“Hale was sold out by a friend, captured by the British, refused a Bible while in custody, tortured, had all of the letters he wrote to his family burned, and was hanged without a trial, sir.”
“You didn’t need to remind me of all that, Rick. Let’s roll.”
The ambassador’s convoy was three armored Suburbans, one in front and one in back of the ambassador’s car. Each Suburban had four heavily armed Diplomatic Security Service agents in it, wearing bulletproof vests and armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and SIG Sauer P226 sidearms. A GPS tracking system recorded every vehicle’s exact position and would immediately notify the other DSS units along the route of any problems.
As soon as the convoy was formed up inside the parking garage, DSS notified the Federal District Police protective unit outside. The bus moved forward until it was past the gated garage entrance. Once in position, Rick Sorensen stepped outside the steel gate, his jacket unbuttoned so he could have fast access to the MP5 submachine gun underneath. He carefully scanned both sides of the block. The street was cordoned off by Federal District Police in riot gear in both directions, and the street was empty. The police had pushed the crowds back all the way across the intersection to the other side and blocked off the streets, leaving plenty of warning space. The windows and rooftops within sight appeared clear.
Everything looked okay—so far. Sorensen lifted his left sleeve microphone to his lips: “Bulldog, Tomcat, report.” All of the Marine Corps guards and DSS security agents reported in, followed by the controllers monitoring the fourteen security cameras outside the complex. When everyone reported clear, Sorensen waved to the Federal District Police bus driver to move out, then motioned for the ambassador’s motorcade to follow. He made one more visual sweep of the block. Everything looked good. The crowds were back,
It was then that Sorensen realized that the Federal District Police bus had not moved. The first Suburban was out of the compound and the ambassador’s car was following right behind, not yet clear of the steel gate—that was another mistake. Either the car was all the way
…and noticed there was no one in the driver’s seat.
He immediately lifted his microphone:
The first Suburban, which had cleared the steel gate, stopped in position to guard the entrance, its gun ports immediately open. The driver of the ambassador’s Suburban jammed the transmission into reverse. But just before he cleared the gate he rammed into the Suburban behind him, which was following too close behind. Both vehicles stalled…
…and at the same time the heavy gauge steel car gates, propelled by small howitzer shells to ensure the gates could be closed even without electricity, slammed shut—crushing the ambassador’s SUV’s engine compartment, trapping it between the gates…
…and at the same moment, two hundred kilos of TNT hidden underneath the bus detonated. Sorensen and the Suburban outside the gate were immediately obliterated by the explosion. The engine compartment of the Suburban stuck in the gates exploded, propelling the SUV backward into the embassy compound and flipping it up and over the third security vehicle.
JUST SOUTH OF RAMPART ONE
BORDER SECURITY BASE, IN MEXICO
THAT EVENING
Major Gerardo Azueta was awakened by that unexplainable soldier’s sixth sense of impending danger. He quickly swung out of his cot, pulled on his uniform, and slipped into his body armor vest and web gear. He grabbed his M-16 rifle, donned his Kevlar helmet, and hurried outside. He was on his way to the command vehicle, but saw Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, the duty officer and second in command, speaking with a noncommissioned officer and went over to them instead. It was probably an hour or so before dawn, with just a hint of daylight to the east, but even in the darkness he could tell there was trouble. “Report, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, report from Scout Seven, about ten minutes ago,” Salinas reported. That scout unit, riding U.S. military surplus Humvees, was about thirteen kilometers to the east. “They saw a group of about fifteen migrants captured by what appears to be a civilian border patrol group.”
“Those Watchdogs again?”
“Yes, sir, I think so,” Salinas said. “About six heavily armed individuals in military gear, but they were not National Guard.”
“Status of the California National Guard units in the area?”
“Slight decrease in numbers, sir, especially the TOW-equipped Humvees,” Salinas said. “They were pulled out yesterday evening. Still several active patrols out there, but fewer in number and firepower.”
“Damned renegade vigilantes,” Azueta murmured. “Did you observe anyone getting badly hurt?”
“Yes, sir. Our scouts report some of the men were being beaten and physically restrained, and one woman was being pulled into the back of a truck with several Americans with her—no one else. It appeared as if she was resisting.”
“Sir, we have to do something!” the noncommissioned officer in charge, Master Sergeant Jorge Castillo, interjected hotly. “This is in retaliation for the
“Sir, we know which camp they took them to,” Salinas said. “It’s only three kilometers north of the border. We will outnumber them with an extra patrol unit. Request permission to…”
“Denied,” Azueta said. “I will report this incident to regimental headquarters and await instructions.” But as soon as he said those words, he knew he had to reconsider them: even the young lieutenant was itching to get into action. “What’s your plan, Lieutenant—or haven’t you thought of one yet?” Azueta challenged him.
“The master sergeant recommends flanking the camp with two patrol units,” Salinas replied. “We will come in from the east and southeast and sweep in, with one patrol unit attacking the camp and the other guarding the road to the west to cut off any response from the nearest National Guard patrol units.”
“That’s your plan, Lieutenant? What resistance do you expect? What weapons? What reserves do you plan to bring? What will you do if the California National Guard responds? Do you even have any idea who those people are and why they were being taken…?”
“Sir, we are wasting time,” Castillo said. “The scouts say they outnumber the Watchdogs right now. We have only observed
“‘Respectfully recommend,’ eh, Master Sergeant?” Azuerta mocked. “Your ‘recommendation,’ no matter how respectful, will not soothe my agony when I stand over your dead bodies, nor soothe my wife and children when I am thrown into prison for approving this insane idea.”
“Sir, they are only civilians—they have probably been drinking all night, they are tired, and they are too busy
“Hold your tongue, Master Sergeant, or I’ll put you in irons myself!” Azueta said angrily. “You are just as crazed on vengeance as those Americans.” But he looked at their excited, energized faces, thought for a moment, then nodded. “But we’re out here to protect Mexico and its people, and that includes those who want to work in the United States.” Castillo slapped a fist into his hand in glee. “Very well, Lieutenant. Get two more scout units moving toward that location to cover your withdrawal, and advise me when the two scouts are in position and ready to go in. If there is any observed change in opposition force deployment or numbers, terminate the mission and return to your patrol positions—don’t ask for reinforcements, because you won’t get them.” Salinas immediately picked up his portable radio to issue the orders.
It took less than fifteen minutes for Azueta to get the message that the team was in position—Salinas and Castillo must’ve set a land speed record for driving a Humvee cross-country. They took command of the strike team, with one of the patrol units on the border withdrawing to a defensive position to the southwest, ready to cut off any
