Target Deck - 02 (50 page)

Aghassi reached up and snatched the Zeta-Ferrari decal off the windshield and handed it to Deckard.

“Get up here and change seats with Nikita. It will do the talking but it will be good for them to see a white face.”

“Shit,” Deckard said, realizing what the former ISA operator was planning. “That is a hell of a risk.”

“It's just crazy enough to work.”

Accelerating, Aghassi brought the van up behind the convoy, getting close, but not so close that the Mexican police felt threatened.

“Wave this at them,” Pat said handing him his ball cap. It had an American flag Velcro'ed to the front.

As the convoy snaked towards the front gate of the AMIZ compound, the mercenaries trailed close behind in their commandeered panel van. The gate guards slung their weapons and pushed the road blocks out of the way, another signaling the tower guard to press a button a retract the heavy metal gate. A giant bicycle chain began to rotate and drag the gate across the entrance on one wheel.

The convoy of Federal Police was then allowed to pass into the compound. The five mercenaries held their breath as they approached the gate. Rolling down the window, Aghassi waved Pat's American flag baseball cap at the gate guards and began speaking in rapid fire Spanish. It was hard for Deckard to pick out the words but he was telling the gate guards that they were American Special Forces advisers detailed out to the Mexican Federal Police and were coming back from an operation with them.

The gate guard nodded his head and waved them through.

Gassing the van through the entrance, the gate began to swing back into place behind them.

“I can't believe that worked,” Kurt said.

“I've been on enough military bases overseas to not be surprised by this anymore,” Pat replied. “I couldn't tell you how many times I rolled up to an American FOB in Iraq driving a civilian vehicle, dressed up like a local, and told the gate guards that I was an American and to let me in.”

“And they just let you in.”

“Just about every time,” Pat answered. “The Delta Force special.”

“The gift that keeps on giving,” Deckard laughed. “Sort of like the clap.”

Aghassi pulled off from the convoy and slipped down a side street. The complex even looked like a FOB from the inside with small trailers or Compartmentalized Housing Units that had been shipped in and in some cases joined together to form larger work areas. There were also trailers converted into offices and classrooms with a few larger permanent structures here and there. The van pulled into a parking space in front of a loading bay and stopped.

“So what's the plan?” Aghassi asked.

“Hold what you got. We're US military advisers here to conduct Foreign Internal Defense operations. If you run into the Federal Police tell them you are working with the military. If you run into the military tell them you work with the police, whatever you have to say to get out of a jamb. We'll split up, one Spanish speaker per group. Pat you come with me since you are worthless.”

“I speak Thai.”

“Like I said, worthless. Kurt, you go with Aghassi and take Nikita with you.”
“Da,” the Kazakh answered.

Switching to Russian, Deckard quickly explained the situation and added that he should probably just keep his mouth shut during this operation. Explaining Nikita would be a little more difficult if people heard his native language.

“Kurt, you look for the headquarters building and see if you can locate where the base commander and his staff are working out of. It's late but they just had men back from an operation so someone will be in there. This loading dock looks like the logistics hub so my group will go look for the logistics office and break in. Remember, we want to know about any other gun shipments, where they are, and who is behind them. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Aghassi said. “Should be a cake walk.”

“Hey, remember you recruited me for this mission, not the other way around. Let's go.”

The men wore their camouflage uniforms and retained their weapons and plate carriers to complete the picture of being American military advisers. Aghassi's group broke off and Deckard went in another direction with Pat, walking around the loading bay.

Avoiding the golden glow of the overhead lights, the two mercenaries stayed in the shadows as they walked around the building, trying each door until they found one that was unlocked. Looking inside, the lights were on but nobody was home. Large I-beams held up the ceiling and the concrete floor looked like it had been swept recently. There was a forklift and a few empty wooden pallets on the floor but not much else.

“I hope this isn't a wild goose chase,” Deckard said.

“All those American military weapons, the ones you turned over to Zapatista rebels in good faith I might add, were not a figment of our imagination,” Pat answered back. “They came from somewhere.”

“But did they come from here?”

Walking between the Compartmentalized Housing Units, everything was quiet. Bugs buzzed around the yellow bulbs hanging from bare fixtures outside each door. The two former soldiers crunched across the gravel, looking at the placards on the wall of each unit and deciphering the Spanish language words. So far they were coming up empty.

Hearing the crunch of footsteps approaching, both men looked on hesitantly. They could be in a world of shit depending on who they ran into. They might be able to fool some guards but if the base's operations or intelligence officer found them, their cover story would not hold up for long.

Out of the shadows appeared four figures, two women and two men. The men wore desert digital camouflage uniforms with built in knee pads, high end stuff made by Crye Precision. The women were in Mexican Army uniforms.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Deckard groaned.

“Isn't that Dusty and Flakjacket Fred,” Pat said while squinting in the darkness.

