Exit Strategy

CHAPTER SIX

Under Nogales, Arizona, specifically under the icehouse utilized by the Caballeros de Durango Cartel, the five members of Phoenix Force were busy at various tasks.

Gary Manning checked out the systems of the smuggling tunnel, impressed with both the tunnel’s professional construction and with the powered cart-and-track combination that ferried goods across in bulk. Each cart could convey up to 250 kilograms on a pallet, and there were two sets of tracks, each with trains composed of four such cars. Both were on the Arizona side, docked in, as the train meant to travel down to Mexican Nogales was partially loaded. There were crates for rifles and other weaponry, as well as stacks of ammunition for those weapons in the process of being loaded. The attack by Phoenix Force had interrupted the shipment.

The crates were being examined by McCarter and Encizo, each assessing the types of armaments destined for warfare to the south of the border. Judging by the small arms and ammunition amounts involved, some form of security force was being reequipped. Lack of rocket launchers or other antiarmor weaponry indicated this shipment wasn’t going to a guerrilla force somewhere in the vicinity of Central America or the northern part of South America, where FARC and similar antigovernment troops needed that kind of firepower to take on military forces. This gear looked like the stuff necessary to give a small paramilitary force the edge it needed to overwhelm and slaughter police officers in the streets of a major Mexican metropolis or to even the odds against a rival cartel.

Encizo confirmed it with a shipment of knockoffs of their MP-7 submachine guns. A close examination and he could tell that these weapons were built in the People’s Republic of China, which also produced an unauthorized copy of the SIG Sauer P228. That knockoff ended up as the sidearm of many a clandestine operation for both sides of the Bamboo Curtain. Encizo looked carefully at the ammunition.

“These look like just the right kind of hardware for an executive protection team,” the Cuban said.

McCarter nodded. “Or some blokes who might want to go through a temporarily powered-down metal detector.”

Encizo frowned. He’d heard plenty of stories of the audacity of Mexican cartels, but the Durango faction and their caballeros had earned their notoriety from walking through seemingly airtight security to make their kills. “Well, it’d be a shame to let them fall into the wrong hands.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep a nice stash of spares handy,” McCarter said. “Gary can booby-trap the rest.”

“No traps,” Manning countered. “Just need to make certain they’re unusable. Remember, the police are going to be here.”

“Right, I forgot,” McCarter said. “The last thing we need to do is hurt the blokes who are on our side.”

Calvin James and T. J. Hawkins returned from their reconnaissance sortie down the tunnel, both men moving swiftly.

“We got within a hundred feet of the other end and heard activity ramp up,” James reported. “No cameras sighted us, but T.J. was watching a scanner and the airwaves were busy down there.”

“They know that this side of the border has been compromised,” Hawkins added.

“And they’re counting down to their side being hit. Through the tunnel.”

“That explains the lack of rockets or grenades,” Manning mused. “They didn’t want us to roll a cart down to that end with sufficient explosives to take out a mob of defenders.”

McCarter looked around.

“What are you thinking, David?” Encizo asked.

McCarter looked at the carts and their supplies. “Barb said she would contact me if the Nogales authorities were coming. I’m going to call them and make certain that things are still quiet. In the meantime, bring down kilos of coke.”

Encizo grinned. “We going to have a Hollywood party?”

“No, but the air will be thick with booger sugar on the other end,” McCarter said. “Can you make charges that can disperse it in a large cloud?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Manning answered. “How high do you want them and how far away?”

“Blurred to the gills,” McCarter ordered. “And as large a cloud as we can assemble. Just don’t have all of Nogales get hooked on cocaine.”

Manning nodded and then he, Hawkins and Encizo, the three strongest members of the team, went back into the icehouse for the supplies for McCarter’s plan.

“Cal, you’re with me. We’re going to see if the caballeros have any wheels for what we need,” McCarter instructed.

The lanky team medic nodded but paused to pick up bags of ammunition and spare magazines. “Why make one extra trip? Besides, we might need some of this free ammo.”

McCarter smirked. “Good idea.”

