Sonoran Desert, Chrisanto, Sonora, Mexico
Peters gestured at the map. “As far as I can tell, we have an entire division of what looks like PLA armor camped out two valleys over. They’ve got camo nets rigged up, but you can see them from this peak here.” He pointed at the mountain he had climbed the previous night and spread out the printed photos he had taken. “I think we can confirm to SacPac that this is way more than the small peacekeeping force the PLA claimed to have here.”
He glanced over at Ping Pong. Unlike the others in the room, this was not her forte. A pilot, she wasn’t supposed to be on the ground at all, let alone in Indian country, far away from support. She had a determined look on her face. No quit in this one.
“So much for ‘There are no foreign troops in Mexico.’” She tapped the map. “What worries me is how many other units are hidden along this mountain range. There are little valleys all over down there. They could have an entire army hidden and nobody would know.”
Bustamante grunted. “Someone knows.” He scratched an ear and pointed to the ground. “We already pulled Russians out of this facility. There is no way my peers in military intelligence don’t know about this.” He folded his arms in front of him, a disgusted look on his face. “This must be part of a larger coordinated action. As hard as it is to believe, the Russians and Chinese are working together.”
Peters nodded. “No doubt. The Russians love this kind of clandestine operations crap, but they don’t have the muscle to play in our backyard.” He pointed to the map again. “The Chinese have the muscle, but don’t have the love for intrigue.” He sat back down. “Let’s get The Admiral on the horn.”
They briefly explained the situation on the ground to The Admiral. His reply was brief and to the point. “Get me a prisoner. Preferably an officer.”
Peters just shook his head. “Sir, we did that already. God only knows where those Russians are now.”
“This time, you will surrender them to my people. Only people I trust will know.”
Peters thought for a minute. He didn’t really know The Admiral, except by reputation. However, that reputation was fearsome. By all accounts The Admiral had driven the entire successful South China Sea campaign. He looked at Ping Pong, who nodded. “Yes, sir.”
After disconnecting with The Admiral, Peters began to formulate a plan for isolating a small number of PLA soldiers. “We need to get a small group away from the main body. When I was up on the mountain, I could see occasional patrols. That’s our best bet. Cut one off, get them to surrender and take them prisoner.”
Ping Pong nodded slowly. “But it’s unlikely that they would have an officer in a small patrol like that. We need to be sure; we only get one shot.”
Bustamante grunted. “What do you suggest?”
Ping Pong smiled. “Do they have any booze in this joint?”
“Yeah, you want a cocktail?”
“No, but I’m guessing those PLA troopers are fucking thirsty.”
Bustamante laughed. “I wonder if they’ve had Añejo before.”
Ping Pong laughed.
Hours later, Peters watched through the scope of his M4 as the PLA patrol carefully approached the Suburban they had left just on the edge of their normal patrol route. The windows were rolled down, the vehicle apparently abandoned. He watched as the four-man patrol carefully approached. One soldier checked the interior while one covered him and the other two turned away to watch for threats, guarding the other two. These guys are professionals. Peters wasn’t sure what to expect, but these troopers were clearly better trained and more disciplined than the North Korean troops he had fought during the SCS war.
“Shit, these guys are pros. This may not work.”
Ping Pong laughed quietly. “It will work. Soldiers are soldiers anywhere. Nobody passes up free booze.”
Within a minute the soldier checking the vehicle had found the case of Añejo Tequila and placed it on the hood of the car. To his credit, the soldier very carefully checked the entire vehicle, presumably checking for IEDs or other traps. Finding none, he called to the two soldiers still scanning the perimeter. He opened the case, examining the bottles inside. Peters held his breath until the PLA soldier opened the bottle and took a cautious sip. Within five minutes, the bottle had been passed around the members of the patrol and they were all sitting on rocks sharing the fine liquor.
Peters keyed his radio. “It’s now or never.”
Even though Peters knew exactly where Bustamante and Park were hiding, he had difficulty spotting Bustamante as he slid along the drainage ditch along the road and then rolled under the Chinese jeep. It was twilight and the sun had already set behind the hills to the west, making it hard to spot someone moving slowly, low to the ground. In less than a minute, Bustamante was back into the drainage ditch and crawling back to his camouflaged hole. His voice was faint on the radio. “Mission accomplished, that truck isn’t going anywhere.”
After about fifteen minutes, the PLA soldiers decided that they had better get back to work, they trooped along to their vehicle, placed the case of booze in the back and attempted to start it up. Peters couldn’t see inside very well, but it was clear that nothing was happening.
“Now we wait.”
They got what they wanted thirty minutes later. Peters grunted as a six-by-six recovery vehicle came bouncing along the road. They had hoped for another light vehicle, but this one appeared to be armored against IEDs. Not a full on tracked vehicle, it still looked a little tough for a rifle shot. Good thing I brought the Javelin this time. “OK, I’m gonna take out the recovery vehicle. Are you OK to take down anyone who shoots back?”
Ping Pong checked her M4. “I’m fully qual’d. Don’t worry, just do your job.”
They were in a good position for the ambush. Lying flat on a rise about 100 yards away from the Chinese Jeep—actually a BJ 2022, but it looked like a Jeep and was co-developed by Chrysler for the Chinese army. They could clearly see the recovery vehicle coming up the road and had a good line of fire. Peters would have preferred to have a full squad with him, but the odds were in their favor, even if they were slightly outnumbered. The light had continued to fade and now it was getting pretty dark. It’s not easy to return fire coming from an elevated enemy in the dark. Peters knew from personal experience in Afghanistan.
