been swept up in the excitement of a new romance. He finally found someone that he wanted to be with, to share things with, someone he wanted to make happy. His life suddenly had direction again. And now he was jeopardizing it. Wasn’t Patty more important? he asked himself again. Before he could answer, Patty interrupted his thoughts.

“Damn it, Matthew! I’m in love with you!”

It had taken four weeks to set things in motion. The logistical aspects of equipment and men had been easy, a by-product of the trend toward unconventional warfare and special operations that had begun decades ago. The legal aspects had been easy as well. U.S. forces participating in the operation had been temporarily transferred to the CIA. A common practice for such operations, it avoided the thorny issue of armed U.S. forces operating on foreign soil during peacetime. Or, in this case, in foreign airspace.

The intelligence aspects had taken a little longer. The DEA, working with Mexican intelligence, had pieced together a fairly thorough analysis of suspected drug trafficking routes, presumed way stations, and possible crossing points; all intelligence they had been gathering for years. Coordination with Mexican military forces who would be on the ground had taken the most time. But, even then, a history of joint military exercises had established a working knowledge, a foundation that could easily be built upon. Codes and communication protocols were established. Rules of engagement were agreed upon, and the chain of command was clarified. Since the U.S. was merely providing the hardware, the Mexicans were calling the shots.

In the mountains of central Mexico, the temperature was dropping as
Teniente
Manuel Ramirez peered through his night vision binoculars at the two buildings inside the walled compound. He watched as the ten-man team of guards prepared for the long, cold night ahead. Another shipment had arrived thirty minutes before, having made the long trip from Colombia, through Central America, before finding its way up to this storage facility hidden in the mountains. By the size of the force, the shipment had been large.

After the truck had left, the guards closed and locked the buildings and then the gate in the perimeter wall. The cocaine would sit for no longer than a day, the teniente knew, before it continued on its way up to los Estados Unidos
.
He wasn’t sure how the cartel was moving the drugs into the U.S. Regardless, he thought, this particular load of cocaine would never make it.

Teniente Ramirez, a lieutenant in the Mexican Navy and the leader of the eight-man special forces team, watched as the last two guards climbed into their SUV, parked just inside the main gate. There was another SUV sitting outside the gate, two more men huddled inside. He panned his binoculars along the wall of the compound, noting the other pairs of guards huddled inside three other vehicles. They would take turns, one napping while the other kept a half-hearted watch. They were getting lazy, he thought, and for that, they would pay a price.

He had no qualms about it. His brother, a journalist, had been killed in retaliation for a series of articles he had written on the devastating effects the narco-traffickers were having on Mexican society. Not satisfied with just his brother, masked gunmen had attacked his funeral, killing his mother, his father, and his sister. The teniente still had a scar on his arm from the bullet that was meant to kill him. How he had survived was still a mystery. But he did, and that was too bad for the men he watched settle in for the night.

The MQ-9 Reaper turned gracefully and began another pass over the target area, a section of the Sierra Gorda Mountains, two hundred and fifty miles northwest of Mexico City. The
sensor
marveled again at the stark contrast on his screen. Directly below, the land was rugged, with steep mountains and deep ravines. To the west was a flat plain that stretched for miles; an area that saw little precipitation and was home to scrub brush, cactus, and dust. The eastern side was a semi-tropical environment fed by moisture coming off the Gulf of Mexico.

The MQ-9 was equipped with synthetic aperture radar. Capable of taking near photographic-quality images through clouds, rain, dust, smoke, and fog—both in daylight or total darkness—the SAR significantly enhanced the Reaper’s capabilities. And even though the sun had set hours ago—it was several minutes after midnight, the sensor noted—the black and white images on the screen were detailed and crystal clear. It almost looked like a rain forest, he thought, as he spotted a river that fed into a lake and, farther on, a waterfall. The lush vegetation created a jungle canopy that reminded him of Costa Rica. Given the rugged terrain and few access roads, the area was sparsely populated.
A perfect place to hide a drug operation
, he thought. Although they had only been flying for two and a half hours, he rolled his head, stretching his sore neck muscles. This was their seventh flight over the target in the last week, and the tension had been building.

The MQ-9 was the latest generation Reaper aircraft, an unmanned, remotely piloted cousin of the Predator drone. The sensor, as he was called, was sitting three hundred and fifty miles away in a comfortable leather chair in the ground control station at Naval Air Station Corpus Christi in Texas. Six video screens and a keyboard were arranged in front of him. A Navy lieutenant, the sensor controlled the multispectral tracking system, or MTS ball hanging below the nose of the Reaper, as well as the onboard weapons systems. The pilot and aircraft commander, another Navy lieutenant, sat to the right of the sensor. His hand was on the control stick. Like the sensor, the pilot sat at his own station, complete with keyboard, control stick, and six flat panel screens.

“Coming up on target,” the sensor announced into his microphone. The mission controller, or MC, was some sixteen hundred miles away in Arlington, Virginia, and was watching the same scene as the pilot and the sensor.

“Roger, Sea Dog. You are clear to engage.”

“Copy. Sea Dog clear to engage.”

Time to light ‘em up
, the sensor thought. He flipped a switch, activating the laser guidance system. He deftly moved the control stick, centering the crosshairs on the building, then pressed the switch.

“Laser activated,” the sensor stated.

