Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 12

OVER SOUTHERN ARIZONA

THE NEXT EVENING

The target was more than eleven hundred miles ahead—almost six hours of one-way flying.

The aircraft made their last refueling over U.S. territory from an MC-130P Combat Shadow aerial refueling tanker low over the Sulphur Springs Valley area of south-central Arizona just before going across the border around 9 P.M. local time. Flying at less than five hundred feet aboveground, the aircraft were still spotted by U.S. Homeland Security antismuggling radar arrays and balloons, but the word had already been passed along, and no radio contact with the aircraft was ever made or even attempted.

After refueling, the two aircraft flew in close formation, with the pilots using night vision goggles to see each other at night. Each aircraft was fitted with special infrared position lights that were only visible to those wearing NVGs, so from the pilots’ point of view it was very much like flying in hazy daytime weather conditions. The pilots of each aircraft would trade positions occasionally to avoid fatigue, with the copilot of one aircraft taking over and then moving over to the other aircraft’s opposite wing. The two propeller-driven aircraft were fairly well matched in performance, with the smaller aircraft having a slight disadvantage over its four-engined leader but still able to keep up easily enough. Throughout all the position and pilot changes, and no matter the outside conditions, the aircraft never strayed farther than a wingspan’s distance from each other and never flew higher than eight hundred feet aboveground.

Mexican surveillance radar at Ciudad Juárez spotted the aircraft briefly near the town of Janos as it made its way southeast, and one attempt was made to contact it by radio, but there was no response so the radar operators ignored it. The Mexican military was tasked primarily with counterinsurgency operations and secondarily with narcotics interdiction—and even that mission ranked a very distant second—but those forces were primarily arrayed along the southern border and coastlines: in northern Mexico near the U.S. border, there was virtually no military presence at all. Certainly if a low-flying plane was spotted going south, it was no cause for alarm. A routine report was sent up the line to Mexican air defense headquarters in Mexico City, and the contact immediately forgotten.

From Janos the aircraft headed south over the northern portion of the Sierra Madre Occidental Mountains. The aircraft flew higher, now a thousand feet aboveground, but in the mountains it was effectively invisible to radar sweeps from Hermosillo, Chihuahua, and Ciudad Obregón. Over the mining town of Urique, the aircraft veered southeast, staying in the “military crest” of the mountain range to completely lose itself in the radar ground clutter. This two-hour leg was the quietest—central Mexico was almost devoid of any population centers at all, and had virtually no military presence. They received the briefest squeak from their radar warning receivers when passing within a hundred miles of Mazatlán’s approach radar, but they were well out of range and undetectable at their altitude.

The aircraft performed another low-altitude aerial refueling on this leg of the journey, ensuring that the smaller aircraft was completely topped off before continuing further. The MC-130P had a combat range of almost four thousand miles and could have made two complete round trips with ease; the smaller aircraft had only half the range and needed the extra fuel to maintain its already-slim margin of safety. Once topped off, the MC-130P orbited at one thousand feet above the ground about sixty miles northwest of the city of Durango, over the most isolated portion of the central Sierra Madre Occidental Mountain range and directly in the “dead spot” of several surveillance and air traffic control radar systems. The electronic warfare officer on board the Combat Shadow was on the lookout for any sign of detection, but the electromagnetic spectrum remained quiet as the two aircraft split up.

Just north of the city of Zacatecas the smaller aircraft jogged farther east to avoid Guadalajara’s powerful air traffic and air defense radar system. Now the aircraft was no longer over the mountains but flying in Mexico’s central valley, so it was back down to five hundred feet or less aboveground, using terrain-avoidance radar, precise satellite-guided navigation, night vision devices that made it easy to see the ground and large obstacles, and photo-quality digital terrain and obstruction charts, with computerized audio and visual warnings of nearby radio towers and transmission lines. Northeast of the city of San Luis Potosí, the aircraft made a hard turn south to avoid Tampico’s coastal surveillance radar.

Now the aircraft was flying in the heart of Mexico’s population centers, with 80 percent of the country’s population within one hundred miles of their present position—and most of the country’s air defense, surveillance, and air traffic radars as well. Plus, they had very little terrain to hide in now. Staying far away from towns and highways, relying mostly on darkness to hide their presence, the aircraft’s crew prepared for the most dangerous part of the mission. After over five hours of relative peace and quiet, the last twelve minutes was going to be very busy indeed. The crew performed their “Before Enemy Defended Area Penetration” checklist, making sure all lights were off, radios were configured to avoid any accidental transmissions, the cabin was depressurized and secure, and the crew members waiting in the cargo area were alerted to prepare for evasive maneuvers and possible hostile action.

