Chapter 17: Bags Packed and Prepared to Go

Mazatlán, Sinaloa State, Mexico
10:16 AM ZPT Wednesday March 28^th 2018
(dialogue is spoken in Spanish, but written in English; some Spanish in italics)

It was easy to get a flight into Mexico. Tia Delores Braunfels nee Dominguez had purchased a round trip ticket from Denver to Mazatlán for Raul de la Cruz. It only cost her fifty bucks on a last-minute travel website, because there was a disclaimer that the airline was not obligated to honor the return flight to the USA. Nearly all of his fellow passengers were college aged kids in their early twenties. There were also two young newlywed couples. The majority of the passengers had also been on the flight from Denver to Los Angeles.

During the flight a well-spoken young man spoke extensively with Raul. His Spanish was that of an upper-class person from Mexico City, similar to Raul’s; although Raul was born and raised in Durango, his tutors and elite private schools ensured he spoke like an upper-class person from Mexico City. The newlywed man’s family had moved to the Arvada neighborhood of Denver a decade ago. He met his husband, a handsome and pleasant blue eyed, blond young man, while they were attending the Colorado School of Mines in Golden. They had both been offered jobs, when they graduated in a few months, with a mining corporation whose headquarters office is in Mazatlán.

On the spur of the moment, they changed their wedding day, and now were taking their honeymoon in Mazatlán; where they could also consider the job opportunity and perhaps what it would be like to live there. Raul fidgeted a bit, then, as they stared at him, he advised them that while wealthy gay couples were welcome as tourists in Mazatlán; in rural areas there was less tolerance. I could even be dangerous. This led to discussion about Raul’s job, and very serious concerns about Narco gangsters who were engaged in many other criminal activities. Further questions from the honeymooners about the status of his engineering job resulted in Raul asking them if they had heard any of the reports about attacks in the Sierra Madre Occidental, and the town of Cuauhtémoc?

Now, they seemed a bit uncomfortable, finally mentioning they had heard rumors from some fellow students. Raul told them that his job site was in the Sierra Madre Occidental, only thirty kilometers east of the Barranca del Cobre, the Copper Canyon. He told them he was lucky to have escaped when his jobsite was attacked. Although Raul had left his thumb-drive in Pueblo, he had downloaded several videos on his computer. After watching the videos of the invaders, the violence in Cuauhtémoc, and the murder of Father Domingo by the Federales Official Almador, the young couple were apprehensive.

Inevitably, the newlyweds asked Raul why he was returning to Mexico? He told them a white lie, that he was only returning to help his Abuela evacuate. He was truthful when he told them he planned to be flying back to the USA with her before the end of the day. After a brief discussion, the couple declared they would reconsider a job offer southeast of Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada. Suddenly frigid winters in a remote wilderness didn’t seem so bad. As a bonus, Vancouver was supposed to be only a couple of hours away, and Seattle not that much further. Both cities have a vibrant culture, and vivacious gay communities.

When the young couple asked Raul if he thought they should abort their honeymoon, and get on a flight back to the USA as soon as possible, he recommended against it. He told them that it was unlikely they could get an earlier flight back; at least not without spending a lot of money. Raul assured them the Mexican government would be devoting significant resources in Mazatlán, and elsewhere, to keeping the tourist industry as secure as possible. It was a major part of the economy.

Raul confided that he was not confident about what might happen in the near future, but as long as they stayed in the tourist areas, they should be safe during their honeymoon week. He did suggest they should arrive four to six hours early for their flight home.

After they deplaned, both young men hugged Raul enthusiastically; causing him some consternation. Politely, he wished them an enjoyable honeymoon and a happily ever after. They wished him good fortune in evacuating his Abuela.

Rafael Buelna Internacional Aeropuerto is approximately ten kilometers, or six miles from the southern outskirts of the city of Mazatlán. The majority of the tourist resorts are some twenty to thirty miles north of the airport. The terminal was crowded; there were even some people sleeping on the floor next to their luggage. Most seemed to be middle class Mexicans, but some were Yankee or European turistas.

Raul didn’t notice any Federales, nor even Mazatlán metropolitan Policia inside the airport terminal. There were quite a few private security guards, some with just truncheons, others also had pistols. Two of the security guards were armed with Norinco Type 56 carbines; that use the same cartridge as used by the infamous AKM (modernizírovannyj Avtomát Kalášnikova ‘Modernized Kalashnikov Automatic Rifle’ aka “AK-47”). Norinco versions of both the SKS, and the AKM were not uncommon in the hands of private security guards; they were cheaper than the various brands of AR-15 rifles, or M-4 carbines, from various manufacturers. Both the SKS and AKM have a reputation for requiring less maintenance than the AR-15.

