The rocky ledge protrudes from the side of the jungle mountain like some ancient ruin swallowed by time. A strong breeze blows from one side, ruffling my clothing as I lie atop the stone shelf. The tops of the canopy on the adjacent slopes sway to the soft whir of the wind. The valley below is surrounded on three sides by steep forested slopes. The bottom is clear of growth, but it has its own kind of greenery.
Clouds roll over the top of the one ridge, the wind driving moisture-laden air up the far side, where it condenses. The crest is hidden from view as the fog rolls partway down the slope.
Nearly the entire valley has been cleared of jungle in favor of a cash crop of marijuana. Workers are in the midst of the huge plantation, meandering along the long rows to pick or prune the product, or whatever it is they do. The open side to the valley is much like the one where we raided the manufacturing facility, with a rutted dirt road leading in and out. Three flatbed trucks are parked in a packed-earth lot with several pickup trucks. Standing at the road edge of the field are ten guards armed with AKs slung over their shoulders.
Adjacent the open parking lot is a small building. Next to it is a diesel generator, tucked under a roof. There aren’t any lines leading out from the structure, so the generator doesn’t appear to be supplying electricity to anywhere on the field. The lines could be buried, but it’s my guess that there’s a well dug under the building and the power is used to support an irrigation system. A field this large has to have one. If it is used for that purpose, then the lack of aboveground pipes in the area shows that it might be run underground. Greg is lying next to me, also eyeing the field and its occupants.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“We have the flamethrowers. I say we burn it down,” Greg answers.
“With the workers in it?” I say, pointing toward the field hands.
“The wind is blowing from the unguarded end. We start it there and let the wind catch it. Once they see the billowing smoke, they’ll move.”
“I think that building powers some sort of irrigation system. More than likely they’ll turn it on in an attempt to put out the fire.”
“The generator is some distance away or I’d say just have Henderson or Denton hit it with a fifty-cal round from here after we set the fires. Maybe they could get closer while we edge down to the far side. We set the fires, they disable the generator, and we meet up back here. Then we trudge back over this steep-ass hill to exfil,” Greg responds.
“I like it. With a place like this, we’ll have to watch out for traps surrounding the field. That means we’ll have to proceed slowly.”
We inch back from the edge to join the others huddled in a small perimeter within dense foliage where the ledge extends from the jungle. After describing Greg’s plan, I take Henderson and Denton back out to point out the generator. With a word of caution about perimeter security measures, we separate.
The flamethrowers on our backs are heavy as we snake through the undergrowth, angling down the steep hillside toward the far end of the vast field. We have to move slowly in order not to lose our footing on the slippery slope or any one of us could end up taking the quick route to the bottom. Of course, it wouldn’t be a straight slide down as there are numerous trees to hit on the way down, adding to the fun. As it is, in some places, we have to use carefully controlled slides down to catch ourselves against trunks. It’s not the quietest infiltration, but the dense jungle suppresses any sounds to within just a few feet.
The swishing of the tall overhead cover permeates the jungle floor. Whenever I look up, the tall tree trunks bend at near impossible angles, to the point I’m surprised they don’t snap off halfway up. Water droplets fall from overhead, shaken loose and tossed in the wind, plopping on large fronds. The entire area smells of moisture, decay, and the lively scent of new growth. With the wind direction, there isn’t the sweet smell of the fields below thrown into the mix.
The steepness of the slope finally eases as we approach the valley floor. I so can’t wait to start climbing that beast when we’re finished. The fun just never ends. I’m actually a little surprised that the guards didn’t venture over our way given our struggles to descend, but Angel Six affirms that they’re still milling near the entrance, keeping an eye on the workers.
We turn parallel to the hillside until we reach the end of the field. The crop itself is still hidden from view, but the Spooky lets us know when we’ve arrived at the edge, using our beacons as locators. Now we’ll need to take greater care moving in.
I take the lead, handing my carbine to McCafferty. When I say we’ll be going slow, that means our rate of travel will be measured in inches. I have absolutely no doubt that the cartel will have this place ringed with explosives, relying on those means rather than posting guards around the circumference.
