Target Deck - 02 (5 page)

All hands were on deck, sitting in chairs confiscated from Ortega's mansion or standing towards the back. Squad Leaders, Platoon Sergeants, and other key leadership were getting a full brief now that they were all in country.

“Central America for the most part is both mountainous and covered in jungle, which is why there has never been an invasion north-south or south-north throughout history aside from perhaps the Panama invasion in 1989 which was able to make use of US air power. The climate is generally temperate but varies from dry plateaus and deserts, to rain forests and mountains.

“The terrain here in Oaxaca varies from lightly vegetated rolling hills, like this,” a slide showed a panorama of the country side that looked like the backdrop for a Sergio Leone movie. “To dense forest transitioning into jungle in
la sierra norte
located to our north east.

“While Central America is traditionally divided up into personal fiefdoms for dictators, the rich, and military officers, Mexico in this case suffered under nearly seventy years of single party rule from the Institutional Revolutionary Party or PRI. The PRI acted as an oligarchic type of institutional dictatorship. This power sharing structure among the elite was finally crushed in the year 2000 when the rival PAN party member was elected president. Today, the old politics of Mexico are somewhat irrelevant as the Mexican government controls little if anything outside Mexico City.

“While the Mexican military is fragmented and corrupt, their best infantry brigades remain under the command of the central government and have proven somewhat effective in combating the drug lords. The more effective units seem to be the Marines and the FES, Mexico's maritime commando unit.

“Those of you who served in Sankar and other Kazakh Special Forces units are already familiar with the mechanics of drug production and trafficking from dealing with this issue in your own country but here is a down and dirty on the local situation.”

The majority of the mercenaries in Samruk International were veterans from Kazakhstan. As Russian speakers, Sergeant Major Korgan was translating for his men who didn't speak English.

Deckard continued his brief, giving the team a brief overview of the history of drug smuggling and drug trafficking organizations in Mexico before narrowing in on the recent activities of the Ortega and Jimenez cartel. With the Mexican military pushing hard on the Zetas and other cartels in the north, cartel activity was being pushed further to the south where they were currently located in Oaxaca. The province had been something of an oasis in the middle of the drug wars until the crack down in the north forced the cartels to adapt and find new centers to move drugs through.

The brief went on as Deckard laid out the information that he and his recon team had gathered over the last week. Little did he know, the enemy was also beginning to conduct an intelligence estimate of Samruk International.

8

The moon hung high in the night sky, obnoxiously bright flood lights keeping the soccer field illuminated at all hours in case the boss wanted to play. Tonight he was kicking the ball back and forth with a member of his Praetorian Guard, the Personal Security Detachment that never left his side. They were his best, and more importantly, his most loyal.

Following a winding road that traced its way to the summit of a jungle mountain was an aging, decrepit church. The glass windows were shattered, green foliage sprouting from the sediment that collected on the roof tops. The holy site remained in a state of disrepair, cast aside for new ventures. As the Jimenez cartel grew they bought up large swath of land in Oaxaca, in other cases they just moved in and claimed it for themselves.

The church was just a relic from a bygone time, the rest of the compound was built upon and ancient fortress built by the Spaniards during the colonial years, all surrounded by high walls and gun towers. The location itself was unique, the steep cliffs and rough jungle terrain on all four sides of the compound made it nearly impenetrable.

Still, it was the sight of the church on the way in that had initiated the churning in Arturo Carranza's stomach. Reaching into the pocket of his slacks he produced a white handkerchief, making sure to blot the sweat from his hands before the cartel leader acknowledged his presence. Arturo did his work and did it well, but not of his own accord, not in Oaxaca, and not with permission.

“Arturo,” Jimenez beamed from across the emerald green field. “You grace us with your presence.”

Wiping down his palms, he shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket.

“At your request, sir.”

Even at one in the morning.

The goalie batted the ball back to the cartel leader who caught it with the insole of his soccer cleat.

“And I have,” he responded. “I take it you've heard about Ortega.”

“It wasn't
federales
,” Arturo croaked in his defense.

Arturo was young, ambitious, and highly educated in American and European universities. His skin was just as white as that of his former class mates in The London School of Economics. He was a member of one of Mexico's elite families. Jimenez of course, was not. He came to power by seizing it from others. Arturo was born into it. Young, ambitious, and scared shitless by the man that both rivals and allies called The Beast.

“Then who?”

Jimenez wound up, swatting the ball down the field. The security man guarding the goal made a halfhearted attempt, lunging for the ball and missing. He knew well enough to let his boss win.

“I've established contact with my agents,” Arturo swallowed. “They will be reporting in shortly.”