Somehow, after the events that had transpired in the past several days, it was not hard to imagine they were flying over enemy territory—even though they were flying over Mexico.

Immediately prior to the last turning point over the town of Ciudad Hidalgo, eighty miles northwest of Mexico City, came the first radio message on “GUARD,” the international emergency frequency, in English: “Unidentified aircraft at the two-niner-zero degree radial of Mexico City VOR, seventy-three DME, this is Mexico City Center, squawk Mode Three five-seven-one-seven; ident, and contact center on one-two-eight point three two, UHF three-two-seven point zero. Acknowledge immediately.” It was repeated several times in both English and Spanish, even after the radar return completely dropped off the scope.

The message was never answered, of course—which only served to alert the Fuerza Aerea Mexicana, the Mexican Air Force, and the Interior Defense Forces of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The Mexican Air Force had one airbase northeast of Mexico City dedicated to air defense, with nine F-5E Tiger II fighters assigned there; two were on twenty-four-hour alert. By the time the aircraft was twenty miles west of Mexico City, the fighters were airborne. But the pilots had had very little actual night low-altitude air defense training, and the radars on the American-made Tiger IIs were not designed to detect low-flying aircraft against a heavily industrialized and populated background, so the fighters could do nothing else but fly a medium-altitude patrol pattern, away from the commercial airline arrival and departure paths and surrounding high terrain, and hope that Mexican air traffic control could spot the unidentified aircraft again and vector them in close enough for visual contact.

But the Internal Affairs Ministry’s response was far different. Primarily charged with identifying, tracking, and stopping insurgents and revolutionaries that might threaten the republic, the ministry responded to every such alert, no matter how small, as if it was an impending coup or attack on the capital.

The Political Police, which commanded a larger helicopter force than the army and air force combined, immediately launched several dozen helicopters of mixed varieties over the capital, mostly American-and Brazilian-made patrol helicopters that carried a flight crew of two, an observer/sniper in the rear, along with searchlights; a few were equipped with infrared cameras. The helicopters flew preplanned patrol routes over the capital, concentrating on scanning government buildings, embassies, and residences for any sign of trouble. Another dozen helicopters were placed on standby alert, ready to respond immediately if necessary; the Internal Affairs Ministry also could commandeer as many aircraft of any kind as it wanted, including helicopter and fixed-wing gunships and large transports. A small fleet of VIP helicopters was also placed in standby or prepositioned to various places around the capital, ready to whisk away high-ranking members of the government to secure locations.

At the same time, the twenty-five thousand members of the Federal District Police were put on full alert and ordered to report to their duty stations or emergency assignments. Within the Federal District, the Federal District Police had ultimate control, even over the military; they were just as well equipped as the armed forces, including armored personnel carriers, antitank weapons, attack helicopters, and even light tanks. These ground and air forces were deployed throughout the Federal District and immediately began closing off side streets, shutting down bars and restaurants, restricting citizens to their homes, and establishing strict movement control throughout the capital. The highest concentration of Federal District Police were at the Palacio Nacional, Zocalo, Embassy Row along the Paseo de la Reforma between the Mexican Stock Exchange and the Chapultepec Polanco district, the major hotels near the Independence Monument and Lincoln Park, and the Internal Affairs Ministry itself.

Mixed in with all these protective forces were the Political Police, whose primary job was to maintain surveillance on all of the important and high-ranking Mexican politicians, their families, and major associates—including their staffs, bank accounts, telephones, e-mails, and postal correspondence, unofficial as well as official; and the Sombras, the Special Investigations Squad, assigned to keep an eye on the highest-level persons in the Mexican government and report any suspicious activities directly to Felix Díaz. During these emergencies, every member of the Political Police was brought into the ministry headquarters at the Bosque de Chapultepec and ordered to update their contact files and begin careful monitoring of their assigned targets to discover any clues of possible conspiracies against the government.

Located in the south-central edge of Chapultepec Park just south of the zoo and west of Castillo de Chapultepec, the Ministry of Internal Affairs complex was in effect a walled fortress—unlike most government buildings in Mexico City, citizens were not permitted to freely come and go, and there were no tours. A series of Napoleonic-style office buildings surrounded the complex, creating the outer wall of the complex, with Federal District Police armed with automatic weapons stationed on the rooftops. On each side, the buildings were connected by Spanish-style arches with ornate iron gates. The gates looked decorative, but they had been stressed to stop a five-ton truck from crashing through them, and the width of the opening had been purposely reduced to less than that of an armored personnel carrier.