A second later, he heard the pilot’s reply: “Copy. Target is sparkle.”

The sensor flipped a switch. “Weapons are hot.”

“Pilot copies. Weapons are hot.”

“Pilot, you are free to engage at your discretion.”

“Copy.”

The sensor kept his eyes glued to the screen. He could now see the five SUVs sitting in the compound.
Things are about to get a little hot down there, amigos
, he thought.

“Wizard One. Wizard Two.” He heard the pilot say after a second.

One after another, two five-hundred-pound GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bombs released from the pylons below the wings. After a brief fall, the seeker heads acquired the laser sights, and the bombs began steering themselves—more of a controlled fall than anything else—toward the two cinderblock buildings four miles below.

The teniente heard the call then radioed his men. “Cubranse!”
Take cover!

It was eerily quiet on the mountainside, the only sound the occasional rustle of the wind through the leaves. He quickly panned his binoculars to the left, then right, checking each of his men. Satisfied, he pulled the binoculars away and shielded his eyes. Ten seconds later, there was a tremendous boom, and the ground shook.
So this must be what an earthquake feels like
, he thought for a brief second before leaping to his feet.

“Vamos!” he called over his radio and then began charging down the hill.

There was a knock at the door, and Pablo Guerrero climbed out of bed, grabbing his robe on the way.

He turned to the young girl in his bed, a nineteen-year-old from the village named Lucia.

“Espereme,” he ordered.
Wait here.

“Dónde va?”
Where are you going?
She smiled up at him seductively. He turned again, and her smile suddenly vanished. She pulled the sheet up below her chin as Guerrero slipped into his robe.

There could only be one reason for the interruption. Not his wife certainly. She knew better. He opened the door to find Alberto Espinoza.

“Lo siento, señor.”
I’m sorry.
“I have some news.”

Guerrero stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. As he listened, he felt his anger building.
How could this happen? Why wasn’t he warned?

He glanced over his shoulder at the door behind him, knowing that the night he had planned was ruined. He turned to Alberto.

“Take her home,” he ordered.

Alberto nodded.

“And find the colonel,” he growled. “I need to speak to him.”

Alberto nodded again, spun on his heel, and left.

Guerrero stood in the hallway fuming. The message would be passed from Alberto through an intermediary to a third man who would place a coded message in an account that the colonel would access. Guerrero slapped his palm on the small table in the hallway. It would be a while—a few hours at least—before he would be able to speak to the colonel directly, likely later the next day. An unfortunate delay caused by the elaborate security that Guerrero demanded, but one which would give him ample time to decide the colonel’s fate.

Two days later, Guerrero looked up from his desk as Alberto entered his office.

“He’s here, jefe.”

Guerrero nodded. Alberto left, closing the door behind him. It had taken a day to arrange the meeting, the colonel unable to leave work on such short notice without arousing suspicion. Despite the delay, Guerrero thought, he still hadn’t received the call he had been expecting. After a moment, he stood. He’d see what the colonel had to say first.

A minute later, he joined the colonel on the terrace. The colonel stood; a pained look on his face.

“Lo siento, Señor Guerrero.”

“How could this have happened?”

The colonel sighed. “At the last second, there was a change in plans.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I didn’t see the final plan until that evening,” the colonel protested. “I sent the email as soon as I could. And I called.” The colonel held up his hands. “You didn’t answer.”

Guerrero frowned. He hadn’t received a phone call. But the colonel would know that he could check this out. And he would certainly know that lying would be a very foolish move. Could he have missed the call? he wondered. He would check the log. The prepaid phones that both he and the colonel had were only for emergencies and had never been used. Until now, apparently. That is, he reminded himself, if the colonel was telling the truth.

The email, following their normal process—picked up by a cutout, one of Guerrero’s many minions, dumped on a USB drive, then passed to a courier for delivery—had not arrived until after the bombing.

He studied the colonel for a few seconds. If the colonel was telling the truth, there was a bigger concern. Why had he not been aware of the change? Could the government suspect the colonel of being an informant? Could they have purposefully not shared the information with him to prevent the raid from leaking? Only a handful of people would have been aware of the raid: General Salazar, the one in charge of Mexico’s war on drugs, the attorney general, and the president. Of course, the mission had to be planned and approved by the general and his staff before it was presented to the president. So why hadn’t the colonel been aware of it?

Guerrero sat back, his hands forming a steeple below his chin. The colonel looked pale.
As he should
, Guerrero thought.

“They used their navy this time, not their air force,” he said, his tone accusatory.

“That was one change, señor. Your storage site was not on the initial target list either. When they learned that a shipment was arriving that evening, they added it. Then, apparently because of the location, they decided on an oversea approach. Their navy has drones in Texas.”

Guerrero sat back. The colonel, fidgeting under his stare, continued.

“It seems that they can react to new information very quickly.”

Guerrero considered this. He would have his answers soon, when the call came. If the colonel was compromised, then the answer was simple. He would die. If the colonel was lying, the answer was the same. If the colonel was no longer in a position to provide valuable information—
timely information
, Guerrero corrected himself—then he had a decision to make. The logical thing would be to kill him, to eliminate the link. But to replace the colonel would take time.

Could he afford to kill him now? Guerrero wondered. He stared at the nervous man sitting before him. Could he afford not to?