“I'm afraid it is.”

Dusty cracked a joke in Spanish and all four of the partiers broke out laughing. Flakjacket was holding a bottle of tequila in one hand with his arm around one of the girls. The Special Operations community was a relatively small one and if you worked in it long enough, you would run into the same people over and over again. Still, the two mercenaries didn't expect this. While they were running around pretending to be Special Forces advisers they had just run into two genuine military advisers from SEAL Team Six.

“Dusty!” Deckard yelled down the gravel walkway as they were about to disappear into their bunk room. “Did the commandante of the base forget to lock the liquor cabinet again?”

Dusty jerked his head around.

“Motherfu-” he paused. “Deckard? Are you kidding me man? What are you doing here?”

Deckard smiled as he walked up and shook the SEAL's hand.

“I'm on a contract with Wexler,” Deckard said, making up a new modified cover story on the fly. He was in the dark and needed to feel the situation out. “Asymmetrical Warfare Group sent us down here to study cartel tactics and make recommendations to guys like you.”

“Study cartel tactics? Then what's with those fire sticks and blammo you guys are carrying?”

“New kit they have us testing out for the Force Modification office. If we recommend it, they will push this stuff over to Dev and Delta for further evaluation.”

“I like it,” Dusty said curling his upper lip. “That is one gangster looking AK you've got there.”

“What's up?” Pat said stepping forward to shake hands with Dusty.

“Holy shit, you too!”

Flakjacket still had his girl hanging off his arm but reached out to shake hands with them both.

“Haven't seen you two since that job in the PI a few years back,” the SEAL Team Six operator recalled. “They always pick brown skinned guys like us for that type of shit but who knows why they keep sending crackers like you.”

“Because I'm the color of the boss man?” Deckard countered.

“Oh, shit.” Dusty laughed. “Not for long, we're breeding you fuckers out of the gene pool!”

“How are things going for you guys down here?” Pat said, steering the conversation.

“Not bad, not bad, but we still wish we were back with our Squadron in The Horn. They get to shoot pirates all day and we're here doing a FID mission that they should have given to Green Berets.”

Flakjacket popped open the bottle of tequila and passed it around. The two female Mexican military officers each took a long swig before handing it off to Deckard who downed a gulp. Painkillers, he told himself. Pat took a slug and handed the bottle off to Dusty.

“I was going to say,” Deckard said. “You guys are SEALs and I don't see a lot of water in Central Mexico.”

“Nope, me neither,” Flakjacket said rolling his eyes. “But the SOCOM commander is one of ours and our own commander doesn't know how to say no to him so we get pimped out for every jive ass mission. I mean, the Mexican police and military are making some progress down here but it's an uphill battle.”

“Corruption?”

“That's a big part of it. The Agency and the DEA have been compartmentalizing and hiding operations to the point that our missions are not getting compromised as much as they used to. As I'm sure you know, they've been rotating Spanish speakers in Dev down here for years now but it is still mostly advise and assist.”

“Even if we get to slip the leash every now and then,” Dusty said, looking as his lady friend. She didn't appear to speak English but giggled none the less. “So we have rolled up some High Value Targets here and there, mostly Zetas while we ride along with FES, the Mexican version of the SEALs, but also with the Marines and Federal Police like we did tonight.”

“We have really just been jumping from base to base the last week and interviewing soldiers and cops about what tactics that the cartels have been employing,” Deckard lied. “I've been hearing some things about large shipments of military grade weapons ending up in the hands of the cartels.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dusty confirmed. “No doubt. The cartels buy military grade shit from corrupt Central American military officers. Sometimes it is even stuff that the United States government is shipping to the Mexican military to help them fight this war. It is counter-productive of course because the cartels rip it off or buy it off from corrupt officials.”

“What kinds of quantities are we talking about here?” Deckard asked.

“You know, a dozen AT4 rockets here, a dozen M203 grenade launchers there.”

“What about really large shipments, as in hundreds of rifles and machine guns, tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition?”

“You've been hearing those rumors too?” Flakjacket said.

“Yeah, enough times that it is starting to concern us,” Pat added.

“Sounds like you guys haven't been read in either,” Dusty spat. “They are keeping all of us in the dark.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Dusty repeated. “I mean there is some major league hero stuff going on down here. Some real Serpico shit.”

“OBI has their hands in just about everything going on in Mexico,” Flakjacket said. “The Agency's Case Officer working out of there had a hit put out on him by one of the cartels but was ordered to stay. They must be keeping him in place for a reason.”

“Yeah, his PSD is shitting bricks over there in Mexico City. They are convinced they are going to get rolled up any day now.”

“You think the CIA is up to something?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Dusty interjected. “I'm just saying that the orders coming out of OBI are pretty strange. They are deliberately interfering with and stalling military and police operations down here.”