I lower myself to the ground, the damp almost immediately seeping through my sleeves and pants. The lower profile will assist in seeing any tripwires. Finding a small stick on the ground, I hold it between two fingers and run it ahead of me, making sure to hold it loosely enough that it won’t bend any wire I come across. Instead, it will merely stop and rise up should one be encountered.
Without locating any wires on my first pass, I take out my knife and gently prod the wet ground, pushing softly into the soil at an angle looking for any resistance, particularly of the metal kind. The reason for probing at an angle is because knifing straight down has a better chance of pushing in on any plunger device. An angle will allow me to feel something hard before triggering it.
I probe the ground for the length of my arm without encountering anything. I then crawl forward that length, beginning anew with the stick. The light on the jungle floor is gloomy at best, so I rely more on the stick than my eyesight. Behind me, McCafferty places small flags to the side of our route, marking a safe passage.
I make another pass with the stick and knife, pulling myself forward. When I move the stick along my chosen route, it catches on a thin wire stretching across my path. The wire itself is difficult to see right off the bat, but once the stick comes into contact with it, it comes into view like a flare. I trace the thin filament to one side to find it tied around a protruding root. The other end is attached to a live grenade wedged into a tin can. If the line is pulled, the grenade will flop to the ground and go off.
Reaching into my cargo pocket, I withdraw two flags of different color than the ones McCafferty is putting down. I then place one at each end of the wire where it fades into the foliage. Careful of the wire, I continue my search with the stick beyond the filament. There have been too many times I’ve run across multiple strands placed in a row, in case someone misses the first.
It’s clear, and I probe with the knife, almost immediately encountering something hard under the ground. I poke softly until I find an edge and then gradually go around whatever is buried. The device is round, and I mark its boundaries with the flags from my pocket. This particular trap is the same as the multiple strand type, meant to catch whoever misses the first one.
I’d have McCafferty head to the grenade and wrap the handle with duct tape, but that would mean that she’d have to probe the ground on the way there. That will take an eternity. Instead, the traps are announced to the person behind—“watch for the marking flags.” Rising, I carefully step over the wire and place my feet around the buried mine, then kneel. I then recommence the probing.
I find several more tripwires and mines on the way to the field. I wonder for a moment if they replace any that animals might trip, or if they even have that worry. The jungle has been too quiet, only the sound of water dripping in the depths of its shadows. As slow as we’re proceeding, it still isn’t long before brighter light shows through the foliage ahead.
Henderson reports that he and Denton have moved closer to the near end of the field and have the generator in sight and targeted. Once we get a good fire going, they’ll fire two fifty-caliber rounds apiece into it and start heading back to the promontory. I continue probing, soon finding myself at the very edge of where the jungle gives way to the field.
We were shielded from the wind within the jungle, but in the field, it’s whipping the tall stalks back and forth. I continue probing without finding additional traps. We spread out along the length of the field, igniting our pilot lights.
“Otter Six, we have a confirmed sighting of a high value target in Puerto Vallarta,” the Spooky radios. “Details when you’re ready.”
“Standby, Angel, we’re about to light this field up,” I respond.
“Copy, standing by.”
“Henderson, Denton, change in plans. You’ll rendezvous on us once you take the shots. Come through the field as they won’t have explosives planted there, but don’t be seen entering. Angel, spin Tiger flight up. We’ll exfil from our position once we burn a section clear. Keep a watch on the guards. If they start this way, take them out,” I call.
The two snipers and the Spooky acknowledge, with Angel asking for verification to take out the guards even if there are the other workers nearby. I hate the term collateral damage, but we may not have a choice here. If the guards attempt to intervene, they have to be stopped. We knew it was possible we’d have to be pulled expeditiously from the field if an HVT was identified. We have to move quickly or risk the chance of losing them. The details of where the target is and when we’ll hit them will come once we’re finished here and are airborne.