Inside the outer walls formed by the older office buildings were the ministry’s operations buildings—the investigator’s offices, communications, arsenal, and barracks, housed in three plain-looking rectangular boxlike buildings arrayed in a triangular shape radiating out from the center of the complex. In the center of the triangle was the main ministry building, a Stalinist-era-looking eight-story tower, resembling simple blocks progressively smaller in size stacked atop one another, topped with a tall antenna housing structure that supported hundreds of antennas of all sizes and kinds. The building not only housed the minister’s offices and those of his extensive bureaucratic staff but also the electronic eavesdropping and computer centers, the intelligence analyst’s offices, the extensive prison complex, the offices of the Political Police and Sombras, and a so-called special medical center in the subfloor areas—the interrogation center.

Unlike most of the beautiful, graceful architecture of the Bosque de Chapultepec or the Zocalo, the Internal Affairs Ministry was a dark, uninspiring, foreboding, and ominous place—and that was just the feeling from the outside. Very few persons ever spoke about the facility openly, especially about the activities in the center building—what the people of Mexico City called the “lugar de la oscuridad”—the “place of darkness.” It was meant as a message to the people of Mexico City: we are watching you, and if you dare cross us, this is where you will be taken.

“Why the hell did we come back here, Elvarez?” Minister of Internal Affairs Felix Díaz snapped as they headed through the security blast doors to the command center conference room. “If we’re under attack, I should be heading to the airport to evacuate.”

“The safest place for you until we get a report on the evacuation route is here in the ministry building—it can withstand anything except a direct aerial bombardment,” deputy minister José Elvarez said. “As soon as I can verify the security of the Métro and the airport, we will depart. In the meantime, you can get a firsthand report on the situation.”

“Bullshit, Elvarez. Let’s head to the airport in a ministry armored vehicle right away and…”

“Sir, I cannot plan an evacuation route without a report from our agents throughout the city, even if we took a main battle tank,” Elvarez said emphatically. “And if you do not personally direct your staff to secure the records, gather information, and handle the emergency, they will all flee the building and leave it wide open for whoever caused this alert.”

“I will personally cut out the eyeballs of any man or woman who runs out on me,” Díaz growled. Obviously he wasn’t happy about this situation, but he quickly followed along. The rest of the senior staff of the Internal Affairs Ministry was already in place when Felix Díaz entered the conference room. “Take seats,” he ordered. “Report.”

“Mexico City Air Route Traffic Control Center notified the Minister of Defense that an unidentified low-flying aircraft was spotted briefly on radar about seventy miles outside the city,” the command center duty officer responded. “Defense notified us immediately, and we issued an emergency situation action order to all Internal Affairs departments immediately.”

“Any sign of the aircraft?” Díaz asked. “Identification?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “As you know, Minister, there is only one major threat to the government or the Federal District from the air, and that is a special operations commando insertion mission, most likely from the United States. This aircraft was traveling at over three hundred kilometers an hour, which means it was not a helicopter.”

“What, then?”

“Most likely a reconnaissance flight, a probe of some kind, or a warning to us,” the duty officer said. “Too slow for an attack jet—possibly a turboprop plane such as a C-130.”

“A warning?”

“A simple message, sir: we can fly over your capital any time we like, and there is nothing you can do about it,” Elvarez said. “The Americans made many of these warning flights in the past over Nicaragua, Haiti, and Panama prior to the start of hostilities against them—it is a common scare tactic.”

“Contact the Foreign and Defense Ministries and ask if the Americans requested to perform such a flyover—a test of their radar systems, perhaps, or an embassy rescue exercise, or other such reason that was not communicated to us.” Elvarez relayed the order immediately. Díaz thought for a moment, then shrugged. “A probe seems unnecessary—the Americans have been spying on us for decades and have many of our people on their payroll,” he said, thinking aloud. “A warning message sounds more likely…” He stopped, his eyes widening in fear. “But we can’t count on this just being a warning—we must assume we are under attack unless proven otherwise. Status of our force deployments?”

“All units reporting force deployments fully underway,” Elvarez said. “I have personally received visual staus reports from my staff on the most important locations—those spots will be fully manned within the hour.”

