Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 10

U.S. EMBASSY, MEXICO CITY

LATER THAT MORNING

As expected, the streets surrounding the U.S. embassy on the Paseo de la Reforma in Mexico City were jammed with thousands of angry protesters. Two separate groups converged on the embassy from the east and west, one carrying signs in Spanish, the other in English. There were only the usual half-dozen Federal District Police stationed at the main and employee entrances of the embassy, none wearing riot gear. By the time the police realized what was happening, the crowds kept reinforcements from being brought in. They were in control.

The U.S. embassy in Mexico City is the largest American embassy in the Western Hemisphere and has one of the largest staffs of any in the world. As befitting a “friendly neighbor” embassy, the eight-story U.S. embassy complex in Mexico City was an “urban” model, situated in the heart of the city and set up to make it as accessible as possible without hampering security. It occupied an entire city block, but it was not centered in the block so it did not have a tightly controlled perimeter on all sides. There was an ornate twelve-foot-high spade-topped wrought-iron fence surrounding the entire complex, but in spots the fence was still very close to the building, offering little actual protection. The north and east sides bordered an open area with gardens and a small amphitheater, and there was a high wall protecting those sides with trees screening out most of the interior yards.

The main and staff entrances were very close to major thoroughfares—the building itself on the south and west sides was less than five yards away from the sidewalk. Massive concrete planters were placed on the streets beside the curbs to prevent anyone from parking near the building or driving directly into the entrances, but they were designed to stop vehicles, not protesters on foot. The wrought-iron fence had been erected at the edge of the sidewalk, outside of which the Mexican Federal District Police were stationed every few yards. There was a U.S. Marine guard post on one side of the public entrance and a U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Security Service officer and processing agent’s kiosk on the other side. Both were vacant now, with an egg-and feces-covered sign in both English and Spanish proclaiming that the embassy was closed due to “public demonstration activity.”

“Where are the damned federales?” the U.S. ambassador to the United Mexican States, Leon Poindexter, growled as he watched a feed from the embassy’s security cameras on the monitors in his office.

“The crowds are preventing any more police from moving in,” Poindexter’s chief of the embassy’s one- hundred-and-twenty-person Diplomatic Security Service detachment, ex–U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Richard Sorensen, said. “They’ll probably have to turn out their riot squads to see if they can disperse the crowd.”

The ambassador ran a hand nervously over his bald head, loosened his tie with an exasperated snap, and stood up and began to pace the office. “Well, if the Foreign Minister wants to meet with me in the Palacio Nacional, he’s going to have to do a better job calling out the federales to protect me.”

“The motorcade is ready for you, Mr. Ambassador,” the outer office secretary said from the doorway.

“No way, Marne,” Poindexter said. “I’m not moving from this office until the streets are clear—with the Mexican Army, not just the Federal District Police. I want those streets clear!”

“Sir, there is going to be some sort of major announcement on nationwide TV in less than two hours,” his chief of staff said. “It would be advisable to confer with the president before she drafts her speech…”

“Why? It won’t make any difference. She’ll say whatever she wants to say. Hell, anything I tell her will be used against me in any speech she gives!”

“Sir…”

“All right, all right,” Poindexter said irritably. “Get the Foreign Affairs Ministry on the phone, and as soon as the Federal District Police or the military gets here, we’ll go over to the…”

“Here they come now, sir,” the ambassador’s assistant said. They looked outside. A large blue school bus with flashing blue, red, and yellow lights moved slowly down the Paseo de la Reforma, with a half-dozen men in green fatigues and white riot helmets with clear face shields, carrying M-16 rifles, jogged on either side of the bus. Behind the bus was a dark blue armored Suburban belonging to the Federal District Police, with gun ports visible on three sides.

Poindexter turned to his aide. “What about the evacuation route…?”

“All set up, sir,” she assured him. “There are DSS units stationed every couple blocks along your travel route, and four locations north and south of the route where they can set a helicopter down if necessary. Medical teams are standing by.”

“This is a damned nightmare,” he muttered. “Why won’t the Internal Affairs Ministry allow us to fly our helicopter in here?”

“They said once the Federal District Police are able to control the central flight corridors in the district, they can’t guarantee safety for any helicopters, and they don’t want to have to deal with a chopper going down in the city,” his aide said. “It could take days for them to secure the Federal District.”

“Jesus,” Poindexter groaned. He looked around at the nervous faces around him. “It’ll be okay, folks,” he said, smiling gamely, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “The federales are here, and hopefully they’ll have the crowds under control by the time we’re ready to roll. The best news is that we have sixty DSS agents arrayed along our route waiting for us. Let’s go.”

As they headed downstairs to the parking garage, Sorensen came up to the ambassador. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m recommending we delay this convoy awhile—perhaps an hour.”

“An hour? That’s no good, Rick. I need to try to get in to see Maravilloso before she starts throwing more firebombs on TV.”

“As far as I can ascertain, sir, only half the normal contingent of Federal District Police are outside,” Sorensen said. “I called the Internal Affairs Ministry and they said the rest are clearing the first several blocks of the route.”

“Sounds normal to me.”

“The usual procedure is to have one platoon of police outside the embassy to surround the convoy as it leaves the compound. They deploy motorcycles or Jeeps to secure the route ahead of the convoy only after we’ve formed up. We’ve only got half the detail here now—and I can actually see only six. Besides, we don’t have any air support clearance yet.”

“But our choppers are standing by…?”

“Yes, sir, and they’ll launch with or without clearance,” Sorensen assured him. “But it’s damned irregular for the president to ask for a meeting and at the same time the Internal Affairs Ministry keeps us grounded. The left hand is not talking to the right.”

“After Maravilloso publicly admonished Diaz for that shoot down near El Centro, I’d be surprised if they even look at each other anymore, let alone talk.”

“That kind of friction only makes the situation worse, sir.”

“Rick, I need to get to the Palacio Nacional, ASAP,” Poindexter said. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but Washington is hoping that having the U.S. ambassador camped out in her outer office while she addresses the nation will coerce Maravilloso to say something to calm this situation down. Now, is there any actionable intel that you’ve received that leads you to believe we’d be in danger if we set out immediately?”

Sorensen hesitated, then shook his head. “No, sir. Just a hunch—that creepy feeling I get when things don’t look quite right. But I have no information on any specific action against us—other than the normal level of threats of violence, of course.”

“Then we go,” Poindexter said. He tapped the bulletproof vest under his shirt. “Wonder if we’ll ever get to the point where we won’t have to wear this shit whenever we go outside the embassy here, Rick.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, sir.”

Poindexter sighed, then clasped the DSS chief on the shoulder. “‘I only regret I have but one life to lose in the service of my country,’ eh, Rick? Nathan Hale.”