The Phoenix commander also grabbed some of the contraband munitions in a pair of bags. Together, the Stony Man warriors climbed into the icehouse. As they moved toward the warehouse parking lot, they saw Manning carrying an oxygen tank. Neither of them had to doubt the purpose of that huge metal bottle. McCarter wanted to produce a wide-spreading cloud, and the oxygen inside the tank was under tremendous pressure. A good charge of explosives would crack the bottle and the ensuing burst of the tank would be catastrophic.

Just the sort of element that a David McCarter plan usually hinged upon.

“What are we looking for?” James asked.

“At least a Ford F-350,” McCarter said. “Enough room for all of us in the cab, plus the horsepower to help us ram through the fence. If possible, something a bit smaller to help flanking maneuvers and avoid bunching all of us together in a fight or chase.”

James indicated that he understood with a curt nod and split from McCarter.

The British commando found the burly pickup he sought, little doubt that he would as Arizona and off-road-capable working trucks went hand in hand. He muttered over the throat mike to James, “It’s not shiny or new, but neither is it a rusted-out hulk. It should hold together, even under enemy fire.”

“They do tend to be good at busting down blockades,” James returned.

McCarter circled the truck before climbing inside. It had seen months since its last washing, but opening the door and hot wiring it showed that it had a full tank, a good battery, and its massive V-8 engine had a healthy roar.

Across the lot, he heard James start the car he’d found.

James spoke over the com set. “Got a Toyota RAV 4, not really a load-hauling engine of business, but it’s off-road capable. More of a SUV than the pickup you chose. Both vehicles can hold the full complement of the team, as well as weapons and other gear.”

McCarter grunted in response. “The brute Ford will be first through the border fence and the Toyota would use its maneuverability to back it up. That way, we can flank and fake them out.”

They parked the two side-by-side at the icehouse’s loading dock door.

By the time they had gotten out, Encizo and Hawkins were there with more sacks full of loot and seized equipment.

“We’re taking two trucks?” Encizo asked. He put his gear into the back of the Toyota.

“Two is one and one is none,” Hawkins interjected. “Always good to have an extra.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Encizo answered.

“I also intend to have you be Cal’s gunner, just in case,” McCarter told Encizo. “T.J., you’ll be with me and Gary. Fit your carbine with a grenade launcher.”

Hawkins gave an understated salute to the commander and left to retrieve his stubby assault rifle.

McCarter then connected with the Farm. It was time to find out what Kurtzman’s cyber wizards had picked up as a response to Phoenix Force’s incursion into Mexico.

“Price, here,” the Stony Man mission controller answered. “I take it you saw the response waiting for you in Nogales.”

McCarter grinned. “We know there is some. And they’re ready for us to come through. I’d like specifics.”

“I’m having Bear send satellite infrared and radar to your PDAs,” Price told him. “You doing a direct border breach?”

“Like my countrymen sang back in the ‘80s, ‘it’s so fun being an illegal alien,’” McCarter answered.

“The lyrics were ‘it’s no fun,’” Price corrected.

McCarter’s smirk deepened. “Well, they play their tunes, I’ll play mine. The boys and I are going to ambush our ambushers. No chance that our border people will accidentally stumble into it?”

“The Caballeros Cartel seems to have cleared everything on its side of the fence, as we’ve done for you. This isn’t a smuggling tunnel. It’s an arena,” Price explained. “You’re supposed to be the Christians and they are the lions.”

“We’ve sold our cloaks for swords in that event,” McCarter said. “Granted, they’re in 4.6 mm, 5.56 mm and 7.62 mm, but they are swords.”

“I’d prefer you had some 40 mm,” Price returned.

“Cal and T.J. are fitting their M203s,” McCarter told her. “No grenades to replenish the supplies on the Arizona side, but we’ll see what we can scavenge over there.”

“In that case, happy hunting,” Price concluded.

McCarter could tell that Barbara Price wasn’t excited about the means by which Phoenix Force intended to circumvent the cartel’s ambush. The plan was going to involve a lot of explosions and a ton of gunfire.

Even so, this was the bed the Caballeros de Durango had made for itself. McCarter, anticipating the possibility, had had Blancanales, Encizo and Hawkins, using Arizona and Texas Spanish accents, record messages while on the plane. The plan was simple. If the cartel and Accion Obrar hoped to make Stony Man look bad with a front-page splash of violence and terrorism on the border, the agency would throw up a smoke screen. The three Spanish-fluent Stony Man commandos would be portrayed as reconquistas: radical Mexican insurgents who wanted the southern border states added to their own.