(Norinco Type 56 Carbine is the Chinese Communist version of the Russian SKS Carbine)

Raul had everything he needed in his small carry-on bag. A change of clothes, a shaving/hygiene kit, a windbreaker jacket, and his new laptop computer. He still had to go to the baggage claim area to pick up a set of empty suitcases, purchased at Costco yesterday by Tia Delores for ‘Abuela’ Maria Martinez. Inside the suitcases were some smaller bags, including some clear plastic bags that, using a vacuum clearer with a hose, could be compressed. There was also a Norinco knock-off of a Mossberg 500 twelve-gauge shotgun in a lockable gun-case. There was a tag on the case indicating it, and the weapon inside were tracked with RFID tags. Ralph Braunfels’ Remington 870 “Wing Master” had such a chip, but not the inexpensive shotgun he was loaning to Raul. Hopefully, the TSA goons wouldn’t steal it. Because he was a Mexican citizen, it was possible to transport it.

Checking his phone while he walked to Baggage Claim, Raul verified the chipped gun case seemed to be enroute too. Standing around the Baggage Claim Area, the Gringo Turistas were either listening to iPods, or absorbed in their smart phones. Raul put his phone in his pocket, and glanced around the terminal. Several times he shifted position, working his way around until he could see the doors and windows to the outside; as well as where the ramp would deposit the baggage onto the carousel.

Raul noticed a man in a cheap dark suit walking toward the gaggle of passengers from his flight; the swarthy man seemed to notice Raul, and was walking towards him. Raul eased back, placing several fellow passengers between himself and the husky man in the cheap dark suit. The brute was nearly hit in the head by a frisbee being tossed by a couple of co-eds. He paused to remove his sunglasses, and craned his head about. He reacquired Raul, and advanced upon him. As he drew close, he reached inside his coat, drawing something from underneath his left arm.

“Señor de la Cruz.” The man in the cheap dark suit said, holding out a placard with Raul’s family name on it.

Raul asked, “who are you?”

“I am Tito. Señora Braunfels nee Dominguez hired me to drive you today,” the husky man said.

Raul asked, “how did you recognize me?”

“Señor, you are the only Citizen on this flight. The rest are all Gringo Turistas.” Tito said.

A loud bang caused Raul to flinch. Tito turned to look. The carousel lurched, a yellow light began flashing, then baggage was sliding down the ramp onto the carousel. The Gringo Turistas swarmed forward and began grabbing for their luggage like kids bobbing for apples. Tito grabbed the suitcases that Raul identified, as well as a carton of unassembled banker’s boxes. Raul snatched the gun case as soon as he could; it was the last item of his baggage to appear. Tito led him to a black Lincoln Town Car with a large trunk, in to which everything was loaded; even Raul’s carry-on bag.

Raul rode in the front passenger seat, next to Tito; possibly causing a raised eyebrow. Enroute to the home of Maria Martinez, they stopped by the store where Tia Braunfels had pre-purchased a vacuum cleaner; which was loaded into the backseat. They were stopped at the entrance to the gated community, where their identity was checked, and a call was made to Maria Martinez, confirming that she was expecting them. They parked in front of her home, and brought the suitcases and other stuff into her parlor.

Ms. Martinez greeted them by saying, “Gracias, Señor de la Cruz. You look so much like your Father. Señora Braunfels told me you would arrive today. Tito, will you be our driver, again, today? I have brewed some coffee, and there are some fresh pastries too.”

“Gracias, Señora Martinez,” said Tito, after he took off his sunglasses; he glanced at Raul before heading into the kitchen.

Surveying the room Raul noticed blank spaces on the walls by the slight lack of fading of the paint, where pictures were recently taken down. There were gaps in her bookshelves, nor were there any nick knacks in view. Piled neatly on a chair was a stack of photo albums, the other places to sit were occupied by books, or small boxes. Continuing into the kitchen, it was obvious some packing had been going on in here too. Tito and Señora Martinez were standing by the kitchen table, as if he was someone important, such as his uncle Rodrigo, an El Patron.

