Chapter 19: Rigging Up

Maintenance Hangers for UAVs Cannon Air Force Base, near Clovis, New Mexico
1615 Hours (4:15 PM) MDT Wednesday March 27^th 2018

United States Air Force Master Sergeant Christopher Cooper was required to park one of the Task Force Hidalgo LMTVs at the far end of the parking lot from the maintenance hangers. He wished that the next gaggle of personnel coming down from Buckley AFB would drive down some more of the NTVs (Non-Tactical Vehicles) delegated to the Hidalgo TF. He would rather drive a pick-up truck or SUV than the Army’s new-fangled “Deuce and a Half” two-and-a-half-ton truck.

Before getting out of the cab, he had to use a chain and padlock to secure the steering wheel, because there is no starter key. Then he had to verify a cable lock secured a large Pelican case to the seat frame, and that the case itself was locked with another padlock. Next, he had to place chock-blocks an inch from both sides of the left rear wheel, and a drip-pan under the engine. God forbid if a drop of oil, or transmission fluid were to contaminate the surface of the parking lot. The paperwork and subsequent investigation would take days!

As he walked across the parking lot, he consoled himself that at least the members of TF Hidalgo didn’t have to wear a hardhat, reflective vest, and other PPE. United States Marine Corps Colonel Stanislaus Wojciechowski had filed a memorandum with the Base Safety Officer, and ultimately the Base Commander, USAF Colonel “Smiling Jack” Smith; “to promote an attitude of battlefield awareness personnel of the Hidalgo TF would modify the SOP for PPE, except on the Flight Line or Firing Range.”

Colonel Wojciechowski had stated that anyone who couldn’t maintain situational awareness while crossing a parking lot was likely to get people killed in combat. Being treated like an adult was one of the perks of serving in special operations! Entering the hanger, he noticed that the personnel in most of workspaces seemed to be finishing up for the day. Except for the people working on the MQ-9 belonging to the Hidalgo Task Force. More than half the people he could see were working on or around the Hidalgo’s “Reaper” RPA.

Not that their “Reaper” could kill anyone, unless they used it as an expensive, and not very effective “Kamikaze” since it was constructed of light weight composites. Cooper wondered if the personnel from the 727^th Special Operations Aircraft Maintenance Squadron were getting annoyed, because for the second day in a row, TF Hidalgo needed to launch their MQ-9 “Predator” RPA for a no notice mission; when they were not even supposed to be conducting operations yet.

Alongside the maintainers and technicians of the 727^th were Lieutenant Washington, Technical Sergeant Gustafsson, and her personnel. Master Sergeant Cooper gestured for his fellow senior NCO to come over and speak to him for a moment. Although he didn’t know her well, if he was reading the expression on her face, she was irritated about something; hopefully it was not him. However, she hadn’t seemed bothered while working with the members of the 727^th Squadron.

When she got close, Master Sergeant quietly asked, “is there a problem?”

Technical Sergeant Gustafsson said, “Yes. Where is Sergeant Brussels? She is supposed to be here! Learning about the Mike Quebec Niner. Lieutenant Washington is here, and he already knows his duties relating to the Reaper system. It is his initiative, and she is supposed to be part of his aircrew. His System Operator. She is making all of us look bad.”

Master Sergeant mentally counted to five, thinking he didn’t have until ten to respond, then said, “Staff Sergeant Brussels needs to be in at least three different locations simultaneously. That is not possible. She needs to get familiar with the monitoring stations aboard the Mike Charlie One-Thirty-Juliet Commando she will be aboard tonight. Colonel “Ski” decided she needed to be at the range to get familiar with her newly issued weapons as the priority.”

Trying, and failing to achieve a ‘jovial’ tone, Cooper cut-off Technical Sergeant Gustafsson, as he said, “You didn’t see those Damned Monsters! The probability of that Bird going down might be slim. If they do, they will be in a World of Shit! Survival may depend upon shooting straight and quick! It would be nice if the operators of the R-P-A’s learn how they work, not just what they need to know in the Ground Control Station. The Colonel is a ‘Boots on the Ground’ guy. His perspective is different from you and I, who make sure their stuff all works as it should. Remember, these invaders have brought down several Mexican aircraft! We are Not immune.”