“We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us!” and “¡Viva la raza!” peppered the recordings. There was also condemnation of the criminally complacent Mexican government and law enforcement.

It was a simple ruse, but intricate enough to obfuscate the presence of the American covert agency in this mission. Just as the packets of cocaine and the oxygen bottle would provide a blinding haze, so would the messages to news agencies. The press, however, would receive their high from the juicy weight of the incident.

* * *

HUNDREDS OF MILES AWAY, on the streets of Yuma, Arizona, Rosario Blancanales maneuvered into position with his toolbox full of warfare. The earbud, hands-free communicator he wore was invisible, and even if it were noticed, his salt-and-pepper hair was light enough to allow him to get away with appearing to need a hearing aid.

The real concern he had was that he’d betray the presence of the arsenal under the loose folds of his coveralls, but so far, no one had noticed. Arizona was a state that allowed for open carry, but a shoulder-holstered submachine gun, a full-auto converted Para-Ordnance P14 “FrankenColt Mark II” and a grenade launcher would stretch the limits of even the state’s relatively lax gun laws.

He found the van and confirmed that it was his target. Part of his disarming appearance, aside from the work clothes and toolbox, was the bag lunch he’d brought with him. Blancanales took a spot on a bench, set the red metal case beside him and pulled out a sandwich and a bottle of cola. A bag of chips to complete the lunch-break illusion, and he was armed to the teeth, yet invisible in plain sight.

Blancanales waited for his partners to set up on their targets.

“Ready.” Lyons’s voice crackled in his ear.

“In position,” Schwarz confirmed.

Blancanales set down his lunch and opened the big red toolbox. Inside, he had his stand-alone M203. He kept the grenade launcher hidden until he thumbed a buckshot round into the breech of the mighty weapon. The 40 mm barrel was twice the diameter of even the heaviest over-the-counter shotguns. That doubling of bore meant that the buckshot “grenade” held eight times the payload of a 12-gauge shell, turning the launcher into a brutal antipersonnel device. He closed the breech then swung it out of the toolbox, aiming at the driver’s-side door of the van and firing.

The range was fifty feet, which gave the swarm of projectiles Blancanales triggered the room to spread out to a four-foot-diameter circle. Each pellet, a third of an inch in span, perforated sheet metal and glass. The driver of the van and his steering column were ravaged brutally, bearings finding flesh, bone, plastic and wiring equally fragile. With a single blast, the Able Team warrior had eliminated the ambusher’s ability to escape the counterattack.

With smooth, practiced precision, Blancanales ejected the empty shell and pushed a second one home, aiming toward the rear of the van. Its back doors started to swing open, which confirmed that there were gunmen bunched up and ready to burst out onto the street.

The same sheet metal that provided so little protection for the driver buckled under the onslaught of another four-foot-wide swarm. The buckshot might not have had enough energy to punch through the skin of the van and an entire human body, but the second salvo of flying copper and lead meant that corpses tumbled out onto the street, not active, angry shooters.

The double burst of doom provided more than sufficient staggering horror to keep the gunners still inside the van stunned and indecisive as Blancanales put the grenade launcher back in its box and ripped his MP-9 from its harness. The shoulder stock clicked into place and Blancanales moved forward, selector on full-auto.

One of the enemy decided valor was the better part of discretion and leaped from the rear doors, weapon in hand. Before he could land, Blancanales tracked him and ripped off a burst of four 9 mm slugs. All four rounds were on target and instead of landing on his feet like a hero, the charging assassin toppled and crashed into a bloodied mess on the asphalt.

Cries in Spanish and English rattled from inside the van. Blancanales heard the jangle and roll of a side panel on the opposite side of the vehicle. Those unhurt, or at least able to beat a retreat, had decided to keep the bulk of the van between them and whatever avenging force was bearing down upon them.

