Blaze of Glory (33 page)

A few minutes later Moyer landed in a field—in someone’s crop. Two-foot high plants surrounded him, but he paid them little attention. His first job was to rein in his chute before it could catch a breeze and drag him along the ground. He landed as close to the trees as possible without hitting them, making it possible for him and his men to stay out of the open and get out of their chutes in seconds.

He bundled his chute and removed his jump harness, cramming as much of the chute into its holder as possible. He stayed in position until he heard that each man was down. Through his night vision goggles he watched each man land within fifty yards of his spot. “Not bad ladies, not bad.”

“Graceful as a gazelle, I am.” Shaq grinned.

Doc grimaced. “Sure you are.”

The conversation stopped before Moyer could quiet them. He removed his helmet and slipped on his black balaclava mask. He heard footsteps behind him.

“Coming up on your six, Boss.” It was J. J. Moments later the team had rid themselves of the gear they didn’t need. They were no longer parachutists, but foot soldiers.

“Um, Boss,” Doc said. “Do you know what we’re standing in?”

“As long as it’s not poison ivy, I don’t care.”

“You might, Boss. Take a good look.”

Moyer pulled his small, red-lensed, tactical flashlight and shone it on the ground around him. He plucked a leaf off one of the plants. It had six or seven long leaves. “Is this what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s marijuana, Boss, then you’d be right.”

“I brought us down in a field of weed?”

“And don’t think we’re going to let you forget.” Shaq sounded way too happy.

Moyer shook his head. “I trust I don’t have to check anyone’s pockets.”

“Not with this group,” Pete said. “J. J. might start preaching.”

“I guess this shouldn’t surprise us.” Moyer glanced around. “We
are
in drug-lord country. Let’s move out.” He dropped the leaf, switched off his light, reported to Boyle the team was down, then led his men north.

CHAPTER 35

THIS WAS TAKING TOO long.

Moyer moved through the field with care. He’d never made an assault on a drug lord’s location before, but it didn’t take a genius to know booby traps could be waiting anywhere: in a footpath, under rubble, or at the base of walls. Moyer reminded his men of the danger then started forward in a slow trot. He wanted to move faster, but he’d make no progress if he blew his foot off.

The team lined up behind him. They’d try to stay on the same course as Moyer; if he didn’t trigger a land mine, they likely wouldn’t either.

Darkness made things worse. Night vision goggles helped, but detail could often be lost. Several times Moyer raised a clenched fist, commanding the team to freeze. He did so again and lowered himself to one knee. They’d been moving along a footpath through the plant material. In the middle of the path rested a cardboard box, its open side to the ground. Moyer’s training won out, squashing the nearly overpowering urge to look under the box. The object might be a forgotten cardboard box, or it could be hiding an improvised explosive device. In the movies a team member might try to disarm it, but in real-world combat operations the protocol was simple: leave it alone or it could kill you.

Moyer stood and slowly worked his way from the footpath into the knee-high crop. He’d seen his share of traps in Afghanistan and Iraq and knew the enemy often paired devices to catch intruders as they bypassed the first trap. He took one deliberate step after another, never assuming he was safe. An explosion would do more than maim or kill him; it would also alert the enemy to their presence. Moyer decided this was going to be the longest and slowest mile he had ever traveled.

He led the team ten yards past the cardboard box then returned to the footpath. This time he set a slow walking pace. Adrenaline fueled his heart and tensed his muscles, but he had to move slowly. There could be other traps: trip wires that activated explosives; pits with spikes designed to pierce the soles of combat boots; rusty fishing hooks hung at eye-level, mines that bounced up from the ground and blew up in a man’s face, crush-wire mines, and a hundred other demented designs to protect the illegal crop.

Each step heightened the tension.

Again, Moyer signaled
Freeze.
Three steps ahead of him was a small pile of disturbed dirt, as if someone had dug a hole and covered it over. Instinctively Moyer started to key his mike but stopped. His radio was off. All the radios were off. Before moving out, they discussed the kinds of traps they might encounter. Zinsser made a point: “We know Lobito has brought in cell technology and other things. There’s a chance that he might have his fields set with radio activated devices. We could set something off just by using our radios. Recommend we kill radios until we’re out of the field.”

Moyer accepted the recommendation immediately. Everything would be hand signals until they were reasonably certain there were no IEDs about.

Every step counted, but so did time. They wanted to make their assault before dawn. Moyer focused on the area before him and around him. It amazed him that the drug war had become so much like real war. Drug lords were well armed and utilized well-trained men—many who served in the military of different countries. He had even read about policemen who switched sides.

They came to the end of the field. A wide, clear dirt path extended to their right and left. On the other side were a few trees and uneven ground. The path looked hard and compact—no recently dug holes to raise Moyer’s fears. No rubble or boxes under which a bomb might be hidden. No tripwires.

Moyer turned to his team and saw five faces focused on him. He pointed at himself then indicated that he was going to cross the path. He signaled that each man was to follow one at a time. Moyer turned and stepped onto the dirt border. He stopped three steps later. Something wasn’t right. He gazed at a spot just two feet in front of his boots. A straight line in the dirt, like something had been buried. How could anyone work in this field? Of course, they knew where all the traps were.