Technical Sergeant Gustafsson forcefully said, “if we keep pushing this one airframe, we are going to Lose it! Currently, it’s the only Reaper we have! I thought we were supposed to have at least four Reapers before we began conducting ops? Heck, there are several Squadrons of M-Q Nines available here. Why are we utilizing just one?”

Master Sergeant Cooper glanced around, then said, “I could just tell you that those decisions are made well above our pay grade. But you already know that. I will tell you something that probably neither of us should know. Tonight, some of our folks are going to be parachuting deep into hostile territory. This unarmed Reaper may well mean the difference between life or death for them. We are At War! Declarations and technicalities don’t matter. They are Attacking, the Brass and politicians are still making their calculations. You, I, Brussels, and the rest of us are going to do what we can to support the folks in harm’s way.”

Technical Sergeant Gustafsson nodded, then said, “I didn’t know that we were putting people on the ground. In Combat? My people and I don’t even know Where they are flying this bird. I could speculate where this airframe could be going, based upon how long it’s gone. I can’t imagine who we are fighting on U. S. soil. I guess I don’t need to know. Our Bird will be operational when they need it Master Sergeant.”

Cooper said, “as soon as he can, the Colonel will brief all of us. We weren’t supposed to be operational for a couple of weeks. We were supposed to have at least four Reapers, sufficient service and support, and time to conduct some training flights, before conducting operations. The enemy had other ideas. We’ve gotta do what we gotta do.”

Mazatlán, Sinaloa State, Mexico
4:16 PM ZMT Wednesday March 28^th 2018
(dialogue is spoken in Spanish, but written in English; some Spanish in italics)

Raul, Señora Martínez, and Tito arrived only one minute late at the parking lot for a marina where a mix of pleasure craft and other boats catering to the turistas were moored. Quite a few slips were empty. They were joined by three younger men, who had arrived in an older Ford pick-up truck with a lawnmower, and other gardening accoutrements in the back; Raul couldn’t quite make out the logo on the door, from where he was sitting in the backseat.

Before they had left Señora Martínez’s home, Tito had insisted that Señor de la Cruz sit in the backseat, as a proper Gentleman should. However, Tito had also placed the shotgun so that Raul could grab it in an instant. Señora Martínez, who was sitting on the right side of the backseat made no comment. Raul was not streetwise, none-the-less, he could tell that the three young men were quite muscular, for gardeners; nor was he reassured by the tattoos on their forearms.

It was difficult for Raul to hear much, however, when the biggest of the three (still not as tall, nor as broad as Tito), clasped arms with Tito, and they patted each other on the back; Raul heard him say, “Que pasa Oso?”⁽¹⁾

⁽¹⁾ {"What’s going on "Bear"}

The other two young men, both seeming quite as fit as “Oso” and their larger companion, also exchanged greetings; but Raul couldn’t hear what they said. The four turned their attention to a salty looking middle-age Gringo wearing a mashed-down “Captain’s” hat leading several Mexican young men, not dissimilar to Tito’s crew. Upon further consideration, Raul decided both sets of young men were not unlike some of the laborers who performed construction work.

Tito and the Gringo spoke to each other, as the younger men seemed to be disinterested; Tito walked over to the car, and nodded, so Raul opened the door and asked, “did you come to an agreement.”

Tito said, “Señor Severn wanted a grand. He will settle for eight hundred US dollars.”

Cash, obviously. Raul figured that was probably less than what Señora Braunfels had paid for air freight charges. He took the bills out of his wallet, nearly half of what he carried there. Most of his money, was concealed in a well-crafted money-belt. He had flown into Mexico with a bit more than would result in scrutiny from US Customs; figuring he would probably need to spend some, and thus not be transporting more than ten thousand USD back across the border.

Tito paid the Gringo, who took the money, without counting it, and nodded to his crew. Tito opened the driver’s door, and activated the release, opening the trunk. When Raul prepared to get out, Tito made a face and gestured to him to stay put. The three young men who had first greeted Tito, got a roll of visqueen plastic sheeting, and a bunch of heavy-duty plastic lawn waste bags out of the back of the truck. One-by-one they carefully removed the boxes from the trunk, and placed each one in a heavy-black plastic bag, then sealed it with duct tape, then sealed it in a second bag.

