Into the Guns

CHAPTER 2

TAMPICO, MEXICO

United States Secretary of Energy Samuel T. Sloan was standing on the uncertain surface of a floating solar farm as the meteor shower fell. Sloan, along with a delegation of Mexican officials, was on the raft to symbolically throw the switch that would send a surge of solar-generated electricity to the east coast city of Tampico a couple of miles away.

The purpose of the project was to provide the town with a source of renewable energy, help revitalize the crime-ridden community, and strengthen the often testy relationship between the United States and Mexico. And the fact that most of the equipment involved had been manufactured in California didn’t hurt. So that’s what Sloan was doing when the meteor flashed overhead. It was brighter than the sun and traveling so fast that it broke the sound barrier. The resulting boom was loud enough to be heard from miles away.

The object was visible for only a few seconds before it disappeared over the eastern horizon. Then the officials saw a flash and heard what sounded like a second clap of thunder. That was followed by an upwelling of what? Steam? Sloan wasn’t sure. But one thing was for sure… One helluva big wave could be coming their way, and Sloan didn’t plan to be standing on the solar farm when it arrived. And judging from the speed with which the Mexicans were boarding their patrol boat, they shared his concern. Sloan turned to his sole bodyguard, an ex–special ops type named Brody. “Let’s haul ass.” A blast of hot air hit the farm, causing the rafts to rock back and forth. Sloan struggled to remain upright.

Brody had a full face and was one size too large for his tan suit. “Roger that… Follow me.” Brody was out of shape, but he knew his stuff, and rather than allow Sloan to travel on the navy patrol boat with the Mexican officials, the contractor had insisted that they have transportation of their own. The fiberglass fishing boat wasn’t fancy, but it was equipped with a huge outboard, the kind that could be used to run drugs when its owner needed some extra cash.

The Mexicans were casting off when the fisherman started his engine and, under orders from Brody, opened the throttle all the way. Sloan was forced to hang on as the narrow hull cut a straight line through the water and left the larger craft behind.

As Sloan looked back, he saw that an ominous-looking cloud was spreading across the eastern sky even though it was still sunny in Tampico. Sloan was starting to question his own judgment. What would Mexico’s Secretary of Energy think about the haste with which the norteamericano had fled? A Televisa news crew had been present to tape the ceremony. Would they play footage of Sloan speeding away? And would CNN get ahold of it? Should that happen, Sloan would be held up to ridicule, and that would reflect on the president.

That was what Sloan was thinking as the fisherman reduced power, the boat slid in through light surf, and Brody fished a wad of money out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, as he gave the fisherman a fifty. “Muchas gracias.”

If the fisherman was grateful, there was no sign of it on his sun-darkened face as he killed the engine. Sloan heard a whining noise as the prop left the water and the bow slid up onto the wet sand. A gang of boys ran out to steady it. “Let’s haul ass!” Brody said as he vaulted over the side. “If a wave comes, there’s no telling how far inland it will go.”

Sloan jumped over the side and followed Brady up the mostly empty beach. The big man was nearly out of breath by the time they made it to the street. A black SUV was waiting for them twenty feet away from a dilapidated taco stand.

Had Sloan been the Secretary of State, the vehicle would have been guarded by a team of people from the Diplomatic Security Service. But the Secretary of Energy didn’t rate that kind of protection—so Brody had been forced to hire a vehicle and driver from the local limo company. It had tinted windows and was extremely shiny. “Stay back,” Brody instructed, as he slipped a hand into his jacket.

As Brody went to inspect the vehicle, Sloan took a moment to scan his surroundings. Tampico had been a burgeoning tourist town a few years earlier. But that was before two drug cartels began to fight over it. Citizens were assassinated in broad daylight, grenades were thrown into crowded bars, and the population of three hundred thousand lived in fear

Sloan turned just as Brody pulled the SUV’s back door open and was thrown backwards by a blast from a shotgun. Brody’s body hit the street with a thump, and he lay there staring sightlessly into the sun. Sloan stood frozen in place as a man with long black hair got out of the SUV. He was dressed in a neon-pink shirt, black trousers, and silver-toed cowboy boots. A pair of empty shell casings popped out of the double-barreled weapon and fell to the ground as he broke the shotgun open. “Buenos días, Señor Sloan,” the man said conversationally. “Get in the truck.”