The good thing is that I won’t have to scale that beast of a ridge, so I guess things might be looking up. The call could have come—and historically, it usually does—the moment I reached the crest.
“Half of Mexico is about to get real stoned,” McCafferty chuckles as she lowers the flamethrower wand and sets several plants alight.
The flaming jellied gasoline sticks to the tall plants, igniting the stalks, leaves, and heavy buds. Soon, flames are leaping high, the wind fanning the flames further into the field. Gray smoke billows into the air as more and more plants catch.
“Henderson, Denton, take your shots and hightail it back,” I radio.
“Copy.”
A half-minute later, they report that they’re on their way, working along the edges of the field. Their return is slowed when they reach the inferno driving across the field, having to edge back into the jungle and check for traps. The crackle of flames begins to roar as the fires pick up steam, sending clouds of smoke upward, which are then driven across the field by the strong breeze.
“Some of the workers and guards are attempting to start the generator. There are six armed men racing into the field toward the flames,” Angel Six reports.
With the two snipers having to take their time working through mine fields, the guards may become a problem. However, I don’t see how they’ll get by the flames unless they also take to the jungle, which may prove troublesome. The smoke covering the field will more than likely impede their vision and progress, but I can’t take any chances. I chuckle to myself thinking about the guards running through the smoke and suddenly finding themselves very stoned and wondering why they’re there.
“Copy Angel. Take out the guards in the field,” I reply. “Watch for our other two near the perimeter.”
High overhead, the buzz saw of the rotary cannon comes alive. Dim tracers race for the ground, disappearing in the columns of smoke pushed by the wind. As the fires race away, they leave behind a blackened field, curls of smoke rising from charred plants.
Over the ridgeline behind us, Tiger flight appears as two small dark spots flying over the column of clouds curling down over the crest. They follow the terrain down the mountainside, racing along the top of the canopy.
“Targets in the field down. The others are departing down the road via pickups,” Angel Six calls.
Henderson and Denton join up just as Tiger One comes over the trees at the edge of the field and flares over a darkened patch. Ash, debris, and small coals are flung outward as it settles down. Greg, McCafferty, and Denton race out and board, the helo lifting quickly to circle. There isn’t enough room for both helicopters, so Tiger Two hovers over the trees to drop in on the heels of Tiger One. We scurry across the warm ash-covered field, shielding our faces from the swirling debris. Boarding rapidly, we’re aloft almost before we get settled. Trailing the lead chopper, we race over the top of the green canopy, rising to the crest of the surrounding hills and departing the smoke-filled valley.
As we crest the ridge with the wind-driven fog flowing below, I learn the details regarding our high-value target. Two federales cruising along a boulevard fronting the resorts in Puerta Vallarta glimpsed a man known to be high up in the cartel, one Manny Ortega. He’s supposedly running the fight in Leon to take the city over from a rival cartel. The federales reported his presence heading into the Now Amber resort and are currently monitoring the situation from afar. So far, he hasn’t been reported as leaving.
I lean forward to talk with Lynn, her face streaked with dark smears from the ash.
“Is this a snatch-and-grab or are we taking him out?” I yell above the roar of the engines.
“I think it’s time to show them we mean business, even if it means losing a valuable asset,” Lynn answers.
“So, we take him out?” I inquire, wanting to make sure we’re absolutely on the same page.
She nods.
“Do we know why he’s there?” I ask.
Lynn shrugs. “Perhaps he thought the area around Leon was getting too hot and pulled out, but that’s only conjecture.”
“We’ll need to get to the ship and do a quick planning session. We may need additional gear, and I want to drop these off,” I say, pointing to the flamethrowers. “If he’s booked a room there, is there any way we can hack into the reservation system and find out where he’s staying?
“I’ll see what I can find out once we land,” she replies.
I nod and lean back, notifying the pilots that we’re heading to the O’Kane. We may not have a lot of time if we’re going to take down our target, but if he’s entered a resort, logic dictates that he’s going to be there for a little while at least. He could be either lodging there or arranging a meeting. If it’s the latter, we’ll need to move faster to get into position, but we’ll need a lot more info prior to going in.