The seven young men worked quickly, and efficiently, but were careful too, under the scrutiny of Tito and the Gringo captain. From somewhere, a handtruck was produced, some of the heavier boxes were loaded upon it. Fragile items, and one of the garment bags were carried out onto the dock by the other six laborers. Using a monocular Raul watched them load Señora Martínez’s possessions aboard a decent looking cabin cruiser.

It took them another ten to fifteen minutes to stow everything, and for Tito and his associates to return to the vehicles. They clasped arms, patted backs, before getting into their respective vehicles. Upon exiting the parking lot, the truck headed off in another direction as Tito drove to the airport. Señora Martínez commented that Tito’s friends seemed quite strong, and she appreciated their assistance, but shouldn’t she have paid them for their work? Tito assured her that Señora Braunfels would compensate him. They trusted Tito to pay them.

Not wishing to alarm Señora Martínez, Raul considered how to inquire about the Gringo, when Tito said, “let me assure you, Captain Severn is trustworthy, although he may not appear to be. He lost his Charter Captain’s License el Norte, due to his divorce, about a decade ago. In Mazatlán, a small gratuity, and he has his Master’s license. He occasionally gets drunk, but never when he goes to sea. His boat is his everything. Also, one of my cousins is his Second Mate.”

Raul asked, “eight hundred seems cheap for him to sail up to, what, San Diego? That will take him a couple of days, at least.”

Tito said, “Si, six to eight days, perhaps a day more if the stop in the harbor of Cabo San Lucas, or somewhere else. He will be cautious if there is a storm. As for the price, Captain Severn usually takes out a half-dozen to a dozen turista for fishing, or scuba diving. His boat has two ‘Fighting Chairs’ for those seek tuna, or other big fish. He has a steady clientele of regulars, and has an easy time booking other Gringos. But the last few weeks very few regulars have been coming to Mazatlán.”

Tito paused, while making a lane change, then continued, “Turista numbers are not down too badly in Mazatlán, due to bargain hunters. But they are mostly enjoying the sunshine, the beach, and other inexpensive activities. Few are going on tours inland, or chartering boats. Tomorrow morning, Captain Severn is going to take some Gringos who have lived here year-round, mostly retirees, and some Mexican citizens too, who couldn’t get flights out, they are paying him to take them to San Diego.”

Raul asked, “is that legal?”

Tito said, “well, the local authorities won’t care. At most they will assess a small fee. The Yankees? Perhaps they will consider it unconventional. But, everyone has their papers, and no drugs. Captain Severn has a friend in the Mazatlán police with a retired drug dog. He will be there to ‘inspect’ everyone’s luggage. They’ve been told that a trained drug sniffing dog will inspect their persons, and their baggage ... Not that the dog may not be so good at sniffing anymore, and mostly lays in the sun, and occasionally plays with children.”

Raul asked, “won’t the ICE people be suspicious of how Señora Martínez’s belongs have been sealed up in plastic?”

Tito said, “it should not be a problem. Señora Martínez’s property was double bagged because some of it is stowed in the refrigerated compartment for large trophy fish. Oh, the compartment is very clean, it is also to protect the compartment. So, if the Icey Yankees inspect, they will open any packages, and show them good reason they were wrapped up. Captain Severn plans to go into the harbor at midday. The Yankee Coast Guard is stretched thin. He thinks, maybe, they will have no problems.”

Raul persisted, and asked, “what if Captain Severn does have problems?”

Tito stated, “if Captain Severn cannot get into the port of San Diego, he will go to Tijuana, or Ensenada. He will have to give back some of the money to everyone. It will be an inconvenience, but the border crossings in Tijuana are open. For now.”

Before Raul could ask the next question, Tito said, “I have another cousin, he lives in the USA, south of Los Angeles. He has agreed, for a reasonable sum, to drive his van to San Diego, or if necessary, Tijuana or Ensenada to pick up Señora Martínez’s possessions, and drive them to Pueblo and deliver them to Señor Braunfels, at a location to be determined. Now, all we have to do is get you to the airport.”