The bastard knew his name! It was a kidnapping then… What would a high-ranking American official be worth? Nothing really, since the government wouldn’t pay, but maybe the Tampico cowboy wasn’t aware of that. Or maybe he knew and didn’t believe it.

All of that flashed through Sloan’s mind, followed by the impulse to run. He circled the SUV in an attempt to use it for cover. Then he took off. Thanks to the adrenaline in Sloan’s bloodstream, plus the fact that he was a competitive runner, he got off to a fast start. His goal was to put as much distance between himself and the man with the shotgun as he could. Maybe the Tampico cowboy would hold his fire. After all, what good is a dead hostage? Unless…

Sloan felt the pellets strike his back a fraction of a second before he heard the BOOM. He stumbled, caught his balance, and continued to run. Sloan had grown up on a farm in Nebraska and, like all farm boys, knew a thing or two about shotguns. The fact that the man in the pink shirt was firing birdshot, rather than buckshot, meant he had a chance. Especially after sixty feet or so, when the spread produced by the short-barreled weapon would grow even wider.

As if to prove that point, the cowboy fired again—and if any of the shotgun pellets struck Sloan, he didn’t feel them. He was running west on the Avenida Álvaro Obregón. The thoroughfare consisted of two lanes divided by a median. Shabby stores lined both sides of the street where they waited for tourists who were unlikely to appear. But where were the shop owners? Gone. And no wonder… A man with a shotgun was chasing a gringo… Why hang around?

Sloan spotted some taller buildings up ahead and forced himself to run faster. He didn’t dare look back over his shoulder because that might cause him to break stride. He could hear the roar of an engine though—and knew his pursuers were about to catch up.

Sloan was desperate to get off the street, so he made a sharp left and ran toward an open doorway. Then, as he slipped into the shadowy interior, Sloan realized he was inside what had been a shopping arcade back before the gangs seized control of the city. A dry fountain marked the center of the inner courtyard, and a frozen escalator led to the floors above. Sloan took the trash-covered stairs two at a time.

He stepped onto the walkway that circled the second floor, and when sunlight touched his face, Sloan looked up to see blue sky through a hole in the roof. Then, worried about what the Tampico cowboy was up to, Sloan hurried over to a shop on the north side of the building.

The inside walls were covered with graffiti, drug paraphernalia lay scattered about, and the single window was open. As Sloan looked down, he saw that the SUV was parked out front. The cowboy was standing next to the vehicle, staring east. Why?

Sloan turned his head to the right, where he saw the oncoming wave. It was at least fifty feet high and coming fast! Sloan could see that dark shadowy objects were trapped inside the wall of water and realized that some of them were boats.

The tidal wave ran up the beach and broke over the row of shops that fronted the gulf. Most of the structures were obliterated, and it seemed safe to assume that the people inside were dead. The cowboy had entered the SUV by that time, and it was pulling away. But not quickly enough, as the rampaging water surged up the street and under the vehicle. The SUV rose, lost traction, and began to float. The water had traveled as far as it could by then… And as it flowed back to the gulf, the truck went with it.

Would the gang members be carried out to sea and killed? Sloan hoped so.

His mind raced as he followed a second escalator down to the ground floor. Now that he had time to think about it, Sloan realized that the kidnapping attempt had been planned days, if not weeks, in advance, and had nothing to do with the disaster. Was the attempt to kidnap him over? Maybe… But maybe not.

That meant it would be stupid to return to his hotel because that was where gang members would look first. So what to do? The obvious answer was to call for help. But first Sloan felt an urgent need to shed his power suit and attempt to blend in.