“The Internal Affairs Ministry complex?”

“All defensive systems fully manned and operational, sir. All defense and security sectors reporting fully manned and ready.”

“And the Defense Ministry?”

“Under full surveillance and secure,” Elvarez replied. Although the Ministry of National Defense was located at the Palacio Nacional, the chiefs of staff, the bulk of the defense bureaucracy, and the headquarters of the First Military Zone, the actual military forces assigned to defend the capital, were located at a large base in the extreme western edge of the Federal District, just three miles northwest of the Internal Affairs Ministry complex, known simply as the Campo Militar. The First Military Zone was the largest of Mexico’s thirty-five zones, with just over fifteen thousand infantry, marines, and airmen assigned to a dozen bases in the area; two battalions, about six thousand infantry and marines, were assigned to the Campo Militar itself. “They do not seem to have placed the Campo Militar garrison on alert or deployed any forces anywhere in the Federal District. They responded immediately with a security and status report and gave us a fairly complete equipment list, as required. It has not yet been visually verified that this equipment is indeed available to us but that report will be in shortly.”

“Where is General Rojas? Have you succeeded in locating him yet?”

“It now appears that General Rojas was in the Campo Militar garrison all along,” Elvarez reported, after a quick scan of his notes. “After the alert, one of the command post officers let it slip that the general was en route to the battle staff area; this was later verified by several cellular telephone traces.”

“But not visually verified?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we should assume that Rojas’s whereabouts are unknown,” Díaz said. “I want his exact location pinpointed and visually verified, and I want it done immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Elvarez relayed the order, then referred to a notebook in front of him, checking off items on a checklist. “Alert plus thirty minutes items appear to be completed, sir,” he said. “Next action items are at alert plus one hour. I shall notify the Palacio Nacional and the Senate and Chamber of Deputies that…”

At that moment they could hear the deep rapid-fire staccato of a heavy machine gun, and seconds later an alarm bell sounded and telephones on the conference table began to ring. “What is it?” Díaz demanded.

“Air defense gun emplacements in the Internal Affairs Ministry complex engaged an unidentified helicopter,” Elvarez said after getting the telephone report. The armed forces of the United Mexican States had a grand total of fifty air defense pieces: forty M-55 quad 12.7-millimeter antiaircraft gun units mounted on an M-16 half-track vehicle, most over sixty years old and in various states of functionality; and ten RBS-70 laser-guided antiaircraft missile launchers mounted on Humvees. Of these fifty pieces, eight of the antiaircraft guns and two RBS-70 SAMs protected the Internal Affairs Ministry—the rest were assigned to military bases.

“What’s happening?” Díaz shouted.

“One aircraft hit, sir!” Elvarez shouted. “Very large rotorcraft, type unknown but believed to be American…”

“Of course it’s American—who else would be invading Mexico now?” Díaz asked sarcastically. The lights flickered briefly in the conference room seconds before they heard a loud booom! echo through the walls. “Where did it go down?”

“No visual contact yet, sir.”

“The American commandos will already be on the ground—they may have been here days ago,” Díaz said. “Special ops teams usually come in groups of twenty-four.” The former air force officer had received many briefings over the years on procedures for both American and Russian special ops forces. “Tell all security units that we are under air assault. Shut down the complex and order all personnel to repel any unidentified persons at all costs!” He turned to Elvarez and said in a low voice, “Start document destruction procedures immediately—and for God’s sake, get rid of that evidence down in the medical center! Now!”

Every person not strapped in on board the CV-22 Osprey special ops tilt-rotor aircraft was thrown off his feet by the sudden shock and explosion off the left wing—except for the four Cybernetic Infantry Devices standing hunched over near the open ramp in the back of the cargo bay. “Hang on, guys,” the pilot said on the intercom, “we just lost the left engine. I turned us right into a triple-A truck. Check the auto crossover.”

“Crossover indicating green, but I’m still not getting full RPMs on the left,” the copilot shouted. “Check hydraulics…”

“Got it!” the flight engineer chimed in. “I’m initiating manual emergency hydraulic pressurization—the auto system didn’t activate.”

“Hurry it up—we’re going to hit real hard if we don’t get power…” But even as the pilot spoke, the crew could feel the Osprey starting to pick up speed and altitude. “I think I got it. Stand by, guys, I’m going to bring it around and try for DZ Bravo again—it looks like that triple-A is sitting right on the edge of Alpha. We’ll be facing southwest instead of northeast so your target will be behind you. Gunners, keep an eye out to the southeast—we might have more triple-A or missile trucks inbound. Here we go.”