Arriving on the ship, we stow our gear and meet in the briefing room set aside for us. Lynn is immediately on a computer and her phone, gathering additional information. The rest of us congregate around a table, opening maps of the area. The resort is the same one we used as an egress route after the operation against the cartel when they were gunning down vacationers.
The complex comprises four buildings, V-shaped around a large courtyard with numerous swimming pools. Two of the larger buildings angle from each other at the base of the V with two other multi-storied buildings extending from those on opposite sides. The central courtyard is open to the beach. Angel Six has provided current aerial views of the resort, which we pore over.
“See these pools and large balconies on the side buildings? I’m guessing that they’re suites or penthouses due to being on the topmost floors. If Manny is a higher-level boss, I doubt he’d take anything less,” I say.
“If that’s the case, then we’ll have our work cut out for us,” Greg adds. “There’re likely special keys to the elevator to get there, and likely guards outside. I think we’ll find any inside entry difficult.”
“If he is residing in one of them, we could find a perch and take him there, although we’d also have to get ourselves the topmost suite on the opposite side in order to obtain any sight line,” Henderson says. “If all of those are taken, we’d be kind of screwed unless we came in on one of the helos.”
“That would be risky. At the first sound of a chopper, all he’d have to do is head inside or down a hallway,” Denton comments.
“If we do manage to get a suite, we’d have to be careful about being spotted going in. With the travel ban in effect, there aren’t many Americans around. We’d stand out,” McCafferty states.
Lynn hangs up the phone and turns to us.
“Okay, I’ve managed to get entry to the reservation system, or at least I have access. There’s no Manny Ortega in the system, or anything close. But, both of the top floor suites are booked. Actually, all of them are. However, all but one has been occupied for some time, with one checking in today. The name isn’t important, but the timing and conditions fit our man. It’s the topmost penthouse on the southern side,” Lynn briefs. “Oh, and the federales report that he entered with six to eight men.”
“Armed?” I ask.
“They weren’t sure, but we’ll have to assume so,” Lynn replies.
“That still leaves us without a means to get an angle externally, so we’ll have to hit it from the inside. That means a lot of gunfire,” McCafferty says.
“Maybe not,” Greg responds.
“Oh God! Not another jump,” Lynn exclaims.
“Well, the roofs are open. We could land on Ortega’s and come in through the patio. Or, we could land on the opposite building and snipe from there. We’d have to verify him first of course, but that seems easier than going inside,” Greg states.
“I’m working on getting a picture as we speak,” Lynn says.
“That’s a good option, but there’s another one we should consider. Remember that abandoned resort that was being torn down, that’s south of the resort across a small dirt lot. It’s almost next door, and the top floors look tall enough to get eyes on the suite. Lynn, can you please verify that?” I respond.
She nods and picks up her phone.
“So, we’re going to have to trust that Manny will remain for the rest of the day and night. If it’s just a meeting, then we may lose him. If he does leave, then the Spooky overhead will track him and we’ll wait for a viable opportunity. That means we’d have to stage away from the city and wait.
“So, if he remains in place, both exterior options will require nighttime infiltration. If we’re dropping, we need to head inland as soon as possible to get picked up with the gunship.”
Turning to Lynn, I catch her attention while she’s on the phone.
“Can you have our drop gear brought in with Devil flight?” I whisper.
She nods and turns back to her call.
“If we opt for the abandoned resort, I see us gearing up and dropping off the coast after sunset south of the resort to minimize sights and sounds. We swim in and perch ourselves on the top levels even with or higher than the penthouse, if that’s viable. Both shots look to be about the same distance, so I’m good with whatever we decide,” I continue.
“I’m not current on my drops, especially at night,” Lynn comments, holding a hand over the phone.
“Well, that was my next question. So, we drop and go in with five, or use the abandoned resort and have six,” I say.
Lynn hangs up and radios Angel for an oblique picture angle on the abandoned hotel. It’s not long afterward that she spins her laptop around for us to look at.