Señora Martinez insisted that the men must fortify themselves before engaging in the heavy lifting of packing her treasures, and loading them in Tito’s car. Wonderful pastries were nicely complemented by flavorful Mexican style café de olle coffee, providing a flavorful repast; before their chores. Checking both his watch, and his phone, because of the local time variation between Sinaloa and Colorado, and the idiosyncrasy caused by the governments; Raul confirmed that they had ten hours and forty-two minutes to load Señora Martinez’s possessions, get to the airport, deal with the hassles and board the aircraft, to get the Jacinthe and Manny’s grandmother to safety.

Tito had noticed Raul’s fidgeting, and said quietly, “do not be concerned, El Patron, I am efficient, the task will be done quickly. Even if you were not to lift a finger. Neither you, nor the Señora, are the types to sit while others work. Neither of you will delay me much. We will be prepared to depart in perhaps a bit more than three hours. You tell me where we should loiter.”

Startled, Raul was not able to conceal his reaction; while Señora Martinez continued chatting, Tito said quietly, “many years ago Señora Braunfels nee Dominguez hired me to be her driver and guide to some remote scenic areas she wished to sketch, to paint later. Putas, posing as Sicarios, deigned to interfere with her pursuit of the arts. I resolved the matter. Discretely. Ever since I drive, and perform other tasks for Señora Braunfels nee Dominguez, and her family.”

Cannon Air Force Base, near Clovis, New Mexico
1130 Hours (11:30 AM) MDT Wednesday March 28^th 2018

Sergeant First Class Fernando Valesco was really enjoying the drive from El Paso, Texas to Clovis, New Mexico. There was little traffic on the highway, and he could indulge in cursing at a bit better than 90 MPH. Fernando had never gotten a ticket driving even at excessive speeds, he rarely ever got pulled over. At least not in his custom Gibson Special. A few times he had to show his badge, and only once had he been warned to ‘Tone it Down’ most people, LEO, or not, figured it was an unmarked cruiser.

Despite the custom “gunmetal” silvery blueish-grey paintjob, Fernando’s surplus 2007 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, formerly used by the Texas Highway Patrol, it’s appearance still ‘screamed’ Cop Car! A minor cosmetic change was the removal of the Crown Victoria Police Interceptor badge; it was replaced with a custom ornament proclaiming “Last of the Great V-8 Interceptors” it wasn’t noticeable, unless you knew it was there. It appeared nearly identical to the official Ford nameplate; few people bothered to actually read the words.

Fernando throttled back to seventy miles an hour a bit before he got to the outskirts of Portales, New Mexico. He arrived at the main gate to Cannon AFB at a few minutes before Eleven-Thirty Hours (11:30 A.M.), and reported to the visitors center. As per his email, there was a sealed letter waiting for him there. It contained a vehicle pass, and a slip of paper with two telephone numbers; as well as an instruction to report to a room in the on base Flatrock Inn, and a strip map. Just a few minutes later, he was parking in the lot of the on base hotel and transient quarters.

He knocked on the door of the room he had been instructed to report to; it was opened by Lieutenant Colonel Edgar Martinez, who said, “Who are you, and why are you here?”

He replied, “I am Sergeant First Class Fernando Valesco. I was ordered to report here.”

Lieutenant Colonel Martinez said, “I don’t recognize the name. Step inside, and we’ll get this figured out.”

The hotel-like room was crowded with a couple of dozen Pelican cases, as well as stacks of cartons, and a plethora of other gear. LTC Martinez ignored the two open laptops, and instead picked up a tablet and swiped his finger repeatedly across the screen. While the Field Grade Officer was busy looking up, whatever; Fernando asked for, and received permission to use the in-room latrine. He had been on the road for nearly four hours, and had consumed 24 ounces of coffee, and 2 bottles of water on the way here.

As he finished washing his hands, LTC Martinez said, “you aren’t assigned to the task force ... wait. Valesco? You are supposed to report to Colonel Wojciechowski.”

Fernando didn’t know who that worthy was. A Black, Air Force Technical Sergeant, by the name of Nightlinger arrived, and took over the duties in the room; whatever those duties were. LTC Martinez drove himself, Fernando, a cute female Air Force Technical Sergeant (Brussels) and some Air Force Lieutenant; in USAF Dodge king-cab pick-up truck, to the “D-Fac” (Dining Facility). Fernando was, by now, only slightly surprised to discover that Colonel Wojciechowski was a Marine.