The digital maps playing in the CID units’ electronic visors told them what the pilot just reported: the initial plan was to drop to the northeast so their target, the central Internal Affairs Ministry building, would be right in front of them, but that was not going to happen now. The Osprey executed an impossibly steep-banked right turn, the good right engine now screaming at full power. The CV-22 Osprey had an automatic crossover transmission that allowed both tilt-rotors to be powered off one engine—it was generally thought that the system would only deliver enough power to do a controlled crash. The pilot obviously thought otherwise.

Everyone felt their bodies go a little weightless again as they executed the tight turn, but moments later they experienced some extra g-forces as the turn stopped—and then they felt a little weightless again as the Osprey dipped suddenly, then felt the g-forces push down on them again as the flight crew arrested the rapid descent and slowed to drop airspeed. The crew in the cargo bay had never heard screeching noises like that coming from any aircraft before—it sounded as if the tilt-rotor was going to burst apart into a million pieces at any moment.

“Stand by to release recon drones…ready…now.” The assistant flight engineer pulled a lever on the right side of the cargo bay, and a rectangular box containing four grenade-launched unmanned observation system drones shot out through the open cargo bay and disappeared into the darkness.

“Goose One and Two in the green…nothing from Goose Three…Goose Four…nope, lost that one too,” Jason said. “We lost the two southernmost drones, guys. Keep that in mind—coverage to our south might be poor.” He turned to the twelve commandos in the forward part of the cargo bay, then pointed an armored finger at a man handcuffed to them. “I want him with me as soon as we get in that building,” he said. “If he tries to run, shoot him.”

“Yes, sir,” the team leader responded.

“Five seconds.”

Another severe rumble and scream of metal split the air. “Is this thing going to hold together for that long?” Mike Tesch in CID Three asked.

The pilot didn’t dare try to answer that one. Instead, he shouted, “Green light! Go!”

Jason Richter and Jennifer McCracken in CID One and CID Two jumped first. There was no time to practice a good parachute landing fall—students in the U.S. Army Airborne School practiced them for five full days before being allowed to jump from anything higher than a three-foot platform—so Jason’s landing didn’t look much better than the first time he jumped from the Osprey. But Jennifer’s landing looked like she had been jumping from special ops planes all her life. “Good job, Lieutenant,” Jason told her after he picked himself up off the ground. “Done this before, I see.”

“Army Airborne School, class zero-four dash eleven, and Marine Corps Mobile Airborne Training Team certified same year, sir,” she replied. Even in the CID unit, Jason could see the look of confusion in her “body” language. “Are you telling me you’ve never attended jump school, sir? You’ve jumped out of planes twice now and never learned how to land? I’m surprised you haven’t broken every bone in your body, sir.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Lieutenant,” Jason said as he checked his systems. “Let’s go.” He and McCracken had jumped on the very outside of the easternmost spoke of the outer buildings surrounding the central Internal Affairs building. Tesch and Dodd had been dropped off on the other side of the complex. As soon as Tesch and Dodd reported they were on the ground and ready, they headed in.

Automatic gunfire from above erupted almost immediately as machine gunners opened fire from atop the administrative buildings. The GUOS drones picked up activity on the far side of the buildings, and the CID units were able to accurately target their backpack grenade launchers and machine guns on those positions—they had no choice but to run away from the gunfire.

As Harry Dodd reached the end of the southwestern admin building, a Humvee with a large missile launcher unit suddenly appeared. “SAM unit!” Dodd shouted. Just as he set his aiming reticle on the vehicle, it launched a missile skyward. “Poppa Bear, missile launch, missile launch!” he shouted, seconds before ordering his grenade launcher to open fire. Just before his two grenades hit, the Bofors RBS-70 missile streaked away.

But as he watched, several dozen streaks of light and blobs of white-hot energy fanned out across the sky less than a mile away, bright enough to light up the Bosque de Chapultepec for miles around—the CV-22 Osprey ejecting decoy flares. Dodd knew that all of the CV-22’s other countermeasures were active as well—an active missile-tracking laser that blinded an enemy missile’s seeker head, decoy chaff, and electronic radar and laser jammers as well. The RBS-70 missile stayed dead on course, but just for an instant. Moments later Dodd could see the motor exhaust flame wobble, slightly at first and then greater and greater. Seconds later it exploded—and there was no secondary explosion.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Talon,” the assistant flight engineer radioed. “I saw that missile coming up at us and thought it was heading right for the blank spot between my eyes. Good hunting down there.”