“You’ll have a slight height advantage if we can get to the top floor of the vacant resort. The trick will be getting there—several of the stairwells have already been demolished. I can’t get an angle that shows further in, but the old plans I dug up show that there are steps that should guide us to the top floor,” Lynn informs us.
“Okay, unless anyone has any problems with going to the partially demolished site, I say that’s our best bet. We exfil with Tiger flight in the dirt lot to the south of our first resort.”
“I’m good with it,” Greg agrees, the others nodding.
“Lynn, we’ll still need that picture of him for verification.”
“I’m working on it.”
* * * * * *
The resort town to the north glows in the night, the lights bright from the shoreside hotels. Waves break just offshore, thin lines of white rolling toward the beaches. The ocean shimmers and sparkles from the resort lights dancing across the surface. The two MH-60Rs race across the water, several feet above the surface. Directly onshore, waves break with splashes of white as they crash into the rocky shoreline. Nearing the southern outskirts of the city, we slow.
With my gear strapped tight and holding onto my mask and regulator, I jump feet-first to the waters below. I hit the water with a small splash, the sound of the helo engines vanishing as the water closes over my head. Bubbles stream past my mask and I follow their upward path to break the surface, treading water in the swells.
Several other small splashes occur in a line, Lynn and Henderson jumping in after. The other three land a short distance to the side. We gather together and I signal the choppers that we’re good. They turn out to sea and are soon lost in the darkness, leaving behind little splashes as the ocean rises and falls against us. The breakers roar in the distance where they crash against the rocky shore.
There aren’t any boat lights nearby, so we start swimming parallel to the beach. We planned our entry for when the tide was going in, so we don’t have to fight against it. It takes some time before we draw adjacent to the partially demolished resort, itself a dark area against bright lights to either side. We take bearings and dive under the water. Submerged, I lift up slightly and am carried forward as each swell passes a few feet overhead.
A couple of times, I raise barely above the surface, looking shoreward atop a crest to keep my bearings. I know the others are doing the same beside and behind. It isn’t too much longer before I feel and see the turmoil of water as the waves crest and break. I allow them to carry me toward shore while focusing on staying underwater.
A sandy bottom brushes against my torso and legs. Kneeling and hunched over underwater, I rise up until I’m able—barely—to see above the surface. Waves roll around me, but I use the time between to gauge the shoreline. I’m in front of the abandoned resort and don’t see anyone taking a moonlit stroll down this section of beach. The radiant light from adjacent hotels don’t quite reach this far, so we should be able to accomplish the rest of our ingress without being seen.
Peeling off my fins, I stand and run crouched through the small incoming waves, hitting the sand and racing up the beach. Five other bodies run alongside across the darkened beach, coming to rest against a chain-link fence. Greg quickly snips a vertical line near a post, and we squeeze through the opening as he holds it. He then snags the wire together once we’re all through so there is barely any evidence it was cut. There are still our tracks heading up the beach, but hopefully those won’t be noticed among the myriad others. The incoming tide will eventually hide even those.
The beach side of the building has been removed, revealing parts of the interior floors. There are just concrete slabs where decorative floors once lay, and the same for walls that housed picturesque paintings. Now, it looks more like a prison than anything else. It appears that the resort was a bust, and they then gave up attempting to demolish it. A rusty crane is in the midst of the wreckage, a corroded length of wire dangling from the top.
In a dark corner of the first floor, we stow our scuba gear out of sight. The floor is sandy without a single track. We move further into the building, finding a set of concrete steps that head upward. Even though we didn’t see any tracks, that doesn’t mean that homeless or druggies aren’t using the space. We take it slowly, traversing each landing and searching through the dark recesses of each floor. We only manage to startle a few pigeons, or doves, that race out through broken walls into the night beyond.