The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing, and as Sloan continued west on the Avenida Álvaro Obregón, he was on the lookout for any sort of store that would sell men’s clothing. After what he estimated to be a mile or so, Sloan spotted a small mom-and-pop tienda off to the right. The front window was filled with lots of brightly colored sports outfits and a sign that read, “Ropa para el hombre activo.” (“Clothes for the active man.”)

As Sloan entered, he could tell that the proprietors were surprised to see him and not sure what to expect. But after he spoke to them in Spanish, they hurried to help. Once in the changing room, Sloan made use of the mirror to examine his wounds. There were three of them—and it would have been nice to dig the pellets out. But that wouldn’t be possible without help. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped, and by wrapping the bloody dress shirt inside his jacket, he was able to conceal it.

Sloan left the tienda wearing a ball cap, a pair of wraparound shades, and a shirt with an enormous soccer emblem on it. The rest of his outfit consisted of Levi’s and a pair of Nike knockoffs. Sloan stuffed the business suit into the first trash can he passed. Now, with the disguise in place, Sloan felt a good deal more secure. The next thing he needed to do was to make contact with his office in D.C. Or, failing that, the embassy in Mexico City. Either one of which would send help.

For the first time since early that morning Sloan removed his cell phone from a pocket and attempted to make a call. What he got was a recorded announcement. “Lo sentimos. El servicio telefónico no está disponible en este momento. Por favor, inténtelo de nuevo más tarde.” (“We’re sorry. Telephone service is not available at this time. Please try again later.”)

Sloan swore. It seemed safe to assume that the meteor, assuming that was what he’d seen, was responsible for the outage. So he wasn’t going to get any help—not in the short term anyway. What to do? Sloan looked around. There were a lot of people on the street, and sirens could be heard in the distance. None of the other pedestrians was paying any attention to him, and that was good.

Maybe he should find a second hotel, check in, and hole up. Once cell service was restored, he would call for help. But how sophisticated was the criminal network that ran Tampico? The clothes had been purchased with cash, so there was very little of it left. What would happen if he used a credit card? Would gang members come on the run? And even if they didn’t, would a hotel accept a card they couldn’t verify?

Sloan concluded that it would be stupid to use a card until he knew the answer to at least some of those questions. He needed a goal though… Something to do. Head for the airport? No. The General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport was located at the heart of the city, and planes could normally be seen taking off and landing around the clock, and the ominous-looking sky was empty.

So what to do? He figured the next step was to find a place to hide, stay there until nightfall, and move under the cover of darkness. But in which direction? The obvious answer was north, to the good old US of A. Texas was only three hundred miles away! It felt good to have a plan—even if the details were a bit vague.

Sloan had passed a number of vacant buildings during his walk. Some were grouped in clusters, and leaning on each other for support, while others stood in splendid isolation. The Hotel Excelsior was one of the latter. He’d passed it earlier, and as Sloan approached the building for the second time, he knew it was the one. Not because it was inherently safer somehow—but because the Excelsior’s faded glory appealed to him. The ten-story hotel had two Mission-style towers and was adorned with rows of high-arched windows, ornamental iron balconies, and peeling white paint. Down on the ground floor, there were two verandahs, one to the left of the main entrance and one to the right. What had once been carefully manicured trees were huge now and surrounded by trash. A sad sight indeed.

In spite of the plywood nailed across the front door, Sloan felt sure there was a way in. And sure enough… As he circled the building, he came to a crude staircase. It consisted of a crate pushed up against an old dumpster. After climbing up onto the top, Sloan was able to step through an empty window into the hotel’s kitchen.

Everything of value had been stolen by then, so the only things that remained were the enormous stove, a concrete prep table, and lots of trash. Were people living there? That was a distinct possibility, and Sloan knew he was taking a chance. Light filtered in through arched windows as he passed through the dining room, entered the lobby, and spotted the reception desk. The air was thick with the smell of urine. From there, it was a short walk to a marble staircase, which remained elegant, in spite of how filthy it was and the mindless obscenities that had been spray-painted onto its walls.