The recovery vehicle stopped. Two more soldiers got out. Peters could hear one screaming in Chinese. “Two guesses which one is the officer.”
“Yeah, don’t kill the short one.”
Peters sighted carefully. Unlike the Carl Gustav he had been using before, the Javelin was guided and very easy to use. Shooting at a truck from 100 yards away was a chip shot with this missile. They were actually so close that they were below the minimum range for a top attack. Not an issue for a recovery vehicle, a direct attack would almost certainly destroy the vehicle. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger. The missile leaped out of the tube with a rush of compressed air. There was a slight pause and then the rocket motor lit. The bright flash of the rocket lit up the entire canyon. With a huge “BOOM” it impacted on the side of the recovery vehicle and bits of the vehicle went flying in all directions. To their credit, the PLA soldiers hit the dirt immediately, weapons ready.
Unfortunately for them, they had very little chance. Using a thermal scope on her M4, Ping Pong took out two of the soldiers before they even realized they had a sniper above them. By the time Peters put the Javelin launcher down and picked up his M4, another was down. The Chinese began returning fire. It was largely blind, but they had a general direction and were cranking out rounds as fast as they could. Peters nailed a fourth soldier, but they figured out which direction the fire was coming from and moved behind the Jeep, blocking their field of view.
“Let’s move.” As he picked up his pack, Peters called the helicopters in. “Stalker, Peters, Exfil, we have a hot LZ.”
Keeping low, they jogged down into a small arroyo and then back up to their secondary firing position. The two remaining Chinese soldiers were desperately firing at their old position, obviously beginning to panic. One appeared to be talking on a radio. “Bustamante, Peters. They are calling for help.”
“On it.”
Ping Pong was lying down, taking careful aim with her M4. After a few seconds, she fired a single shot, taking down the remaining Chinese enlisted. “Just the officer is left.”
Peters fired a few rounds well away from the single surviving Chinese soldier. As Peters watched through his scope, he could see Bustamante and Park sneaking up behind the officer, rifles ready. Either Bustamante made some noise or the soldier sensed something, because suddenly the officer stood up, yelling and turned to face the onrushing Bustamante. Swinging his own rifle wildly, he knocked Bustamante’s M4 out of his grip, only to lose his own weapon to Bustamante’s expert backhand strike. In a moment, they were grappling hand-to-hand. Park backed off but couldn’t get a shot because the two men were so closely entwined. With a yell, Bustamante twisted, flinging his legs around the Chinese soldier’s legs and flipping the soldier backwards.
Ping Pong was up and running as soon as the hand-to-hand fight began. Even running at full speed, it took her fifteen seconds or so to run the 100 yards. Not world record pace by any means, but fast enough. By the time she got there, Bustamante had the other man on the ground with his hands bound behind his back with flexi cuffs. “Holy Shit, nice Kani Basami!”
Bustamante had a knee in the other man’s back and had a huge grin on his face. This was his “I just kicked this guy’s ass” grin, one of his biggest. “I had a good teacher.” Park just stood there, rifle pointed to the sky. He wasn’t a big fan of hand-to-hand. Better to shoot your enemy from a safe distance.
Peters made it down the hill a few seconds later. “Choppers coming.”
The low thrum of the choppers became a roar. The two black helicopters were just a dark blur in the darkening sky. No running lights to give away their position. As the first helicopter banked, there was a flash and then loud roar as a missile streaked up from the Chinese encampment two miles away. With a loud BANG the missile impacted the chopper. A second later, a huge fireball engulfed the aircraft as the fuel tanks exploded. The team on the ground dove for cover as flaming wreckage rained down.
The second Blackhawk pivoted and started rapid firing Zuni rockets back in the direction of the surface-to-air missile launcher. The pilot managed to get off half a dozen shots before a second missile exploded a hundred feet away. With another flash, a third missile picked the helicopter out of the sky, sending it spinning down to the ground with a sickening crash. Small pieces of the aircraft flew in all directions.
Peters was running towards the Suburban, Park close on his heels. “Get the officer in the fucking truck!”
Bustamante grunted with effort as he lifted the Chinese officer and started pulling him towards the SUV. The man struggled, realizing that help was coming.
Ping Pong turned towards the downed helicopter, her instincts telling her to help the pilot and crew.
“Mi hermana, help me with this one. They died for the mission; if we don’t get this pendejo out of here, they died for nothing.”
With a muttered “fuck”, Ping Pong grabbed the struggling PLA officer by one arm and between them they lifted the soldier off his feet and tossed him bodily into the back of the Suburban. Jumping in afterwards, Ping Pong shouted “GO GO GO!”
Not needing much encouragement, Peters gunned the engine, flying down the dirt road at a truly unsafe speed, especially in the dark.
For thirty terrifying minutes, Peters was certain that a Chinese attack helicopter would show up and blast them into little pieces. However, luck was with them, and no helicopter came looking. An hour later, he relaxed; there was no pursuit after them.
Bustamante knew these roads like the back of his hand and thirty minutes later, they were on Mexico 15 North, heading for Sana Ana.
“How the hell do we get this guy across the border?”
Bustamante gave a tight grin, his “Some bastard is going to pay for this one” smile. “Make a left at Santa Ana, we will cross outside of Mexicali.”
“Your uncle?”
“Si. Just don’t ask too many questions.”