Casern of the 23^/a Batallon de Infanteria, in the city of Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua state
1745 Hours (5:45 PM) ZMT⁽¹⁾ Wednesday March 28^th 2018
(dialogue is spoken in Spanish, but written in English; some Spanish in italics)

⁽¹⁾ In Ciudad Juárez, and other areas near the Mexico/USA Border they conform to USA Daylight Savings Time, not Mexican regulations

Teniente Coronel Esteban Mendoza strode into the Jefatura (Headquarters) of the 23^/a Batallon de Infanteria, and muttered, “it seems a man cannot even eat dinner with his family without a crisis ruining it.”

Sargento Mayor Fernández interrupted his commander’s musings, saying, “Mayor Lorenzo is out in the Motor Pool, he requests your presence, mi Coronel.”

Before he left the building, Coronel Mendoza glanced about at the semi-controlled chaos. He didn’t say anything, but he wondered why the men were not eating supper. More importantly, why wasn’t Capitan Segundo O’Malley, the Battalion Adjutant supervising the Headquarters personnel. Looking at his watch, Coronel Mendoza noted that in thirty-six hours and fifteen minutes, his battalion was supposed to depart for the city of Chihuahua, the state capital; when he went home for dinner at the end of the work day, everything had been going smoothly.

If his Jefatura was semi-controlled chaos, the Motor Pool appeared to be a “Three-Ring Goat Rodeo” and the “goats” were running amok! Hoods were up on numerous vehicles, several more were in the middle of having their wheels replaced. Non-Commissioned Officers were bellowing at the tops of their lungs, to be heard over the roar of diesel engines and a cacophony of other noises. Suddenly, Mayor Lorenzo appeared out of nowhere to prevent two trucks from backing into each other; they would have likely crushed an inattentive Soldado to death.

Coronel Mendoza was standing with his hands on his hips, as Mayor Lorenzo dashed up to him, saluted smartly, and reported, “All Officers and Men, Present, or Accounted For, Sir!”

Before Coronel Mendoza could respond, Mayor Lorenzo leaned forward, and Mendoza noticed a smear of grease on his cheek, when Lorenzo quietly said, “Capitan Segundo O’Malley is recovering Captain Primero Diaz.”

Coronel Mendoza asked, “Did Captain Diaz’s car break down? Why doesn’t his wife drive him to the Casern?”

Mayor Lorenzo looked pained, causing Coronel Mendoza to exclaim, “Is the Pendejo with his Mistress, Again!”

Clearing his throat, Mayor Lorenzo said, “perhaps it is more important to inform you that—” he glanced at his watch, “forty-two minutes ago, at Seventeen-twelve Hours, Local, Teniente Coronel Jimenez, Chief of Staff of Zona Militar^/5 called the Charge of Quarters. I was still reviewing our mobilization plan, so the call was transferred to me. General Brigadier Allende has significantly accelerated our deployment schedule. We must be in our Assembly Are west of the city of Chihuahua, No Later Than Zero Six Hundred, Local. Their Local.”

Coronel Mendoza glanced at his watch, and said, “even with the extra hour, we now only a have a tiny bit more than thirteen hours ... unlucky...”

Mayor Lorenzo said, “according to our movement plans, it should take ten hours to travel by military convoy, mostly on Carretera Federal 45 (Federal Highway 45). However, since we are not fully prepared, and our drivers will not have had any sleep, I suggest that we depart an hour earlier, and Twenty Hundred Hours, Local. Our local. I have already issued orders for the Line Companies to muster at Nineteen Hundred Hours.”

Coronel Mendoza nodded, then said, “very well. Officers Call in fifteen minutes ... make it thirty minutes.”

Mayor Lorenzo moved out smartly.

Coronel Mendoza headed to his office, closed the door, and using his personal cellphone, called his wife, and asked her to finish packing his gear, and please bring it to the casern as soon as possible. She told him she would be there in sixty to ninety minutes. Mendoza turned on his assigned computer, reviewed some matters, and made some notes in his note book. Ten minutes before officers’ call, he checked his appearance in the mirror on the inside of the door to his locker in his office.

As he walked into the Briefing Room, more commonly used as a classroom, Mayor Lorenzo whispered into his ear, providing him the latest update. As Coronel Mendoza strode to the podium, Mayor Lorenzo called the room to Attention. All of the officers of the battalion were present other than the Executive Officer of the 1^/a Compania Fusileros, who was supervising preparations by the enlisted men while the officers conducted their meeting.