Sloan followed the stairs up to the mezzanine floor. That’s where the bar had been… And Sloan could imagine people sitting at tables and looking into the lobby below as they had a drink. Even though there were lots of rooms on the floors higher up, Sloan preferred to stay low, where he would know if people entered the building and would be able to escape more easily. With that in mind, he circled the mezzanine, looking for a spot to take a nap. He chose a corner where a previous “guest” had been kind enough to place a large piece of cardboard on the floor. It was dusty but otherwise clean.

So Sloan lay down, curled up into the fetal position, and allowed his thoughts to wander. The coast. He would return to the coast. It might be difficult to find a boat that hadn’t been damaged by the tidal wave, but he would try. And assuming that he found one, he’d row or sail it north. And if that plan failed, he would walk. Three hundred miles divided by fifteen miles per day equaled twenty. That was how long it would take. Okay, twenty-five, just to be safe. But one way or another…

Sloan woke to the sound of machine-gun fire off in the distance somewhere. He sat up and looked around. It was dark, and only the slightest bit of light was leaking in through the windows—a sure sign that the power was off. The firing stopped. Sloan stood and checked his watch. It was time to get going. A task that would be more difficult without streetlights. Why didn’t you buy a flashlight instead of tacos? Sloan asked himself. Because I’m an idiot, came the response.

Sloan took a few steps, tripped, and nearly fell. That was when he remembered the flashlight app on his cell phone and turned it on. A blob of light preceded him down the stairs. Once Sloan was outside, he had to turn the light off or run the risk of attracting trouble. The moon was up, thank God, which meant there was enough light to navigate by. And that reminded Sloan of the compass on his phone. All he had to do was check it occasionally to stay on course.

Sloan tried to remain in the shadows as he began what promised to be a five- or six-mile hike back to the gulf. The same five or six miles he’d walked earlier that day. But that couldn’t be helped. What was, was. Now, as Sloan’s night vision continued to improve, he could make out glimmers of light in some of the buildings that he passed. Battery-powered lanterns perhaps, or candles, mostly hidden lest they attract predators. And they were out and about. More than once, Sloan had to seek cover as headlights appeared and a pickup loaded with gun-wielding men roared past. Gangbangers? Yes. On their way to participate in one of Tampico’s never-ending turf wars.

The sky was lighter and it had started to rain by the time Sloan entered the flood zone. There wasn’t much to see at first. But it wasn’t long before he found himself in among smashed cars and damaged buildings. Objects of every sort were strewn about, including hundreds of plastic jugs, a sizeable section of fishing net, a motorcycle helmet, brightly colored toys, a seaweed-draped sofa, a straw hat floating in a puddle, and a scattering of identical knapsacks. From a cargo container? Probably. They were navy blue and adorned with the Adidas logo. Sloan took one for himself. It was wet but would dry out once the rain stopped.

Then, as Sloan entered the area immediately west of the beach, he saw a navy patrol boat. It was big, at least sixty feet long, and looked like a beached whale. Was that the vessel his fellow officials had been on? Quite possibly.

He paused to look up. The rain had slackened a bit—and the sun was no more than a dimly seen glow. What if a semipermanent haze kept the normal amount of sunlight from reaching the ground? The solar industry would suffer… But that was the least of it. Crops would fail all around the world, and millions, if not billions of people would starve. It was a horrible thought, and all Sloan could do was hope that his worst fears wouldn’t come true.

Sloan turned onto the Corredor Urbano Luis Donaldo Colosio and followed it north.

An hour passed. And about the time the rain stopped, and people began to emerge from their homes, Sloan came across a rusty bicycle. It was leaning against a fence—and was too good an opportunity to pass up. After a quick look around, Sloan climbed aboard and pedaled away. The terrain was flat, and he made good time.

The highway was headed west, so Sloan turned right onto the Boulevard de los Ríos, which took him north into an industrial area. A car sprayed him with water as it passed, but Sloan was so wet he barely noticed.