They brought their trays into a room that was usually the preserve of senior officers. Personnel of a variety of ranks, and branches of the US armed forces came in, ate their meals, and departed. Out in the main area, Air Force personnel assigned to the base pretended to not be curious. Fernando was not the only person in civilian garb. During lunch most of the conversations were about sports, or other trivial matters. It appeared to Fernando that many of the people here were strangers; the US Navy “Sea Bees” were an exception, and at least seemed to know each other. It was obvious that Colonels Wojciechowski and Martinez were old friends, despite being from different branches.

After they had finished eating, Colonel Wojciechowski said, “Sergeant Valesco, as soon as we are done here, you need to set up a range for a Fam-Fire. Here is a letter from the base commander, to forestall most issues from the base range personnel. This slip has my number, as well as my XO, Colonel Martinez, and also for Master Gunnery Sergeant McLaughlin. If you have any issues you can’t handle, call one of us.”

Sergeant First Class Fernando Valesco asked, “what types of weapons, and for whom am I setting up a familiarization firing course?”

Colonel Wojciechowski said, “HK four seventeen rifles, various models. Also, M eighteen pistols. Expect a dozen personnel. You may have to zero the weapons, once they arrive. You might be assisting the personnel in zeroing their assigned weapons.”

Sergeant Valesco said, “how much time do I have?”

Colonel Wojciechowski said, “an hour or two. Probably. There shouldn’t be much for you to do, until the weapons arrive. You will have priority for four lanes. As soon as we are done here, you will drive Colonel Martinez, Lieutenant Washington, and Sergeant Brussels back to the Flatrock. You may use the truck for the rest of your time here.”

“Uh, okay. Thank you, sir. By the way, I need a letter faxed to my boss, confirming I have been recalled to active duty,” Sergeant Valesco said.

LTC Martinez said, “I’ll handle that Ski. What’s your boss’ number, I’ll shoot a set of orders off to him. They won’t be your actual orders, but I will need your full name, rank, and other PIR, to make it look good. I’ll write it up for indefinite duration.”

“Uh, could you make that fifteen days? I don’t know how long I’ll actually be called to duty. I told him fifteen days, and he is already not happy about getting less than three hours’ notice I wouldn’t be at work today, and for the immediate future. I’d rather not get him any more upset than necessary.” Sergeant Valesco said.

“Sure, no problem. Your fake orders will claim that you are operating out of MacDill. No one is going to be able to contact you. At least not for the next couple of days. If you have anything in your personal life that is urgent, get it squared away before sixteen hundred. You know the drill.”

Cannon Air Force Base, near Clovis, New Mexico
1315 Hours (1:15 PM) MDT Wednesday March 28^th 2018

First Lieutenant (Promotable) Bernardo Suarez had been standing by, to stand by, for more than forty-five minutes, on the ramp in front of the AMC (Air Mobility Command) terminal. At least it wasn’t raining, yet; as a veteran, and a former NCO, who had served with ODAs in both 5^th Group and 7^th Group, of the US Army’s Special Forces. He was also quite familiar with the ‘Hurry Up and Wait’ drill. In more than forty minutes, nobody had answered either of the two numbers he had been given.

Prudently, he had applied sun screen soon after he had disembarked; Bernardo is a Cuban-American of Andalusian ancestry, his skin is quite fair. He has a slight olive complexion, however, the tan he had acquired during a decade in the field (training and deployed to combat zones) had faded during the last couple of years in medical school, and now residency at Fort Sam Houston. During his rare opportunities to lay out by the pool, he always slathered on sun screen; never tanning butter. He wasn’t a dish to be baked.

That meant his several scars stood out more than when he was tanned. Most of the young coeds found his scars to be as intriguing as his accent. Growing up in Coral Gables, Florida, and sent to an exclusive ‘prep’ school; he spoke the same Andalusian Spanish that his grandparents, parents, and their associates spoke. At need, he could imitate a Havana accent too. Young women found his speech exotic. His English was as cultured, and flawless as his Spanish. Sadly, ‘proper English’ did not seem to be as alluring to the young ladies.

He took another drink of water from one of his two Gryal ultralight Purifier water bottles. Most people are somewhat dehydrated, all of the time, and that’s not healthy. True, they drink, but too often, not anything good for them. Sugary drinks in particular. Coffee isn’t as bad, it’s not a diuretic, as cola is, but it’s a neutral; the water equals what the caffeine takes out of you. God knows he Needed to drink plenty of coffee every day! During his residency, sleep was a luxury, rarely enjoyed. Oh, how he Missed a solid eight hours of sleep!