“I sent a couple squads of assaulters to intercept them at the police station when I found out that they had rolled into town. My town.”

The goalie held the ball in both hands over his head, tossing it back to Jimenez. It made contact with the ground and bounced towards him.

“Gringos,” the cartel leader said, his foot stomping down on the ball to stop it. “Some of our informants in the area saw gringos in military trucks.”

Arturo was supposed to provide any and all early warnings to the cartel in the event of Mexican military incursions.

“Luckily, they were not like the Mexican military vehicles,” he continued.

The Mexican intelligence agent breathed a sigh of relief. He was off the hook, if only for the moment.

“So it seems I know something you do not. Something that you of all people, whose business it is to know, should already know for yourself.”

Jimenez circled around the soccer ball until he was facing his pet intelligence operative. It was the eyes that scared Arturo. Those crazy eyes. They were the eyes of a man who had butchered his way to the top. He would have made the Aztecs proud.

“
Mercenarios
. That is what I think,” he said nodding to himself. “They cleaned out two squads just back from their training in Guatemala. Find out who they are Arturo. I want names. I want to know who they are and where their families sleep at night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Taking a step back, Jimenez launched the ball at Arturo. As it rocketed into his chest, he caught it with both hands.

“My men will make you comfortable in their quarters until those calls of yours begin to come in.”

Suddenly, he was flanked by two cartel members each grabbing him by an arm. Looking down at the ball in his hands, his mind struggled to construct the pattern of the ball. Rather than black and white checkers, there was something else he recognized. Seeing the holes for eyes, nostrils, and a mouth, he dropped the ball. Recoiling in disgust, the two security man held on to him tightly. A human face had been sewn into the ball.

“Do not fail me Arturo,” the cartel leader's words called after him.

9

“We have been working him for half an hour,” Sergeant Major Korgan reported to Deckard. “Nothing so far. He is more scared of Jimenez than he is of us and keeps calling him The Beast.”

“We'll see.”

The two mercenary leaders weaved between the custom made Iveco assault vehicles. They had all been refueled and shotgun parked, nose facing towards the gate, and ready to move at a moment's notice. Deckard had the trucks constructed for Samruk International months prior. They featured an up-armored cab that sat a driver and passenger, who acted at the vehicle commander. In the back were eight seats that were bolted back to back, four on each side. The passengers in the back sat facing out, ready for enemy contact. A rotating gun turret topped it off with a PKM machine gun in the pintle mount.

Inside the garage, the prisoner that Nikita had captured was handcuffed to a pipe sticking out of the wall. Two Kazakh soldiers stood guard with the AK-103 rifles at the ready while Pat questioned the prisoner. Standing with his hands on his hips, the former Delta Force commander shook his head.

“Take over,” he said looking up at Deckard. “I know you are fluent. I got sent to DLI to learn Thai, not Spanish,” Pat complained about the Defense Language Institute.

“What do we have so far?”

“I've been asking him about who he knows in town that works for Jimenez. Apparently Jimenez is one bad dude. He has this guy scared out of his mind. He told us all of his own background information but won't divulge anything about the cartel.”

“Nothing a little sleep deprivation and twenty four hours of questioning can't fix. He'll break.”

“You know as well as I do that we don't have that kind of time. The clock started ticking the second we hit the ground. The Mexican military will be on its way once word gets back to them in the morning. How much time do you think we have?”

“A couple days at most.”

The elite infantry brigades that were still loyal to the Mexican government were fighting a desperate, American sponsored, offensive against the Zeta cartel up North. It would take them time to divert resources and re-deploy. But it wouldn't be long.

“We need to escalate the level of violence,” Pat said. A veteran of thousands of strike operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, he knew that this wouldn't be like previous campaigns. This was a blitz, and whichever side could react the fastest would be the one walking away from this battle.

“I've got an idea,” a female voice approached from behind the two mercenaries.

Samantha pushed them aside and walked into the garage to face the prisoner. She began firing off Spanish at him in stunted machine gun bursts. The prisoner pleaded, his bushy eyebrows turned upward. He was trying the puppy dog routine.

In one smooth motion, Samantha drew her .357 Magnum and sent it crashing into the side of the prisoner's head, hard enough to draw blood.

“Where are the drugs?”

Bringing the heavy pistol barrel down on his forehead, the prisoner yelped, looking towards the two Americans for help.

“Where are the drugs?” Samantha was screaming in her native language.

The pistol whipping continued as she brought the gun down on his face repeatedly.

Deckard was about ready to stop the interrogation. She was getting out of control.

Then
the prisoner
started talking about the drugs.