Eventually, he spotted a convenience store that was still open for business and hurried to seize the opportunity. Assuming his theories were correct, the local tiendas would start to run out of goods or be overrun by looters soon. So it was important to buy what he could.

Sloan parked the bike out back, circled around to the front door, and went inside. He had the equivalent of $168.00 US and was determined to spend every peso of it before merchants stopped accepting government currency. The store’s interior had a homey feel—and the shelves were well stocked. Sloan filled a basket with two Bic lighters, a large pocketknife, a plastic cup, a small cooking pot, and the sort of prepackaged foods that are light and easy to prepare. He topped the load off with a large bottle of water.

If the woman behind the counter was curious, she gave no sign of it as she rang up the purchases. It didn’t pay to ask questions… Not in the city of Tampico. She had long pink fingernails, each of which was decorated with a finely drawn gold cross, and they seemed to dance over the cash register’s keys. As the proprietress handed Sloan the bill, he saw that the total was a third more than what he’d expected. And when he asked her about it, she shrugged. “Prices have gone up.”

“Since yesterday?”

“Sí.”

Sloan sighed, removed a third of the food from the basket, and asked her to total it again. The second bill came in slightly under what Sloan had—so he bought a map and three crispy taquitos. After loading his purchases into the damp knapsack, Sloan went out back to eat. Judging from the trash that lay strewn about, other people ate there all the time. He was hungry, and the taquitos were gone in no time.

The next hour and a half was spent pedaling north to a bay called Puerto de Altamira. An access road took him east past the bay and onto land that bordered the east–west ship channel. Because the terrain was low and flat, the tidal wave had been able to sweep across it without encountering any resistance. Multihued shipping containers with names like MATSON, SEALAND, and MAERSK were scattered like abandoned toys.

And crowds of people, many with pickup trucks, were swarming around the containers, taking what they could. Sloan gave them a wide berth as he continued on his way. The air was thick with the smell of rotting sea life, a rusty freighter sat high and dry, and Sloan saw a body lying facedown next to a pile of debris.

Then Sloan spotted the yacht. It was at least fifty feet long and lying on one side. And there, secured to the deck just aft of the streamlined cabin, were two red kayaks! A kayak would be perfect for paddling up the coast. Sloan did a 360, looking for other scavengers, and saw that two men were working on a fishing boat. But they were a thousand yards away—and were busy patching a hole in the boat’s hull.

Thus encouraged, Sloan made his way up to the yacht and lowered the bike to the ground. Then came the task of climbing in over the downside rail and making his way up to the spot where the brightly colored watercraft were waiting for him. After considerable effort, Sloan managed to cut one of them loose. The plan was to lower it gently to the ground, but once the kayak was free, it fell.

Fortunately, the surface below the yacht was dirt rather than cement, and no significant damage was done. The kayak was about ten feet long, weighed about forty pounds, and came with a hard, plastic seat. That meant it was intended for recreational use rather than touring, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The only thing he lacked was a paddle. Was that stored inside the yacht somewhere? If he entered the yacht, Sloan feared that looters might take the kayak. But a kayak without a paddle was worthless, so there was no choice. It was difficult to move around inside the boat, but after ten minutes of searching, Sloan found two collapsible paddles that were stored in a side locker. He took both along with a coil of line and some canned goods.

Once outside, Sloan was relieved to find that the kayak was right where he’d left it. After placing the paddles and his other belongings in the cockpit, he had to haul the kayak across open ground to the slate-gray water beyond.

The biggest problem was figuring out a comfortable way to carry it. Sloan carried it like a suitcase for a while. Then, when that grew tiring, he hoisted it up over his head. But being a desk jockey, he couldn’t maintain that position for very long.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of effort, Sloan made it to the water. It was choppy and littered with floating trash but a welcome sight nonetheless. Sloan’s plan was to follow the coast north, paddling at night and hiding during the day. And that should be possible given all the inlets, bays, and lagoons that lay along the coast.