If his mission was not as urgent as the message from El Cid implied, Bernardo would be napping, right here on the ramp area. Bernardo hadn’t seen, nor heard from Cid since Mazar-i-Sharif, in northern Afghanistan. Cid definitely had influence, when he arrived his customary fifteen minutes early for his morning rounds, that were part of his medical residency, the Deputy Chief of Medicine for Brooke Army Medical Center had directed Bernardo to accompany him into his office. Bernardo was handed a brief message, and an extensive list of medicine and medical equipment, that he was to accompany to Cannon AFB.

He was driven to his quarters, where he grabbed his ‘Go Bag’ and some other things he believed he would likely need. Then he was taken back to the hospital and inspected all the items that were laid out and prepared to be packed; verifying that everything was present, serviceable, and accounted for. He personally stowed everything in the provided cases and duffle bags, and then was driven from Fort Sam Houston to Lackland AFB, on the other side of San Antonio, via the I-410 freeway.

An USAF C-12J, the US Air Force version of the Beechcraft King Air; was standing by, waiting for him. A USAF Technical Sergeant, a Loadmaster assisted him in getting all of his bags and baggage properly stowed. Not long after they took off for Cannon AFB. The flight was smooth and uneventful. Upon landing, they taxied to the AMC terminal, the Loadmaster assisted him in unloading, and verifying that nothing belonging or assigned to him was left on board. Then the C-12J departed for a destination undisclosed to him.

He was looking up at a C-17 “Globemaster III” on final approach, when his cellphone rang, and an unknown voice said, “Who is this?”

“Lieutenant Suarez, sir. To whom am I speaking?” Bernardo asked.

“Not relevant. What is your location?” The voice demanded.

Bernardo replied, “the ramp in front of the Cannon AMC terminal—”

“Acknowledged. E-T-A eight minutes. Out.”

Six minutes later, a blue USAF Lincoln Navigator drove onto the ramp; a bit surprisingly a Marine Colonel stepped out, and said, “That’s not all going to fit. Thomas, keep an eye on his dunnage until we get back.”

“Sir, this Marine could get it to all fit. Sir,” said an athletic Marine Corporal, with a mocha complexion.

“Nice try Clarence. And where would the Lieutenant fit? On my lap? He’s definitely not my type, and he’s too broad shouldered to squeeze between us,” said the Colonel was both taller, and broader in the shoulders and chest than Bernardo.

Without another word, the Marine Corporal dismounted from the vehicle, retrieved a SOPMOD M4A1 carbine, equipped with a suppressor. He slipped the three-point sling over his head, and adjusted it so that it would not interfere with the pistol in the shoulder holster he wore over his desert camo MCCUU. He assumed his duties as sentry with a determined mien. Lieutenant Suarez wondered if pilfering was that serious a threat; then, considering the value of the medicine and gear piled here, that he had signed for, he wasn’t going to complain.

As the Colonel walked around the front of the SUV, he said, “grab you Go Bag, and climb in. Corporal Thomas, I will send Sergeant Jager over to pick up this gear. Assist him getting it loaded, and ride with him.”

As he drove, the Colonel stuck out his right hand and said, “call me Wojo, or Ski, you won’t be around long enough to learn the proper pronunciation.”

Bernardo shook the offered hand, and asked, “I presume you are in command?”

Colonel Wojciechowski glanced over, then said, “yes, but in your case, sorta, but not really. You’ll understand in an hour or so. I apologize for not answering your call. I and my few staff were in a ‘skiff’ trying to prepare as much as possible for your mission.”

“It is what it is. Sir. I’ve been there, done that.” Bernardo said.

“Yup. If you are going on this operation, you would have had to have.” Colonel Wojciechowski said, as he parked the SUV adjacent to an Army LMTV; then handed Bernardo a set of red plastic earmuffs.

Soon after he stepped out of the SUV, an Air Force NCO, all geared up with a hardhat, eye-pro, an orange safety vest, hearing protection, and steel-toed boots, yelled at Lieutenant Suarez to take off his hat, and put on some reflective gear, and eye-pro. Bernardo shrugged, but then a craggy-faced Black guy in ‘sterile’ USAF ‘tiger stripes’ handed him a rolled-up yellow reflective PT belt, and a pair of clear protective glasses. He shook out the belt, put it over his head, so it hung from his left shoulder to his right hip, and donned the glasses.