The CID units spread out once they reached the central headquarters building, with each CID unit taking a cardinal position. On Jason’s order, Mike Tesch sent two grenade bursts into the front entranceway from forty yards away, blowing the doors open. Seconds later came a murderous burst of heavy machine gun fire, followed by several grenade detonations.

That was the signal to begin the real assault. The other three CID units on the other sides of the building began climbing the outside of the Internal Affairs Ministry. Each CID unit would simply leap up to the windowsill above, pull itself up to the window, jump up to the next window, and continue. When it reached its preplanned floor, it climbed inside. Jennifer McCracken continued up to the roof of the building, where she planted explosives around the base of the antenna tower and blew it apart moments later.

“We lost the microwave datalink and all radio contact, sir,” Deputy Minister Elvarez said. “They probably destroyed the antenna tower on the roof. The secure hardwire lines and circuits are still operational.” He leaned toward Felix Díaz. “The roof of this building is the most vulnerable spot, sir. If they have troops on the roof, it is only a matter of time before they get inside.”

“What is the status of the document destruction?”

“Just started, sir. Magnetic records can be erased in minutes, but the paper documents and any records stored on other than the mainframes and servers will take much longer.” The lights flickered and went out, and this time only the battery-powered standby lights stayed on. “Sir, you will have to evacuate to a secure location, and do it quickly,” Elvarez said urgently. “We may have only moments before this building is overrun.”

Díaz nodded. “All right. The information officers will have to ensure that the data destruction is completed.”

“Yes, sir.” Elvarez picked up a phone and punched in an extension number. “Report…very well, we are on our way.” He hung up the receiver. “We will have to take the stairs because the elevators are out,” he said, “but the tunnel to the Metro system is open and guarded. We have already closed down the number seven and nine lines, and a train is available immediately to take us to the airport. A plane is waiting to get us out of…”

At that moment they heard a loud crash! and the very walls of the command center started to shake. “What in hell…?”

Elvarez studied the readouts on his computer screen, but he didn’t need a computer to tell him that the outer doors to the command center had been blown in. “This way, sir—there’s no time!” he said. “The emergency chute.” He unlocked a cabinet in a corner of the room, moved a hidden lever, then swung the cabinet aside, revealing a hidden doorway. There was a dark hole in the floor, surrounded by what appeared to be a thin, gauzy white material. “This is the emergency fire escape tunnel, sir,” Elvarez said. “The material is fireproof and is designed to slow your body as you slide down. Simply extend your arms slightly to slow yourself down if you feel it necessary, but allow yourself to go all the way down without delay.”

“Where does it lead?”

“It leads to a fire valve inspection room in the underground parking area in the first subfloor,” Elvarez said. “I will go first and secure it.” Elvarez drew a sidearm, removed his shoes, and stuffed them into his pockets, then stepped into the fabric tube and disappeared. “It is safe, sir,” he called from several feet below. “Take off your shoes and follow me.”

The tube was snug but not constricting. All Díaz had to do was to think about making his body narrower and he slid faster, and when he thought he was going too fast, his elbows would unconsciously protrude and slow him down. He heard Elvarez say something, but he was at least a couple floors below him now and it was hard to hear inside the tube.

“I’m down, sir,” Elvarez said a few moments later. “It’s clear. I can see you now. Keep moving.” Díaz slid faster. “The way is clear to the tunnel to the Métro station, and the train is waiting to take us. Slow down a little, sir, just a few feet more…”

He felt like a turd passing through the colon when he popped free of the fabric fire tube and landed on the gray painted concrete floor. The plain concrete block room was lit by a single lightbulb overhead and was filled with pipes of all sizes. Díaz took a few moments to put his shoes back on, then followed Elvarez outside. “How far is it to the Métro station, José?” he asked. “Are we going to walk, or…?”

He stopped…because his path was blocked by four soldiers in black fatigues, Kevlar helmets, and automatic rifles—American rifles! “Freeze, asshole!” one of the soldiers shouted in English, then in Spanish. “¡Consiga en sus rodillas! ¡Manos en su cabeza!”

Díaz complied immediately, lowering himself to the concrete floor and locking the fingers of both hands atop his head. “I am Minister of Internal Affairs Díaz!” he shouted. “Who are you and what are you doing in my building?”