The briefing by Coronel Mendoza was concise; he frowned when he perceived that only some of his officers were making notes. Too many of them had blank or slack faces, several were nodding absently. That is until the end of the briefing. Upon his announcement that immediately after Roll Call, in less than fifteen minutes, everyone would line up, by company, for the issue of live ammunition.

Captain Primero Diaz raised his hand, and when acknowledged, asked, “Live Ammunition? For a Training Exercise?”

Coronel Mendoza stated, “this is no training exercise. I have not previously disabused you of the notion, because I have been ordered to be discreet.”

He paused to look each of his subordinates in the eye, before saying, “Mexico is under attack. Chihuahua is being Attacked! Upon returning to our casern tonight, I have been advised that we must be prepared to engage in combat within the next twenty-four hours. Less than twelve hours after arriving in our Assembly Area.”

That got their attention, Coronel Mendoza continued, “local guides from the 7^/a Regiment de Caballeria will lead us to our Battle Positions. Our front lines will be approximately one kilometer back of the screen line already established by the 7^/a Regiment de Caballeria. 1^/a Compania Fusileros will dig in approximately fifteen hundred meters northwest of the Battalion Jefatura, and 2^/a Compania Fusileros fifteen hundred meters to the southwest. You will have all Platoons on-line.”

“You should All be taking Notes.” Coronel Mendoza said, “as soon as they arrive, 3^/a Compania Fusileros will constitute the Battalion Reserve. Capitan Segundo Castro will detail one platoon to each of the frontline companies, to be positioned approximately two kilometers behind them, occupying any key terrain. They will provide support by fire. His remaining platoon, and other assets will be our maneuver reserve. Committed only upon My Command.”

Coronel Mendoza continued, “we have been assigned a ten-kilometer front. Each platoon will have nearly a kilometer to cover. We will have to use firepower to dominate our front and flanks. We will be supported by the 21^/a Regiment de Artilleria, however, the priority of fires will be in support of the 7^/a Regiment de Caballeria, until they conduct a retrograde passage of our lines. Even then, the 18^/a Batallon Blinda Reconocimiento, on our right flank, to the north, and the 17^/a Regiment de Caballeria, on our left flank to the south may need artillery more than us.”

“After conducting the passage of lines, the 7^/a Regiment de Caballeria will be the General Reserve, under the command of General Brigadier Allende.”

Captain Primero Diaz spoke up, saying, “Who the Devil are we Fighting? Sinaloa?”

Teniente Coronel Mendoza stated blandly, “that is classified. While your men are digging in, I will then be authorized to provide a more complete briefing.”

Capitan Segundo Castro asked, “Sir, you mentioned that, when they arrive, 3^/a Compania Fusileros will constitute the Battalion Reserve. Won’t we be travelling with the rest of the Battalion?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose before answering, Coronel Mendoza looked up, made brief eye contact with his Company Commanders, then replied to Capitan Castro, “Just as we are undermanned, we don’t have all the equipment we are authorized. Mayor Lorenzo, the mechanics, and others, have been doing their best, but we won’t have enough vehicles operational, due to the accelerated timeline. Capitan O’Malley and some mechanics, as well as a few other personnel will remain to assist you, Capitan Castro. Do your best to get every vehicle operational. If you cannot, then, no later than midnight, you are to Requisition sufficient vehicles, by whatever means necessary, and rejoin the battalion as quickly as you can, without unnecessary risk.”

Coronel Mendoza concluded by saying, “as soon as you draw ammunition, all officers are to load their weapons, pistols and rifle, and to have rounds chambered. The men are to have magazines in their pouches, but None in their weapons. I don’t want any negligent discharges. Once we leave the casern, no soldier is to go further than twenty-five meters from their assigned vehicle. If they need to shit, they will squat at the side of the highway during one of our maintenance halts. Deadly Force is Authorized and Required to enforce this Directive of Zona Militar^/5.”

Offices of Aguila de las Montanas, Polanco district of Mexico City, Mexico
7:21 PM ZCT Wednesday March 28^th 2018
(dialogue is spoken in Spanish, but written in English; some Spanish in italics)

Marita de la Cruz looked up from her triple monitors, and blinked, she hadn’t noticed when it got dark. She stood up from her custom ergonomic chair, that cost thirty thousand Pesos⁽²⁾ even though she had negotiated a good price. No matter its quality, sitting in it for the majority of the last fifteen hours (and more than forty-five hours in the last sixty hours), her body would become stiff. She needed an hour, at least in the exclusive, Women’s Only fitness club, whose membership she had joined when she was sixteen.