By that time, the C-17 had come to a complete stop, its engines cut back to an idle, and the rear ramp was coming down. Half a dozen bedraggled individuals walked down the tail ramp, festooned with gear. The same guy that gave Bernardo the safety gear, waved them over. As soon as they cleared the ramp, a forklift drove up and unloaded the first of two pallets with their gear. Cid walked over briskly, yelled something at Bernardo, then tugged him over to the LMTV. The first pallet was set down, and several individuals were unfastening the cargo net that secured the various items in place.

Colonel Wojciechowski, the Black USAF NCO, and an Army NCO with Ranger scrolls on both shoulders, joined Lieutenant Suarez, Cid, and the other five individuals in transferring the gear from the pallet into the back of the LMTV. Meanwhile, the Air Force Loadmasters were unloading the second pallet, and bringing it over to them, using the forklift. As they began loading that gear into the back of the truck, the C-17 began taxing to Runway 13 East. While Bernardo was following Cid onto a white twenty-four Pax bus, the C-17 thundered into the sky.

A SCIF on Cannon Air Force Base, near Clovis, New Mexico
1355 Hours (1:55 PM) MDT Wednesday March 28^th 2018

Technical Sergeant Nightlinger, the Black NCO who had provided Bernardo the safety gear, parked the bus so that it was occupying four parking spaces. Colonel Wojciechowski parked his SUV, taking up only one. El Cid and his chosen few followed him off the bus and over to a Secure Compartmented Information Facility. As they passed through the gate in the outer perimeter fence, Colonel Wojciechowski nodded at the Major, each time Cid recited an alpha-numeric string, the chief of Base Security handed each of the newcomers a white CAC on a lanyard, which they put around their neck.

Inside the building, they were escorted to a room, where four men were waiting for them; as soon as the door was secured, the man that may, or may not have known as Cid said, “listen up. As the Emperor Napoleon said more than once, ‘you may ask me for anything. Anything but Time! While I am talking, drink water! It will likely be a precious commodity where we are going. I will make the introductions, as part of the Who, What, Where, When, and Why. You’ve already gotten as much of a Warning Order as you are going to get. This is your Op Order, the FRAGO of all FRAGOs.”

He paused for a moment, then looked at the other seven people he had chosen, and said, “to be honest, if I hadn’t come up with this plan, I wouldn’t volunteer for it. This operation is on a shoestring. We will be totally Black. Deniable. We won’t have any support. None. At best I give us three chances in ten of even a bit of success. About twice that that we all get wiped out. Death will be as bad as one of those ‘Head Cutting Off Videos’ anyone with common sense wouldn’t volunteer. Last chance to back out. There will be no consequences if you get up and walk out now.”

Everyone glanced at one another, but nobody left; Cid continued, “some of you might have met me before today. From now on, it’s best if you think of me as Coronel Casmir Ehiztari of the Parachutist Fusiliers of the Mexican Army. I will be leading Operation Nightingale. My personal name for it is Operation Soup Sandwich.”

In Spanish he continued, saying, “second in command will be Mayor Fernando Valesco of the Parachutist Fusiliers, please stand.” Valesco, one of the four men who had already been in the room, stood, looked in the eyes of the others present, then sat back down.

As the faux Coronel Ehiztari called each persons’ name they stood up, glanced about, then sat down; Ehiztari spoke Spanish with a Mexico City accent, which was noticeable to about half of those present, in order he called, “Cirujano (Surgeon) Mayor (Major) Bernardo Suarez, formerly an Eighteen Delta, a Special Forces Medic; third in command. Doctor Captain Primero Jorge Trueta, a current Eighteen Delta; fourth in command. Trueta was born in Chihuahua, and lived there until he was fourteen, when his family legally emigrated to the USA.”

‘Ehiztari’ paused for a moment to drink some water, then said, “Captain Segundo Antonio Aguilar is a Pee-Jay, a Para-Rescueman, and nearly as competent in trauma medicine as Suarez and Trueta, however his Spanish is not up to too many technical terms, and his Gringo accent is even more pronounced. He will be wearing the uniform of the Parachutist Fusiliers, but if needed he can save lives. He will be fifth in command.”