Drone (32 page)

Pearce translated. “He just said, ‘Keep the camera on the convoy. It’s coming to the tunnel.’”

“An Iranian?” Cruzalta asked.

Pearce nodded.

The camera swung back down shakily just in time to catch the convoy dash into the tunnel. The Iranian voice whispered loudly.

Pearce translated again. “He’s saying, ‘Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .’”

BOOM!
An explosion in the tunnel. Napalm-fueled fire jetted out of the tunnel entrance.

The two Iranian camera operators roared with laughter. No translation was needed.

“Turn it off,” Cruzalta demanded.
Pearce did.

Myers reappeared. “I’m sorry to have upset you, Colonel. But you asked for evidence. We now suspect that the Iranians may be working with the Bravos.”

“Why? What would the Iranians get from an alliance with Victor Bravo?”

“The Iranians have weapons and training. The Bravos have smuggling routes and safe houses throughout North America.”

“Perhaps the Iranians were always working with the Bravos,” Cruzalta suggested.

“Why would you say that?” Pearce asked.

“Bravo and Castillo have been trying to wipe each other out for years—a true ‘Mexican standoff.’ Neither could prevail. And yet, one did—arguably the weaker one. How?”

“We took out the Castillos,” Myers said.

“Yes, of course. But why?”

“Because of the cross-border violence,” Myers said. “Including my own son.”

“But what changed? Why would the Castillos attack El Paso?”

“Stupidity? Accident? Misjudgment?” Myers offered.

“Perhaps. But look at the result. Now the Bravos and the Iranians are in control. The attack could have been made by accident or stupidity—”

“Or by design,” Pearce concluded.

“That seems more reasonable to me,” Cruzalta said.

“If true, that means the Iranians have been playing a very sophisticated game,” Myers said. “And playing me like a banjo.”

“We must inform my government immediately,” Cruzalta said.

“Unfortunately, there’s more to our story,” Myers said.

Pearce pulled out a digital recorder and played an intercepted call between Victor Bravo and Hernán Barraza in which Bravo assures Hernán that he had nothing to do with the Houston attack and Hernán, in turn, assures Victor that
their alliance is still intact
.

“How did you get this?” Cruzalta asked, incredulous.

“Once the Bravos were identified in the Houston attack, we turned our attention to Victor Bravo. Exactly how we intercepted the call I’m not at liberty to discuss,” Myers said.

Cruzalta shook his head in disbelief. “This means the Bravos will be able to create the first true narcostate in the Western Hemisphere in cooperation with the Barrazas.”

Pearce took another sip of beer. “And the Iranians would have a government friendly to their cause and a base of operations that gives them a two-thousand-mile contiguous border with the Great Satan. What the Soviets could only dream of with communist Cuba, the Iranians would actually have with Hernán Barraza’s Narco-Mexico.”

“Are the Barrazas working with the Iranians as well? Or just Bravo?”

“All we know for sure is that Hernán and Victor Bravo have been talking. It would be smart for Bravo to keep his relationship with the Iranians hidden from the Barrazas. Otherwise, it might appear to be a threat to them, especially if we found out about it,” Pearce said.

“And now we have,” Myers said.

Cruzalta stood back up and began pacing, trying to process the massive data dump.

“Why have you told me all of these things? I’m a retired soldier. There’s nothing I can do.”

Myers smiled. “I have told you all of these things because I know that
you are a patriot and love your country as much as I love mine. You have fought bravely against your nation’s enemies, and your reputation is beyond reproach.” Myers let that sink in for a moment then added, “That’s why I want you to be the next president of Mexico.”

Cruzalta laughed.

“And how would you accomplish that? An invasion? A CIA coup? No, thank you. The last thing Latin America needs is another government installed by the U.S. security services.”

“It’s not possible to change a country from the outside. Mexico itself must change. It needs new leadership that will create a real democracy.”

“Do you think this is your original idea? There are many of us in Mexico who have dreamed of such a thing. But the ruling parties have a stranglehold on power.”