“Task force TALON, United States of America,” the soldier said. He covered Díaz and Elvarez while two others searched them and took their weapons, radios, telephones, and identification. “You are under arrest.”

“Under whose authority?”

“I have a warrant for your arrest, Felix Díaz,” the soldier said.

“A warrant? An American arrest warrant? Signed by whom—Mickey Mouse?”

“A federal judge in San Diego,” the commando replied. “We’ll take you to see him shortly.”

“On what charge?”

“Murder of federal officers, conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, and destruction of…”

“¡Cada uno para inmediatamente!” someone else shouted. Suddenly about a dozen Mexican army soldiers ran from the tunnel leading to the Métro station, quickly entered the garage area, and surrounded the American soldiers with rifles raised. “This is the army of the United Mexican States! No one move!”

“Thank God you showed up!” Díaz exclaimed happily, rising to his feet.

“El ministro Díaz, es usted lastimó?”

“No, I’m fine,” Diaz said. He pointed to the TALON commandos. “I want these four men bound and gagged and taken away—and no one is to have any contact with them, understand?”

“Entiendo, señor,” the Mexican soldier responded…and then two of his men spun Díaz around, slammed him up against the concrete wall, and stripped his jacket down over his arms.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Díaz screamed. “I am the Minister of Internal Affairs and the acting president of Mexico! Do as I ordered you or I will have you all shot!”

“Or drugged…like you did to Carmen, you rancid piece of shit?” Díaz gasped and turned around…and saw none other than the Minister of National Defense, General Alberto Rojas, standing before him.

“Rojas!” Díaz exclaimed, forcing himself to choke down his surprise and panic. “Where in hell have you been? I have had the entire ministry out looking for you!”

“Hiding from you and your Sombras, Díaz,” Rojas said. “Making a few phone calls as well—to my new friends in Clovis, New Mexico.”

“You are helping the Americans? You will hang for that, Rojas!”

“I am not afraid of facing a court-martial for what I have done, Díaz—but I cannot say the same about your own prospects in a courtroom,” Rojas said confidently, “especially with the evidence we’ve discovered here.” He turned and watched as a gurney carrying a body under a white sheet was rolled out of the garage to be carried upstairs. “You didn’t even have the brains to dispose of the body, Díaz.”

“Me? Why would I dispose of the president’s body?” Díaz asked incredulously. “The president was being kept here, secure, until an investigation could be concluded. But I think I know who killed the president: Ernesto Fuerza.”

“Fuerza? Comandante Veracruz?” Rojas exclaimed. “How do you know this?”

“I made the mistake of bringing him and the Russian terrorist Yegor Zakharov to meet the president, as she requested,” Díaz said. “I was told to leave them alone, and I complied with her wishes. The next thing I know, Fuerza and Zakharov were gone, and the president was dead.”

“Why did you not report this immediately, Minister?”

“I initiated an immediate investigation and sent agents out across the country to track down Fuerza and Zakharov. But the government was in disarray, and I took it upon myself to preserve the president’s body and continue the investigation in secret. I dared not reveal any of this to the Council of Government, in case one of them was involved in…”

At that moment one of the Cybernetic Infantry Device robots entered the parking garage, carrying a man by his arms in its armored fists…none other than Yegor Zakharov! “You caught him!” he exclaimed. “Where did you find him?”

“Our friends in the United States had him in custody,” Rojas said. “He told us a very interesting story about you and your alter ego—Comandante Veracruz. If you are lucky, Felix, the judges of the Supreme Court will only sentence you to a single death sentence, instead of dozens.”

“What? You are not going to believe this man, are you, Rojas? He is an international terrorist, a mass murderer, and the most wanted man in the world! He would do or say anything to save his skin! He will lie, cheat…”

Díaz stopped…when he saw the Mexican soldiers help José Elvarez up. His eyes bulged in horrible realization. “What is going on here?”

“Just helping a key witness to his feet, Felix,” Rojas said. “You are correct, Felix: no judge on earth would believe Yegor Zakharov even if he swore on a roomful of Bibles that the sky is blue. But they might believe your own deputy minister.”

Díaz gulped deeply, his mouth dropping open in sheer numbness. He looked at the faces around him and could not recognize one man who might help him at all. His gaze finally rested on Alberto Rojas. “You win, General,” he said. “But you know that I did all this for one reason: to help our people. Our citizens were dying and being exploited by the United States by the millions. Someone had to do something. Only I had the guts to take the fight to the Americans. I provided the inspiration for freedom and justice that the rest of the government could not.” Rojas said nothing. Díaz took one step toward him and said in a low voice, “You may not like what I did, Rojas, but you know I did it all on behalf of the Mexican people. Yes, I failed, but not for lacking the courage to try.”