Putting one foot on the other side of whatever was just beneath the soil, Moyer pointed at J. J. and motioned for him to come. He stopped J. J. a few feet from where he straddled the assumed trigger and pointed at a spot between his feet. J. J. nodded, stepped over the line, and continued forward. Moyer held his position so each man would know where not to step. As each man reached the other side, they hit the ground, using several small mounds as cover. Moyer joined them face down on the ground. J. J. was looking at him. One breath later Moyer knew why. Stench worked its way into his nose—a stench he knew: rotting flesh.

J. J. leaned close to Moyer’s ear. “This mound . . . I think it’s a shallow grave, Boss.”

Moyer studied the mound. It was the right size and shape for a mass grave. His heart sank.

“We can’t know for sure, Boss,” J. J. whispered.

Moyer nodded. “We stick to the plan.”

From their position Moyer could see the end of the town’s main street—its only street. Images from the satellite photo and the Predator flyover appeared in his mind. He had memorized every detail. All his men had. The main street was little more than a wide, packed dirt road. Several narrow alleys ran parallel to the street. The town was small. It had one recently built apartment complex they assumed harbored workers and guards. There was one cantina that still had its lights on—no 2:00 a.m. curfew here. There were a few other shops, a mechanic’s garage, houses, a mission-style church . . .

And a large warehouse. Their target.

J. J. CRAWLED OVER the grave and tried to ignore what he was doing. His thoughts had to be focused—his life and the lives of his friends depended on it. Still, he couldn’t stop the macabre images of what lay under the mound. He told himself it was a dead animal, a horse or a pig, or anything other than what he knew it to be.

On Moyer’s signal, J. J. moved east until he was a block past the street, then ran up one of the alleys. A minute later he found the shed he had seen on the surveillance photos. The builder had made it from rough wood and covered it with tar paper. Slinging his weapon over his shoulder, J. J. upturned a trash can and used it as a step to the low roof. He moved quickly but quietly.

He unshouldered his weapon. Boyle had brought sweet gear. As the team’s weapons and explosives expert, it fell to J. J. to take the sniper’s role. The Army had better trained snipers, but there was no time to call in a shooter team. On many occasions J. J. had demonstrated he was the unit’s best shot.

His weapon was an M110 SASS—Semi-Automatic Sniper System. Unlike earlier bolt-action sniper rifles, this one could be fired in semi-automatic mode, making it more useful for close-combat situations like this one. J. J. inched his way to the front end of the shed. Across the wide dirt street stood the warehouse, lit by a mercury vapor light that bathed the front of the building in bluish light.

Plenty of light.

Now, away from the field, the team had activated their radios. Still, most communication would occur by hand signals. However the team would not be able to see J. J. Radio was a must.

“In position, Boss.”

J. J. heard Moyer respond with two clicks on the radio. He extended the small bipod attached to the front of the M110 and set the short legs on the front of the sloped room. He pulled the rubber covers off the scope and trained it at the building. The weapon was good up to a thousand meters. J. J. was less than thirty meters away.

Placing his eye to the scope, he did a quick sweep of the building. “Hand-applied stucco exterior,” he whispered into the radio. “One entrance door at the south end, looks to be wood; one large metal roll-up door at the north end of the building; one window next to an entrance door; can’t see the north end, but I see light—assume another window. No movement—standby.”

A large, obese man in a plaid shirt and dirty jeans rounded the northeast corner. He looked the size of Rich. He wore a holster and carried what looked to be an Uzi in his right hand.

“Boss, one man, large, sidearm looks to be 9mm. He’s carrying an Uzi.” The last part concerned J. J. The tried-and-true Uzi could fire six hundred rounds a minute—ten rounds every second. No one wanted to be looking down the muzzle of that.

J. J. brought the scope up to the window. He saw two figures inside. “Two targets near the corner window.”

Two more clicks from Moyer.

J. J. released the safety on his weapon and took slow deep breaths. Somewhere in his subconscious, he was praying.

ZINSSER CROSSED THE ROAD and just reached the back of the warehouse when he heard the sound of a car motor. He ducked behind a stack of empty wooden boxes. The sound of the engine lessened and Zinsser could hear tires on gravel and dirt. Light from the vehicle’s headlamps spilled across the ground. The vehicle stopped at the south end of the building, just around the corner from Zinsser’s spot. Zinsser didn’t move.

“Boss?” he whispered.

“One man. Armed.”

Zinsser caught a whiff of food.

“Drop ’em.” Moyer’s voice sounded relaxed through the ear piece. Zinsser had to admire the man. Slipping from his hiding spot behind the crates, Zinsser moved to the corner and peeked around it. The man was six-two, in his late twenties, and looked strong enough to lift the Jeep he had arrived in. A cigarette hung from his mouth. He pulled several bags of food from the Jeep, probably obtained from the cantina, and a flashlight. He turned on the light and did a quick scan of the area—no doubt part of his job. He showed no sign of interest in the work until he swung the light across the dirt perimeter that separated the village from the field. He paused. Zinsser saw what the man saw. One of the team lay face down in the dirt. From the size of him, it was Rich. He must have been crossing the open area when the man in the Jeep arrived.

The driver dropped the bags of food and withdrew a handgun from his holster.

Zinsser moved forward, reaching to his leg as he did so.

The driver opened his mouth to shout, but Zinsser closed it with his gloved hand. He twisted the man’s head to one side, raised his combat knife, set his eyes on the spot where neck met shoulder, then brought the seven-inch blade down.