“And that power has been based on the
narcotraficantes
for the last twenty years. If I help you eliminate them, then legitimate power can rule again. Under your leadership.”

“No. I am not the man. But I know the one who is. And a dozen governors who would back him if they knew that a Bravo
sicario
wouldn’t blow their heads off the next day.”

“The fact that you don’t want to be president makes you the perfect candidate, Colonel Cruzalta,” Myers lamented. “But you know yourself better than anyone else does. And we need your guidance on this matter. I have no desire to do any nation building or remake Mexico in our image. I just want a free, prosperous, and democratic Mexico that no longer poses a strategic threat to my country.”

“Then you would find many willing hands to help you, I assure you,” Cruzalta said.

“We’ve already begun preparation for an operation to eliminate the Bravos. How long before you can contact your candidate and work out some sort of a schedule?” Pearce asked.

Cruzalta shook his head, incredulous. “You are presuming I am agreeing with this madness. As attractive as it sounds, I hope you will both
understand that I have a hard time believing any of it is true. Americans always do what is best for Americans.
‘¡Pobre México! ¡Tan lejos de Dios y tan cerca de los Estados Unidos!’”

“I cannot undo the past. Our countries have a shared history and not all of it is good. But together we can create a new future. But I also understand that trust must be earned, so let me propose this: we have located the Castillo killers responsible for the deaths of your men in the tunnel. They are currently residing in California. You are free to choose a team of your best men and take them down.”

“Arrest them? Or kill them?”

“Whichever you prefer. Mr. Pearce?”

Pearce pulled a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Cruzalta.

Myers continued. “That is my executive order declaring the Castillo killers listed as enemy combatants and terrorists. I have the legal authority to name them as such. They are on American soil. I am now deputizing you to carry out the order to eliminate them as a threat. Mr. Pearce is a witness.”

Cruzalta stared at the paper. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “If I were to release this to the newspapers, it would destroy your presidency.”

“Yes, it would. My fate is in your hands. But so is the fate of Mexico. So here is my proposal. Coordinate your efforts with Mr. Pearce. Any equipment you might need, transportation, whatever it takes, he will make available to you. After you have had your vengeance, then decide if my offer is real. If you think it is, we can move ahead with our plans.”

“And if I still refuse?”

“I would understand completely. If I were in your shoes, I would be skeptical, too. I will do everything in my power to see Mexico become the prosperous and democratic nation I think it could be. But make no mistake. I will protect my country at whatever cost, with or without Mexico’s help.”

Cruzalta folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He looked at Pearce. “When can we leave?”

AUGUST

37

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Another meeting. Myers felt better about this one, though. At least it was a smaller circle of trusted advisors.

FBI Director Jackie West reported the bad news first: still no leads on the Bravo commandos who blew up the oil storage facility and sunk the
Estrella
in its moorings.

“Bill, is there any chance the Bravos made it back across the border to Mexico?” Myers asked.

The secretary of homeland security hesitated. “Since we don’t know where they are, then technically we can’t be certain. But my best guess is that they’re holed up somewhere in the U.S., waiting to strike again.”

Myers sighed with frustration. After her meeting with Diele, she backed off of her idea to seal the borders. He was the worst kind of politician, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. The country was still euphoric after the “Drill, baby, drill!” speech and the surging stock markets. Her favorability rating peaked to its highest level ever. Jeffers had counseled her to hold off on the border decision because it would kick up a storm that would rob her of the momentum she now enjoyed, and she was going to need every ounce of political capital she had to weather the coming weeks. She had agreed, reluctantly. Now she was beginning to regret that decision.

“Any chance that
more
Bravos have crossed over to our side?” Myers asked.

“Again, no telling. They shouldn’t have been able to the first time. But with the heightened alert, I’m confident we’re probably okay,” Donovan said.

“Probably okay? That’s hardly reassuring.”

“I told you I’d always shoot straight with you. I never promised I’d always hit the target.”