⁽²⁾ roughly $1,500.00 (approximately 20 Pesos per USD)

Ignoring her heels, that she had kicked aside earlier this morning, she went to the closet of her executive office, looked longingly at a comfortable pair of trainers, but selected some sensible flats instead. She also chose a fashionable, but unpretentious jacket; it was almost April, but the evenings were still a bit chilly in Mexico City. Then she stepped out into the hall, activated the security measures for her executive suite, and perused her new watchdog.

Marita stated, “I am going to dinner.”

El Lobo Rojo said mildly, “if you had commed me, your car would have been waiting.”

Marita said, “I want to walk. I need to stretch my legs.”

“Very well,” said El Lobo Rojo; then much quieter he said, “Quatro. Bravo.”

“What? No argument.” Marita said.

“You are your Father’s Daughter,” El Lobo Rojo said, “I do not engage in trivial, nor foolish fights.”

“So, you’ll just Do what I say.” Marita said, sarcasm evident in her tone.

El Lobo Rojo said blandly, “within Reason. You are the Chief Financial Officer of Aguila de las Montanas, and Rodrigo de la Cruz’s heir. We are in the Polanco, and it is early evening. Nor am I aware of any specific threats to you that would preclude a stroll to a nearby restaurant.”

^{Marita asked, “what if I wish to go to a camión de comida?” (3)}

⁽³⁾ (a Food Truck)

El Lobo Rojo said, “then you will bring the food back here to eat.”

“I want it Hot,” she said.

El Lobo Rojo said, “there are microwaves here.”

Marita said, “food from a camión de comida tastes better when it is Fresh, as well as hot.”

El Lobo Rojo said, “food is fuel. You are still working.”

Walking towards the front entrance, Marita ignored the two security personnel who preceded her, as well as the two others waiting for them to exit, and said with mock petulance, “I thought you said that I am in Charge.”

Walking alongside her, but not looking at her, his head on a swivel, scanning for threats, El Lobo Rojo replied, “I affirmed that you are the CFO of Aguila de las Montanas, a position of trust and Leadership. I also said that I would cooperate with most Reasonable requests. Going to a food truck is reasonable. Lingering out in the open is not.”

Marita asked, “what if I insist upon dining at a camión de comida?”

El Lobo Rojo said, “then I will need to know which particular one, you insist upon. Then we will have to walk around while additional personnel sanitize the area, and establish overwatch.”

“What does that even mean?” Marita asked.

El Lobo Rojo said, “fifteen to thirty minutes for your security personnel to check for any concealed threats, and at least two pairs, equipped with long guns with good optics to keep watch, and neutralize any likely threats.”

Marita huffed, then said, “Fine. You and I will go to Dulce Patria.”

As they walked toward Avenue Presidente Masaryk, Marita was sneaking the occasional glance at El Lobo Rojo, while he seemed to ignore her, and concentrated on his duties. Sighing, she looked toward the Clock Tower in the Parque Lincoln, and noticed that it was almost quarter to eight. Less than ten hours to her father’s deadline. She felt the urgency, but realized that micro-managing was not the best approach. Rodrigo de la Cruz hired very competent people. Mostly. This crucible would melt away the dross; to mix metaphors.

Once more she glanced at El Lobo Rojo, and finally asked, “what is your real name?”

He replied, “that is not relevant.”

She insisted, “it is to me. My life is in Your hands. I should know as much as possible about you.”

El Lobo Rojo said, “Rodrigo de la Cruz decided that I should be entrusted with the security of his heir. You know him far better than, I. That should be sufficient.”

Marita said, “I am not sure I should feel safe with you, if you display such poor judgement.”

El Lobo Rojo did not respond, so she commented, “No hen will rule the roost at Aguila de las Montanas. Only Eagles. Male Eagles will Soar there!”

El Lobo Rojo spared her a glance, but still didn’t say anything; so, Marita said, “my father will select one of my uncles, or perhaps one of my cousins, from the Board of Directors, or one of the VPs.”