However, sheet metal was as ineffective against a 9 mm submachine gun as it was to the 40 mm buckshot payload. Blancanales knew where the side door on the van would be; he aimed at the right spot and triggered two more short bursts. Slugs chopped into the thin skin of the van and a cry of agony split the air. To say that Blancanales felt bad about literally shooting fish in a barrel would be a lie.

These men were stationed, watching a federal building, and in wait to attack and either kidnap or kill a US deputy marshal and three terrified children.

No, mercy was not in the cards for these armed thugs, and as Blancanales swung around the rear of the van, keeping his eyes on the open doors, he was primed to continue blazing out 9 mm retribution as long as someone was there with a gun in his hand.

Cutting the pie to not expose himself to enemy fire, he spotted another cartel soldier standing in the rear doors. He was splattered in wet pink clothing, white shirt and linen jacket soaked through to the skin where his partners had bled all over him. He still had a rifle in both hands and the sight of Blancanales startled him.

Blancanales, on the other hand, had expected someone to be there and he stroked the trigger on the MP-9. At 900 rounds per minute, he emptied the last of the 15-round magazine into the blood-drenched ambusher. Blancanales destroyed his face and upper chest with that extended burst. In a heartbeat, he ejected the spent box and pushed home a fresh stack of thirty 9 mm slugs.

The last man in the van, the last living body at least, was huddled behind the driver’s seat, hands up and fingers splayed wide. “I’m not armed! Don’t shoot!”

Blancanales kept the muzzle of the machine pistol leveled at the man, but scanned the area. There could be one more gunman, possibly crouched around the front of the vehicle. This guy might be a legitimate surrender, or he could simply be a distraction. Either way, Blancanales refused to lock into tunnel vision on him.

In the distance the heavy booms of a shotgun and another machine pistol crackled in the midafternoon streets of Yuma.

“Step out of the van through the panel door,” Blancanales ordered. He listened for other signs of a possible hidden gunman. He had a prisoner, at least for the moment, but one mistake and his brains could be spilled on the street with the would-be killers he’d just dispatched.

The prisoner followed Blancanales’s instructions.

“Lay down on your stomach and lace your fingers behind your head,” Blancanales barked. He wanted this man as far out of position to start a fight as possible. The guy, obviously in a mood to survive this encounter, did as he was told. He intertwined his fingers and lay down, eyes shut. His breath came in rapid gulps, anxiety too real to be faked.

“Anyone else get away?” Blancanales asked.

“Yeah,” the man lying on the sidewalk answered. “He ran—”

Toward the front of the van, the veteran Able Team warrior concluded as a shadow flickered in the windshield of the vehicle, disappearing around the corner. There were no abandoned weapons on the sidewalk, so there was a good chance that the escaped ambusher was packing some serious firepower. Judging from what he’d seen in the hands of the dead sprawled in the back of the van, they had submachine guns, too.

Blancanales dropped to a kneeling position, making himself a smaller target as footsteps sounded on the asphalt on the other side of the van. The gunman intended to flank him, but the wily veteran was ready, front sight on the spot where a head would appear.

The cartel gunman burst into view, firing from the hip. That stream of bullets would have torn through Blancanales’s face had he remained standing, but instead, slugs merely sparked against a stone wall and lost their energy. Deformed bullets tinkled to the concrete like metallic turds.

In the meantime Blancanales fired from the shoulder, controlling his trigger pull and maintaining his front sight on his target.

The last violent ambusher died as Blancanales shredded him from crotch to throat with two tribursts of autofire in quick succession. Groin, spine and heart were all defiled by the brutal swathe of 9 mm rounds Blancanales threw at them, and with that, in the space of a few moments, the gunfight was over.

He looked to the man on the sidewalk.

“Stay right there. Make a move and you’ll be in hell before you untangle your fingers,” Blancanales warned him.

“Yes, sir.”

Blancanales wasted little time securing his wrists with a nylon cable tie.

“Carl, we’ve got our prisoner,” Blancanales said over the com.

“Good,” Lyons returned. “Because nothing’s left of my target.”

Blancanales could tell by the gruff tone of his partner’s voice that he’d found something particularly nasty in his attack.

Whatever it was, it was too important to broadcast even over the secure communication frequencies Able Team used in the field.

And if Lyons was worried, then Blancanales was in a hurry to know why.

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