“Fair enough,” Myers said. She turned to the rest of the group. “I’m rethinking the border closing. Thoughts?”

“My father taught me that you can break a man’s fingers one at a time,” Strasburg said, holding up a splayed hand and then clenching it. “Unless he first makes a fist and beats you to death with it.”

“Meaning?” Jeffers asked.

“It’s always better to present all of your controversial ideas at one time. It makes them much harder to unpack. If President Myers dribbles them out one at a time, they can each get broken, and the cumulative effect is devastating.”

Strasburg turned to Myers. “You’re about to make an address to the nation. That will give you an opportunity to show your enemies your fist. I suggest keeping the border question tucked safely away until then.”

Myers nodded in agreement, but her thoughts had turned somewhere else.

Yucca Valley, California

The high-desert altitude kept the nights cool, even during the summer months, and a good dusting of snow was common every now and again during the winters. Not like Palm Springs down on the valley floor where the humidity wrapped around your lungs like a hot, wet blanket this time of year, even after sundown.

Yucca Valley’s claim to fame—true or not, it didn’t really matter to
the locals—was that an old Rat Pack love nest was located there, a Mid-century Modern that squatted on the very top of a hill on the edge of town. The helipad for the helicopter that flew in the girls and the dope was still visible from one of the main drags through the sleepy little desert town.

Old motor lodges, coin laundromats, and a dozen used-car lots littered the sides of Twentynine Palms Highway, which snaked north from I-10 out of L.A. up the steep mountain passes to the high desert. Yucca Valley was the perfect location for an enterprising drug operation, feeding the insatiable maw of Southern California addictions to the south or running shipments through the nearby Marine base, which, unfortunately, had a few bad apples willing to deal locally and transport globally.

Whereas the resort of Palm Springs featured multimillion-dollar estates, manicured private golf courses, world-class restaurants, and frequent visits by Hollywood celebrities, its uglier, deformed, and acne-scarred sister city up in the high desert had a slightly more modest appeal. It wasn’t the Pizza Hut, the Walmart, or even the Starbucks that had tempted so many to make this a permanent home. In fact, these civilizing institutions nearly killed the place.

The reason why most people found purchase in the stony ground was because of its desolate isolation. Joshua Tree National Park was nearby, but the land around it was equally beautiful, cruel, and unforgivingly dry. The area had long been home to survivalists, painters, ex-con bikers, dishonorably discharged vets, child-support deadbeats, religious fanatics, and other reclusives. There were even miners still working a few active claims up in the hills.

Pearce and Early alerted the county sheriff about a possible national security exercise occurring that night, but only at the last minute—a courtesy call, nothing else. Gunfire wasn’t entirely uncommon around here; the Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Base was just twenty miles up the road.

Castillo’s men had relocated to Yucca Valley to take over a meth lab
situated in an abandoned silver mine up in the hills above the town. A pair of surveillance drones had been tracking the three of them for the past thirty-six hours. They normally lived in a big five-bedroom rancher with a saltwater pool closer to town, but tonight they were in the meth lab cooking up a new batch.

Sergio Navarro had actually located a schematic of the operation from an old U.S. Bureau of Mines microfiche that had only recently been digitally scanned and archived. The good news was that there was only one way to access the mine, a single point of entry and exit. Perfect for a napalm attack or even a mass burial beneath the rock and dust. But Cruzalta opted for neither. He and his handpicked team wanted bloody vengeance, up close and personal.

Cruzalta had invited Pearce to come with him on the mission, but only as an observer. Pearce accepted. He wanted to study Cruzalta’s tactics and small-unit operations firsthand. He knew there was always more to learn in the world’s most dangerous game, and Cruzalta was one of the best players around.

The
Marinas
utilized a German EMT Aladin drone for scouting, a battery-powered plane of similar design to the American RQ-11 Raven that was about the size of a large model airplane and flown with a remote control. The infrared camera indicated that no guards had been posted, but three scrawny coyotes were lingering within thirty feet of the mine entrance.