After stuffing his gear into the watertight compartment located aft of the kayak’s cockpit, Sloan replaced the lid and checked to make sure that it was on tight. Then it was time to drag the fiberglass hull down a muddy bank and into the ship channel that led out into the Gulf of Mexico. After laying one of the paddles across the hull, Sloan stood astride the kayak and walked it out into the ship channel. As soon as the tiny boat was afloat, he sat down while bringing his feet up and in.

Then it was time to start paddling. A breeze was blowing in from the east, which forced Sloan to paddle harder than he would have preferred. But after a sustained effort, he managed to propel the kayak past a half-sunken ship and into the open sea.

He was paddling into the waves at first, but the moment he turned north, water slapped the side of the low-lying craft and threatened to swamp it. In order to prevent that, Sloan had to cut the waves at an angle and tack back and forth.

As hours passed, the beach was his constant companion. Any huts that had been on it were gone now… And the only people Sloan saw were occasional fishermen in small boats. Most waved, and he waved back.

Finally, as the light began to fade, Sloan knew it was time to go ashore on a deserted stretch of beach. Once on dry land, he could see where the high water had swept up and inland. Pieces of plastic had been left hanging in the scrub that lined the shore, but the hardy bushes seemed none the worse for wear. After locating a clearing about a hundred feet inland, Sloan went back for the kayak and dragged it up and out of sight. Then he cut a branch and returned to the water, where he backed up the beach and erased his footprints.

Overkill? Maybe, and maybe not. The cartels had been running drugs up that coast for a long time. Would the current set of circumstances bring drug traffic to a stop or cause it to grow? Sloan didn’t know and wasn’t about to run any unnecessary risks.

Once it was dark, Sloan built a small fire, which he used to prepare a simple dinner. Plain though the meal was, it tasted good and served to remind him of the fact that he’d have to find more food and ways to replenish his water supply. The beaches were littered with plastic bottles, but how to fill them? That would require some planning.

After gathering driftwood and constructing a rudimentary shelter, Sloan curled up and managed to sleep in spite of the insects that continually bit him. When morning came, he rose, enjoyed a cup of instant coffee, and wondered why he hadn’t been smart enough to buy toothpaste. The day passed slowly, and he gave thanks for the ever-present clouds. The heat would have been unbearable without them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, evening came and it was time for his much-anticipated dinner. Once his stomach was full, Sloan put the fire out and dragged the kayak down to the water.

Thus began what would be a pattern for days to come. Paddle at night and sleep during the day. During that time, Sloan mastered the art of stealing food from fishing camps, looting crab pots, and night fishing. And so it went for nineteen days. During that time, Sloan became stronger and leaner. He still had a couple of pellets in his back. But the wounds had healed, and there were no signs of infection. And that was all he could ask for.

As the twentieth night began, Sloan felt a rising sense of anticipation, knowing that if he hadn’t entered US waters, he would soon. Moonlight filtered down through broken clouds to frost the surface of the gently heaving sea. He was enjoying the beauty of that when he heard a distant rumble and felt a stab of fear.

It wasn’t the first engine he’d heard. Two days earlier, the steady thump, thump, thump of a diesel engine had announced the presence of a dimly lit fishing boat that passed within a hundred feet of the kayak. But this sound was different. The throaty roar belonged to a cigarette boat or something similar. Not the sort of craft a fisherman would use.

So Sloan had reason to be afraid as the noise passed him on the right and sent a succession of waves his way. That made it necessary for him to turn into the other boat’s wake or risk being swamped. But the danger had passed, or so it seemed, until a powerful spotlight split the night. Had someone seen something as the boat passed him? That’s the way it seemed as the blob of light swung left, right, and nailed him. The voice was amplified. “Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!” (“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)

Shit! Shit! Shit! Sloan dug his paddle into the water in an attempt to escape the light. But it followed him, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. White geysers shot up all around him, and there was a thump as one of the bullets punched a hole in the hull. Cold liquid squirted into the cockpit and Sloan struggled to get out. Then the boat was there, looming above him, as a silhouette leaned over to look down at him. “Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.” (“Pull the fish in. Let’s see what we have.”) The journey was over.