well trained to independently conduct nonconventional warfare in the air, sea, and land using all means available. They were experienced divers and parachutists, and were well versed in vertical descent, urban combat, and sniping. Like any good naval commandos, they also had a healthy interest in things that went boom. The group was divided into Pacific and Gulf units and participated in a fifty-three-week-long training program that left only the strong men standing. They’d already made significant contributions to the Mexican government’s war on drug traffickers through their well-planned and highly aggressive tactics, techniques, and procedures — the good old TTPs, as Moore knew them.
One of the FES’s more notable operations came on July 16, 2008, when they were operating off the southwest coast of Oaxaca, Mexico. FES teams rappelled from a helicopter onto the deck of a thirty-three-foot-long narco-submarine. They arrested four men and seized 5.8 tons of Colombian cocaine.
In a somewhat notorious cable leaked by U.S. diplomats, the Mexican Army was described as closed-minded, risk-averse, and much too territorial after agencies like the DEA and CIA attempted to work with them to combat drug runners; in contrast, Mexican Navy officers had been working with their U.S. counterparts for years and had already earned their trust. The level of cooperation between the Navy and the American agencies was unmatched. Understandably, the DEA had always been squeamish about working in conjunction with any Mexican force after the now famous kidnapping of one of their most successful agents, Enrique Camarena, who back in 1985 was abducted by corrupt police, tortured, then brutally murdered.
Captain Omar Luis Soto was Moore’s contact with the FES, and that was no accident, because they knew each other from Coronado. Soto was in his late thirties by now, with an easy grin, broad shoulders, and a nose that he referred to as “Mayan architecture.” While his stature was less than intimidating, his marksmanship made him the most memorable guy in the Mexican group. When asked how he was able to make so many kill shots with so many different weapons, he only smiled and said, “I want to live.” Moore had later learned that Soto’s passion was target shooting and he’d been honing his skills since childhood.
Moore thought it would be great to see the man again, though he wished it was under different circumstances. And to be clear, as Slater had put it, the United States had nothing to do with the raid on Jorge Rojas’s mansion. For its part, the FES was being paid very well to keep the entire operation under wraps so that the Mexican government was none the wiser.
As Slater had learned and Moore had suspected, Soto’s team was trembling with the desire for a raid and were thrilled to be working alongside two Americans with good intelligence.
Moore and Towers landed in Mexico City by mid-afternoon, rented a car, and drove out to a military installation between Conscripto and Zapadores Avenues and the Belt Freeway. It was the only military base Moore had ever seen with pink walls and black wrought-iron fencing. They showed their IDs to the guard at the main gate, who made a call and checked their names off a list, and then they were waved on through. They reached a single- story administration building where they’d been told they would meet up with Soto and the rest of his team. The conference room was being loaned to the Navy by the camp’s administrators, and Soto had apologized in advance for traffic and less-than-stellar accommodations.
A few seconds after Moore guided them into a parking space, the twin doors opened, and Soto appeared, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He grinned and shook Moore’s hand vigorously. “Good to see you again, Max!”
“You, too.” Moore introduced Towers, and they quickly followed Soto into the building. They reached a conference room after navigating three hallways that had not seen a janitor’s mop in some time. They stepped inside, where about twelve men all dressed in civilian clothes like Soto had clustered around a long table. Much to Moore’s surprise there was a projection unit at the back of the room where they could plug in their computers and iPads to display images. They had requested the equipment but weren’t sure the FES would come through.
Soto took his time introducing them to each and every operator, all seasoned Navy personnel turned Special Forces operators. Two of the men were pilots. Once the introductions were finished, Towers switched into briefing mode, cleared his throat, and in Spanish said, “All right, gentlemen, what we’re about to do will make headlines. Jorge Rojas isn’t just one of the richest men in the world. He’s one of the most significant drug cartel leaders in history, and tonight we’re going to take him down and dismantle his cartel.”
“Senor Towers, our group is used to making history,” said Soto, eyeing his team with a healthy dose of admiration. “So you can count on us.”
Moore glanced around the room. The men were beaming with anticipation, and seeing that, Moore’s pulse began to race.
He thought once more of Khodai, Rana, Fitzpatrick, Vega, and Ansara, and how tonight he would ensure that none of them had died in vain.
Towers raised his voice. “Gentlemen, we have the blueprints to Rojas’s mansion, and we’re going to go over them very carefully, but we have to assume that not everything is on here. After that we’re going to analyze the entire neighborhood and fine-tune our attack plan. Once again, I need to emphasize that this entire operation is highly classified. We cannot, under any circumstances, allow the government to know this operation is taking place.”
Soto nodded. “We understand, Senor Towers. All the arrangements have been made …”
39 THE FIRE IN THEIR HANDS
In times of war, preparations must be made.
Men must be sacrificed.
And Allah’s wisdom must not be questioned.
When Samad was a boy growing up in Sangsar, a small village on the outskirts of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan, he’d stare up at the snow-covered peaks and watch as planes cut across them. He would imagine the pilots making sharp turns and landing their aircraft directly on top of the peaks so that passengers could come outside and take pictures. Samad and his friends would meet them up there and sell them souvenir postcards and jewelry to commemorate their extraordinary trip. Samad had never figured out exactly how he and his friends were supposed to climb the mountains, but that wasn’t important. Sometimes he imagined himself flying aboard one of those planes to some place where they had candy — chocolate, to be more precise. He dreamed of chocolate … every day …for years. White, milk, sweet, semisweet, and dark were all his favorites. He’d come to learn a few names of the manufacturers, too: Hershey’s, Cadbury, Godiva, and he had even watched a black-market videotape copy of the movie
As he sat there in the idling van, with Niazi in the passenger’s seat and Talwar shouldering the missile launcher in the back of the van, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the picture of his father, wearing that broken-toothed grin, his beard like steel wool, his face blurred by the yellowed plastic. He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a Hershey’s Kiss — he’d bought a package at the Dollar Tree. He unwrapped the candy and placed it in his mouth, letting the chocolate melt across his tongue.
He checked his watch, pocketed the photo, then told Talwar and Niazi to wait as he stepped out of the van.
The text messages from their team inside the airport had already been pouring in:
From 8185557865: The flight is pulling away now.
From 8185556599: Taxiing to the runway.