Rojas averted his eyes, and Díaz knew he had hit a nerve. “I have the courage for one more thing, General. Give me a gun and put me back in that room and I will save all of you the time and trouble of putting me on trial.”

The defense minister looked at Díaz, put his hand to his holster…then shook his head. “At one time I might have granted your request, Felix—but then I had to walk into your torture chamber and identify the body of my dear friend, President Carmen Maravilloso, lying on a slab in your house of horrors down there,” he said. “You are not a patriot or a revolutionary, Felix Díaz—you are nothing but a murderous piece of human shit.

“You will be taken to the United States and put on trial first, and then if you are not sentenced to death you will be sent back to Mexico to face murder and conspiracy charges here. Get him out of my sight.”

Jason carried Yegor Zakharov outside to the waiting CV-22 Os-prey tilt-rotor aircraft, surrounded by both Task Force TALON commandos and Mexican army soldiers. Internal Affairs agents and employees were being escorted out of the ministry buildings at gunpoint, and boxes of records were being carried out and loaded into trucks. “So, Major Richter,” Zakharov said casually, “I have done what you have asked. You should let me go now. That was part of our deal, was it not?”

“It was not,” the robot’s electronic voice replied.

“Then you intend to kill me, after all I have done for you?”

In the blink of an eye, the robot spun Zakharov around so he was now facing the robot, still suspended in the robot’s grasp; then, Richter deployed the twenty-millimeter cannon in his weapon backpack. The huge muzzle of the weapon was now pointed forward over the robot’s right shoulder, inches away from Zakharov’s face.

“I could do it now, Zakharov,” Jason said, the robotic voice slow and measured, “and no one would say a damned thing about it.”

“I could have slaughtered Vega’s entire family…!”

“Everyone expected you to do it. We were prepared for it, believe me.”

“But I did not do it, Major. I spared them, turned myself in, and helped you get Díaz.”

“You think you’re a big hero now?”

“There is so much more I could tell you, Richter,” Zakharov said. “I could give you information that would put you within reach of thousands of the world’s greatest criminals. Your task force could capture them, and then you would be the hero. All I am asking for is my freedom. I will give you my information. You check it out and verify its credibility. Then you fly me to a wadi in the Sahara or a deserted island in Indonesia, and we both live out the rest of our lives free from ever having to deal with one another again.”

The robot suddenly turned away from the CV-22 and ran quickly out of the Internal Affairs Ministry compound, heading east until it came on an open area of the Bosque de Chapultepec. Then, to Zakharov’s complete amazement, the robot dropped him. Zakharov was on his feet in an instant, looking around in the darkness. The brilliant lights of Mexico City illuminated the horizon in all directions except to the west; the light surrounding the Castillo de Chapultepec, the now-vacant Mexican president’s residence, could be seen a short distance away.

“What are you doing, Richter?” Zakharov asked.

Jason said nothing for several long moments; then, Zakharov heard him say: “Run.”

“What?”

“Run, Colonel,” Richter said. “I’ll give you five minutes. You might be able to make it to the Castillo, probably to Constitution Avenue, and once you cross there you’ll be in the heart of that residential neighborhood. Run.”

Zakharov took several steps backward and looked around himself again. Yes, he thought, he could easily make it to Constitution Avenue, and immediately he’d be in the San Miguel Chapultepec neighborhood, a mixture of wealthy homes and upscale businesses—perhaps even sympathetic Russian expatriates or oil company executives that he once did business with. The robot was good out in the open but bad in narrow alleyways and terrible indoors…yes, he might just make it. Go, he told himself, go, now…!

But as he stepped back, he saw the muzzle of that twenty-millimeter cannon tracking his head, aimed right between his eyes, and he knew that Richter had no intention of letting him go. He would let him run a short distance, then open fire. Like he said, no one in Mexico, the United States, or most anywhere in the world would blink an eye over his death.

Zakharov turned, dropped to his knees, and raised his arms to his side. The robot grasped his arms and pulled him effortlessly off his feet.

“Smart choice, Colonel,” Jason Richter said, as they headed back toward the Internal Affairs Ministry complex. “Smart choice.”