Reaching the top floor, we spread out along the edge. The walls are partially intact, so we remain behind those while scoping the resort across an open lot. The penthouse curtains are closed with lights showing behind. However, they’re too thick to see any form of movement through them. Two patios are on either end of the suite, the one to the east enclosed with high walls, and the west side one—the one facing the ocean—more open. Bluish lights waver from the small private pool, dancing across the surrounding low walls and the entry to the penthouse.
Devil flight is high above and informs us that no one has identified Ortega leaving the resort, so hopefully we’ll have a shot. We hunker in the darkened building, exchanging watches, while Puerto Vallarta’s night life bustles all around our position, the occasional loud outburst of laughter or screams reaching our ears.
* * * * * *
The morning dawns, the darkness chased away with the sunrise. Couples and families soon find their way to the beaches, leisurely strolling along their lengths. The tide is fully in, giving the beachcombers scant room. That also means that the river to the side of the resort will be full where it joins the ocean during high tide. Keeping low, I move to that side of the building. Sure enough, the two have merged.
Across the way, two guards emerge onto the balcony, their weapons visible. A curtain on our side is thrown open in stuttering abrupt moves, bringing light to the interior. Another guard steps away from the window after opening the curtains and is soon lost from sight. However, a large man in a thick bathrobe is sitting in plain view at a table, shoveling food into his mouth.
“Take a picture and send it aloft to see if that’s our man,” I tell Denton.
He places the camera to the lens and we get word soon after that the man in the photo is indeed Manny Ortega.
“Okay, let’s do this. But, there’s one change. We exfil via the river behind us and head out to sea. Tiger will pick us up offshore. It won’t do to have six armed people running down the beach to our original site,” I state.
I’d been thinking about this as the night went on. The original plan was to get a shot during the night and escape in the darkness, but that won’t do in daylight. The team acknowledges, with Henderson and Denton sighting in through their respective rifles.
“Tiger One and Two, did you catch the change in plans?”
“Copy Otter Six.”
“Do you want the window or the shot?” Denton inquires, asking Henderson.
“You take the window,” Henderson answers.
Denton nods.
“On one,” Henderson states. “Three…two…one.”
Denton fires, his muffled shot barely heard in the open top floor. Henderson holds for a fraction of a second and then shoots.
Across the way, the newly opened window shatters as Denton’s round finds the mark, shards of glass catching glints of light as they cascade into the room. Manny’s pure white robe splatters with blood and he’s thrown from the chair as Henderson’s bullet crashes into him in mid-bite. He tumbles to the floor, his legs tangled with the overturned seat. Denton fires again, the robe puffing as Ortega is hit again, the white robe now tie-dyed with red. The body jerks under the impact and doesn’t move.
“Target down,” Henderson calls.
The two guards on the balcony both turn to stare inside and immediately start scanning the area, looking in our direction with the shattering of the window. Another guard appears inside, rushing to the downed man and talking into a radio. The two snipers scoop up their spent cartridges and stow the spotting scope.
“Time to go,” I say. “Stay low and out of sight. Tiger and Devil flights, we’re moving to our exfil.”
They both acknowledge as we race down concrete steps much faster than we ascended them. On the bottom floor, we don our scuba gear. Holding our flippers, we go through the abandoned complex south toward the river, moving quickly but also searching for anyone who might impede our progress. There haven’t been any panicked screams or evidence that there’s now a dead man in one of the penthouses. I’m sure, though, that a search is underway, looking for vengeance.
At the river, we tightly secure our weapons and slip into the waters, submerging below their depths. The beach part is shallow, but deep enough that we don’t have to breach the surface. Soon, we feel the small rolling breakers pass overhead as we make for deeper waters. Offshore, we turn south and are met by Tiger One and Two. Individually, we’re hoisted upward with a rescue basket. We may be in sight of those on shore, especially any cartel member out and searching, but at this point, it doesn’t matter if we’re seen. It may even be to our benefit for the cartel to know it was us who hit them instead of another warring faction—that might help get the agents released. Before long, we’re underway to the west, the shoreline disappearing from view as we make our way to the ship. We don’t have the agents back, but our small war against the cartel has been going well so far.